#indigo does rates

[fairymint]

By the way, my heart abso-lutely fucking hurts from the professor at the crystal pool content.

[ugh-yoongi]

a word from our sponsors | knj

you’ve co-hosted a podcast with namjoon for three years; have known him even longer. the two of you have always been the picture of platonic, but that hasn’t stopped the internet from doing what the internet does. the shipping? a little weird at first, but you can understand it: two attractive twenty-somethings always in close proximity to one another, obvious (platonic!) chemistry—people have created ships for less. the fanfiction, though? also pretty funny… until you can’t stop thinking about it. 🎙️

pairing: namjoon x f. reader genre: podcast, friends to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact. warnings: parasocial relationships galore, a m*n with a p*dcast, author abuses italics, swearing, alcohol, reader uses a pseudonym/nickname (piper) because writing the meta fanfiction scene would've been too weird without one and i refuse to use y/n, dialogue-heavy but it is a fic about a podcast, everyone is down horrendous, mentions of social media & fake r*ddit posts, ex-boyfriend yoongi but in a good, healthy way. let me know if i missed anything but mostly this is just two goofballs not realizing they're in love with one another. smut warnings: kissing, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex (fiction), protected vaginal sex (nonfiction), a lil squirting, mild degradation, mentions of a p*ss kink but there is no actual pee i promise (...lest?), i didn't intend to write size kink but it's namjoon so it just showed up anyway, slight dom!joon, everyone orgasms. wordcount: 17.5k credits: this was entirely inspired by that one episode of the basement yard where frankie reads the smut fic of him and joe, so credits to both that author and that podcast. spotify, for their podcast name generator. astro-seek for helping me drag namjoon astrologically. an extra special, gigantic thanks to @effortandmore for writing the meta fanfic (3k of it, no less!) and not batting an eye when i said it could have pee in it as a joke. this is as much yours as it is mine. finally, @hot-soop and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me and telling me i'm funny. author's note: happy birthday, indigo! here i am to validate every fear you've ever had that the people you write porn about may one day read it. live and on air. :)

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years.

You can learn a lot about a guy in that amount of time.

None of it is especially salacious. You know all about his family and his dog and the brand of recycled paper towels he insists on buying in bulk. You know what he’d written his grad school thesis on and what he’d looked like in the thick of it, when he was staving off his fifth mental break of the week. You know how fidgety he gets when it’s closing in on Friday night and he’s got a date—how much he stresses over which restaurant to pick, which cologne, which expensive cashmere sweater to wear.

You also know what the internet thinks about him. Intimately.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is peak husband material. He has cheeks ripe for pinching and thighs small countries would go to war to defend. He has a lap that doubles as a seat and dimples people want to get baptized in. He has Instagram selfies with hundreds of thousands of likes and comment sections full of intelligible keysmashes, especially the ones he posts from the gym.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is a man written by a woman.

Looking at him now, you aren’t sure that’s true, you think people just need to raise their standards. Namjoon is just… Namjoon. He’s intelligent and kind and up to date on modern feminist theory, is all. And, sure, maybe in the current political landscape that puts him far above the rest of men, but the way the internet has latched onto him is a little concerning.

“There’s another post about whether or not we’re dating,” you say, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

sooo let’s be real here, we ALL think they’re dating, right?? Posted by u/pod-shipper 2 hours ago

Just like he always does, Namjoon huffs out a soft laugh, makes his way around to your side of the table. Puts his large hands on your shoulders as he leans in close to read from your screen, snorting every time he reads a sentence he finds particularly amusing. Whichever cologne he’d chosen this morning is, admittedly, very nice.

It’s sooo obvious, especially in the episodes they film and post on YouTube. The way they look at each other?? I don’t even look at my HUSBAND like that! (+1264) ↳ omg ur sooooo right! i could MAYBE buy that they aren’t full on dating, but they’ve def at least slept together. Namjoon is so 🔥🔥🔥 (+791) ↳ um how can namjoon be dating her when he’s already married to me 😌💅 (+3) ↳ For the millionth time, can we not speculate on their personal lives? This is weird and reinforces really harmful ideas that men and women can’t just be friends. (-51)

“How come they never talk about how hot you are?”

You can tell by the look on Namjoon’s face that he hadn’t meant to say that—or, if he did, he didn’t mean to say it like that, with an entire pout, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Cursed to be ugly and dumb,” you joke to ease the sudden tension, reading the comment that simply says you’d have to be the dumbest person alive to not sleep with Namjoon.

He scrunches his nose at that. Returns to his side of the table. “Yeah, I don’t think so, lots of people haven’t slept with me.” Starts to unpack all the gear from his bag before he says, “Hey, all that stuff—does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?” you answer, the corner of a protein bar stuck in your mouth. Namjoon always insists on recording at the most inconvenient times.

“People thinking we’re together,” he clarifies.

You shrug. “I dunno. Not really. Comes with the territory, I think, not to mention how much you love to overshare—”

“Hello?”

“I’m just saying,” you retort, hands raised in self-defense. “There really was no need for you to mention you blew your grad school stipend on a porn scam.” Namjoon looks affronted, like he can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to bring that up. “Or that you lost your virginity at fifteen.”

“We have a relationship podcast,” he states simply. “That’s kind of what we do, right? Talk about relationships? And the spectrum of human sexuality is part of that.”

You slump back in your chair as you quirk an eyebrow. “No one said it wasn’t, I just said you overshare. Which you do.”

“And that’s why there’s a dozen Reddit posts a week discussing whether or not we’re dating? Because I overshare?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the kind of behavior that leads to parasocial relationships. People latch onto that shit. Makes them think they’re your friend.” He glares. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. It’s bad enough you’ve word-vomited all this highly personal information about yourself, but to not even do it under a pseudonym? It’s like you’re begging for trouble.”

Another comment he doesn’t even realize he’s making: “I don’t beg. For anything.”

To this day, you’re not sure why Namjoon asked you to co-host a podcast with him.

His reasoning had been simple: “You’re my best friend and we don’t agree on anything.” Hard to argue with that. Namjoon has seemingly endless patience, even in the face of things he shouldn’t entertain, and you… do not, to put it simply.

You’re not a cold person. Your fuse isn’t short. You’re just a little jaded, is all. Have far less propensity for bullshit than Namjoon does, so the two of you play well off each other. You end a sentence with a well-punctuated full stop and Namjoon’s right behind you to sigh and say maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, not everything in the world can be so black or white.

Except some things are. Somewhere along the way, the podcast—which Namjoon had affectionately named Place Him Gently in the Garbage, even though some people should be shoved in there with force—had picked up a following. A big one. And now, every week, you’re inundated with emails ranging in severity. Sometimes people just want to vent after their tenth bad date in a row or share funny stories, and Namjoon lets you take the lead on those, but sometimes it’s a little more serious. That’s where Namjoon shines, all that endless patience, and people love him for it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, accepting a thick stack of papers from Jungkook.

Ah, Jungkook.

You aren’t sure what he actually does. Some kind of social media manager, which is obvious from the wildly out-of-context clips he posts of you to TikTok, and it’s his responsibility to go through the thousands of emails you get from listeners, but aside from that all you’ve got are your suspicions that he just sticks around to swindle Namjoon out of more and more money.

“I’m in a silly goofy mood,” comes Jungkook’s reply, and you let out a witch cackle as Namjoon winces. Nothing good ever comes of Jungkook being in a silly goofy mood, and that’s quite alright by you.

Fifteen minutes later finds you with a camera in your face that you greet with an unamused, flat stare. Jungkook is used to it by now. Just films for a few seconds before turning his attention to an unaware Namjoon. Head down, pen and highlighter going a mile a minute as he pores over the stack of papers with all the doggedness and eagle-eyed stare of a literature professor.

That’s the thing about Namjoon—he takes this really seriously. So do you, but not in the ways Namjoon does. He’s all skill and determination and you’re color commentary. It works. It clearly works, so you aren’t too bent out of shape about it, but sometimes you worry. Namjoon takes this really seriously and sometimes you worry that he takes it too seriously, that he carries the burdens and worries of all these strangers, that he’s trying to solve and fix things that aren’t his responsibility to solve and fix.

So he takes it really seriously and you don’t take it as seriously as you maybe should, and everything is by design. Balanced.

Twenty minutes later finds you staring across the table at Namjoon, who asks, “Are you ready?” and does one last equipment check before he launches into, “Welcome back to another episode of Place Him Gently in the Garbage with Namjoon and Piper. What’s new with you, Pipe? Any fun news?”

Pipe. It drives you nuts. Feels like nails on a chalkboard. “I see you almost every single day,” you respond dryly. “But for the sake of entertainment, I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

“A cat?” Namjoon parrots, and his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe because he knows what that means.

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, but you’ve known him even longer.

Since your first year of college, which is also when you met Yoongi. Yoongi, your ex. Yoongi, the person you’d been with for six years and had planned a life around. Yoongi, now one of your closest friends, because the two of you still love one another but no longer in that way, which is fine. But also—Yoongi, allergic to cats.

So, yeah. Namjoon knows what that means, and he has the good sense not to mention it. Unlike him, you’re intensely private and keep your cards close to your chest. Your listeners don’t even know your real name, let alone that you’d gone through a breakup a year ago.

“What kind of cat?” he continues, like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside-down.

You shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably one that’s been in the shelter a long time, I guess. I’m not too fussy, you know?”

“Right, a cat is a cat,” Namjoon says, thinking he’s done something. You and Jungkook gasp at the same time. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because that’s a fucked up thing to say! A cat is not just a cat. They have little personalities, just like people. You’ve got—”

“But you just said you’re not fussy,” he interjects. “And I know they have personalities and that you have to find one that suits your lifestyle! Like, you can’t have one of those really cool cats that likes to go kayaking and shit, it’d never work—”

“What does that mean? Why couldn’t I have a cool cat?”

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens,” Namjoon mocks, and you can tell he thinks he’s done something again, but his impression falls flatter than flat. An awkward silence fills the studio. He coughs. “Anyway. Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. I also have a list of candidates ranked by how cool their names are. Number five, Casserole.”

“That’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you agree, “but Casserole is a kitten, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“They do say you should adopt kittens in pairs.”

“And that’s how they get you. You want one kitten and they talk you into two, and before you know it you’ve got, like, twelve cats. Number four, Party Girl.”

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

“And, finally, number one: Human Torch.”

“Yoooo.” Namjoon laughs. “You have to adopt Human Torch. Let me see.” You pull up a picture on your phone and hand it over. “Okay, for our listeners—Human Torch is a young, male Domestic Short Hair. He has stripes. I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

“Jungkook says he’s a tabby. He’s cute. Adopt him.”

You return your phone to your pocket. “Maybe. I still think I want an older cat, but I’ll consider it. What about you, though? Any new dating horror stories to share?”

Ah, the dating horror stories. Your most dedicated shippers are convinced they’re fake, that Namjoon just makes them up on the spot to keep them off your trail. If only. Not in the if only they were fake and Namjoon and I were actually dating kind of way, but the holy shit one of my closest friends is a fucking disaster and it’s a little embarrassing kind of way.

“Not really,” he answers. “I’ve got a date this Friday, though. Trying to decide if dinner and a movie is too boring.”

“It’s a classic for a reason. What are you gonna see, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3?”

“Three?” Namjoon emphasizes, truly sounding scandalized. “Since when are there three? I haven’t even seen one or two.”

“Okay, first of all, the original is a classic and it’s a crime you haven’t seen it.”

“And second of all?”

“There is no second of all. Repeat point one.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna see that, anyway. Maybe the re-release of Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like both,” he chickens out. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and get to the point of the show.”

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

“I—no, we’ve just got a lot on the agenda today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s lots to talk about on the celebrity front—”

Namjoon loves this part. As esteemed and educated as he is, not even he is immune to good old celebrity gossip. (Inside him there are two wolves.) Lives for it. Texts you about it at all hours of the night. Sends you links to Reddit threads with hundreds of comments. Has more opinions on Celebrity Big Brother than he does on Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes, and when that’s the case you know you’re in for a long evening. You’ve never even seen an episode of Celebrity Big Brother.

But Namjoon loves it, so you’ve become fond of it by association. Reminds you a bit of Yoongi and his love for sports and sports anime.

“—one should we start with?”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, because you haven’t been paying a lick of attention and you aren’t sure it matters anyway. Namjoon can talk to a wall on a good day, but he’s an entirely different beast once mundane, innocuous celeb gossip gets involved.

And even though you hadn’t been paying attention, it seems like this was the right thing to say, because Namjoon smiles so wide his dimples crater his face. “Cool. Let’s start with Taryn Manning. Did you see that bizarre—”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

Namjoon looks a little dumbstruck. Even Jungkook’s arching an eyebrow at you. “Are you serious? She was in Orange is the New Black and Crossroads.”

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

Your co-host shoots you a very pointed look. “I will, thanks. Anyway, she posted a video on social media talking about this affair she had with a married man. Like, she pulled over on the side of the road to record this. Said she can’t stand the man’s wife because she called her a quote-unquote lunatic.”

“I—huh, thought we weren’t supposed to say that anymore. Alright.”

“But wait, it gets even more bizarre. Listen to this quote—and this is direct. This is a direct quote from the video, I can’t stop thinking about it: ‘Don’t you ever threaten me when your husband came to me to get his butthole licked.’ Can you—”

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

“It’s crazy, right? She was gonna buy this guy a boat.”

“Namjoon, this is a family show, you can’t just talk about ass-eating unprompted.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t talk about ass-eating unprompted. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming,” Namjoon fires back, because he can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

You sigh. Know whatever look Jungkook is catching on his camera right now is exasperated and pointed, the corners of your mouth probably tugged up just a hint. “Unbecoming, like I said.” Namjoon scoffs. “Anyway, so this actress was gonna buy this married guy a boat and was eating his ass?”

“Yeah. Apparently it was her friend’s husband? They all went to a Taylor Swift concert together.”

“Jesus, this keeps getting worse. Big year for Hollywood cheaters.”

“It is, right? Cheaters and divorces. Something in the water, I guess.”

“I saw the astrology girlies saying a bunch of planets are in retrograde, so—”

“Can you explain that to me? Like, what does it mean for a planet to be in retrograde? Why is it causing divorces?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an astrology girlie. That’s why I said the astrology girlies. What are your big three, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

“Ugh,” you intone, “don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. What time were you born?”

Namjoon rattles off a time.

You grab your laptop. Pull up the page, type in Namjoon’s date of birth and birthplace, and wait. Then you’re staring at a circle with a bunch of lines in it that also don’t make a lick of sense to you. You roll your lips to keep from laughing and school your voice into something deadly serious. “Bad news: it says you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo,” Namjoon corrects, not taking the bait. “I already knew that.”

You scroll a little further down the page. “Your moon is in Sagittarius. Oh god, listen to this, they’ve got you pegged: ‘The greatest need is to always search for something. In order to feel safe you need a philosophy or belief’—”

“Haaa, that’s not—”

“—’You need to have a goal or mission that gives your life meaning. Your faith must be voluntary and it is a paradox that fighting against dogmas may lead you to other dogmas.’ Yeah, that’s you.”

“That could apply to anyone,” he argues. “There are seven-billion people on this planet; I’d imagine a sizable amount of them would say that also describes them.”

“Hm, sounds like your faith in astrology is not yet voluntary. Did you know you’re a Scorpio rising?”

“No. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me all about it, though.”

You smile. “Correct. ‘People with Scorpio on the Ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life.’ Is that true?”

“Yeah, you’re the dark and destructive power. You keep sidetracking me and we need to get to the point of the podcast.” He grabs the stack of papers Jungkook had given him. Looks more highlighter than paper, if you’re being honest. “I guess Jungkook thought we needed a lighthearted kind of day.”

“That was nice of him, considering what he gave us last week. I guess we’re allowed to have faith in humanity today.”

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

“Alright,” Namjoon starts, putting on his Very Serious Podcast Guy voice, “first up we’ve got a question from one of our listeners in Canada. It says, ‘Hi, Piper and Namjoon. I recently agreed to go on a blind date with a friend of a friend. She said he was a bit old-fashioned but really talked him up so I thought I was in good hands—and then he showed up to get me in a ‘67 GTO and exclusively referred to me as doll. He didn’t use my name once. I’m torn, because he was really nice and I had a good time otherwise, but this is weird, right? Should I see him agai—’”

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

“You don’t have to. This guy sounds greasy.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “And why is that?”

“Ignoring the fact that this guy has arguably one of the lamest classic cars around, he didn’t use their name once? Not once, in all the time they spent together? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Some people are just pet name people,” Namjoon argues.

“With absolute strangers, though? It’s really giving the impression that he didn’t even know it, not to mention some people are uncomfortable with pet names. The whole shtick is super lame.”

“I agree it sounds a bit misguided, but—”

Ignoring Namjoon, you say, “Sorry you had to go on a date with the ghost of less-cool James Dean. Into the garbage he goes.”

And, just like he’s done a million times before, Namjoon rolls his eyes and says, “If you really like this guy and want to see him again, a bit of communication will go a long way. Tell him the pet name made you uncomfortable—if it did—and offer to pick him up for the next date. I don’t think he’s completely destined for the garbage, yet.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a license. You probably think a 1967 Pontiac GTO is the pinnacle of romance. That’s probably like picking someone up on a Specialized Aethos to you, eh?”

“That’s a fifteen-thousand dollar bike, I’ll have you know.”

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

I think Namjoon had the right idea on this one. Sure, the car can be considered lame, but I think a lot of men are deeply insecure and therefore overcompensate when it comes to dating. Women are hard to impress when they have unlimited options. You have to stand out, so I’m glad he advocated for him. Piper can come off like such a misandrist sometimes. (-649) ↳ just shut up bro namjoon would fuckin hate u (+204) ↳ Imagine caring about something like this when they’re getting a cat together 🙄 (+19)

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

Adopting a cat is certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and truth be told it’s been a little lonely, living by yourself. No more Yoongi in your space; no more Holly. So, having a new little friend around might do you some good.

It’s just—

It’s a big commitment, and there’s also the dog sitting-shaped elephant in the room. Ending things on good terms means you’re still Yoongi’s second-choice sitter whenever he has to go out of town, and while you love Holly dearly (the two of you had adopted him together, after all), he’s a lot like his father in a lot of ways.

Should I get a cat, you type out, and it’s only been in Yoongi’s inbox a few seconds before the most unflattering picture you’ve ever taken of him is flashing across your screen.

“Are you dying?” you ask, because Yoongi doesn’t call you for much else.

And you already know what his response is going to be. “We’re all dying.”

“Lighten up, Yoongi. One might say being so existentially nihilistic before noon causes wrinkles.”

There’s a split-second pause. “It’s nine p.m.”

“Sure, but it’s before tomorrow’s noon, so it still counts.”

“Whatever. Listen, before you adopt that cat, I need a favor.”

“You going out of town again?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be long, though. A week at the most, five days if I’m lucky.”

“That’s fine, bring him over whenever. Yijeong’s busy?”

This pause is far, far longer. “No,” comes Yoongi’s eventual response, but it’s slow. Unsure. A two-letter word has never taken so long to say in the history of ever. “He’s, uh. Coming with me?”

Oh, you think. This is where your ex awkwardly and hesitantly breaks the news of his new relationship. You’ve known this day was coming, and this is what you get for staying friends with him. “This is a fanfiction plot,” you accuse. “Hot, mysterious man moves into a gaudy apartment complex after ending a long-term relationship and meets his equally-hot and mysterious neighbor and they fall in love.”

“I—that’s not—my apartment is not gaudy.”

“Yes it is. There’s a giant gold bust of a weird bird in the lobby.”

“Weird bird?” he parrots. “It’s a swan.”

“I see you’re not denying the in-love-with-your-neighbor accusations.”

“Am I on trial?” Yoongi retorts, and it’s such a Yoongi thing to say when what he means is, is this okay? He means, are we able to talk about this without it being weird? He means, I won’t ever say as much out loud, but your acceptance means a lot to me, and I’d like for you to give me this.

So you lower your voice and soften the edges because it’s not really something to joke about, and you say, “No, of course you’re not on trial,” and Yoongi knows what you mean. “And if you were, you'd get locked up for fifty years. You can’t lie for shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat, mutters a thanks that is so quiet you almost don’t catch it. “Send me pictures of the cats.”

Later on, once you’re freshly-showered and tucked into bed with a candle and a book (Eloge de l’amour by Alain Badiou at Namjoon’s insistence and request), your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi—

Yoongi: toddler is a fucking hilarious name for a cat but so is flat Yoongi: it’s a tie for me You: Okay well pick one 🙄 Yoongi: yijeong says get both You: Both???? Is he paying my vet bills? Yoongi: kinda out of line to proposition him for money. flat is also good with dogs, js You: If he’s now being raised by you two, my perfect, well-behaved son is probably long gone. Does he even count as a dog anymore? Yoongi: me and yijeong both say fuck off Yoongi: holly too. he says he doesn’t miss you anymore and he’s not coming over now Yoongi has added Yijeong to the group Yoongi has changed the group name to #ThirdWheelChat Yijeong: Please don’t drag me into this. Also I did not say “fuck off” You have changed the group name to People Who Have Seen Yoongi Naked Yoongi: fuck you

You should’ve known something was going on with Jungkook, because it’d started like this:

(When you and Namjoon started the podcast three years ago, it was in the living room of his apartment.

Surrounded by books and plants. He loved to record in the afternoons back then—Namjoon loved to say it was because of his grad school schedule, but you’ve always suspected he just wanted to preen in the golden hour light, much like he’s doing now.

“Is this really necessary?” Jungkook whines from his spot on the couch. He’s already swindled Namjoon out of two bags of microwavable popcorn and three cans of sparkling water. “It’s a Saturday afternoon; I could be doing something so much more fun than this.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Are you saying this isn’t fun?”

“Yeah. It sucks, actually. This could’ve been an email.”

And because Namjoon is accomplished, mature, and absolutely incapable of not taking Jungkook’s bait, the space between his brows creases as he sends a murderous glare Jungkook’s way. “Stop eating my food, then. And drinking my drinks. And lounging on my couch like that—”

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

“Well, knock it off! My couch is only for fun and people who think I’m fun!”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “So you fuck on it?”

“What?”

“What other fun things could you possibly do on a couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

Jungkook groans, throws himself backwards against the pillows as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “Jesus. No wonder you can’t score a second date.”

“Okay, that was a little uncalled for. There are a ton of reasons a person might not want a second date, and no one is obligated to go out with me—”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

You clear your throat. Try to hide your own can of seltzer you’d taken from Namjoon’s fridge in the midst of his and Jungkook’s bickering. “Not trying to be rude, but I have an appointment at the shelter at three. If, y’know. You wouldn’t mind speeding this up a little.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

“Oh, so you’ll speed this up for her but not—”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “She,” he begins, jerking his thumb in your direction, “isn’t needlessly complaining and actually has someplace to be.”)

It was just a quick little rendezvous in Namjoon’s living room to come up with a rough draft for the following month’s episodes. He couldn’t do it over text because he’d fallen down the steps at his office and landed on his ass on the corner of a step and his phone had been in his back pocket. Cracked clean in half. And he couldn’t do it over email because he—rightfully—knew Jungkook would ignore them because he has his inbox set up to send all of Namjoon’s personal emails to the trash.

But Jungkook holds onto things like that. Grudges. Loves to let Namjoon think bygones are bygones and pop up a few days later with some evil scheme. Hence:

“What is this?”

Jungkook smirks. Rocks back on his heels. “It’s fanfiction.”

“I can see that, but… why?”

This is where Jungkook shines: the ominous, cheshire cat grin; the aw, shucks demeanor that gaslights Namjoon into thinking Jungkook couldn’t possibly be fucking with him. “Well, you were having trouble coming up with ideas for episodes, and there’s an email in there from someone whose partner reads really expli—”

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Of all the weird shit you’ve seen on the internet (and there’s been a lot), fanfiction of people you know—your friends—was something you’d managed to escape. Probably by virtue of not knowing anyone famous enough to warrant fanfiction being written about them.

But you should’ve known. You really, really should’ve known.

“Oh my god?”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you or Namjoon, but the sentiment is the same. He mouths a what the fuck at you that’s met with a shrug. You’re in uncharted territory now, too. “Where did you even find this?” you ask, taking the stack of papers from Namjoon. “And why did you print it out?”

“Because I’m going to track down whoever wrote it and get them to autograph it. Then I’m going to buy a nice frame and hang it on the wall behind him, so we never forget this historical moment in Place Him Gently in the Garbage lore.”

“It’s a podcast,” Namjoon deadpans, “how can it have lore? And how much lore can there possibly be?”

“It’s the internet,” you concede. “The lore possibilities are endless. Don’t tempt them.”

Jungkook nods sagely, well-versed in the degeneracy of the internet. “Yeah, that’s how you end up with shit like 4chan.”

“4chan? There’s Space Jam porn on there.”

As the youngest, all Jungkook can do is roll his eyes. “Sometimes explaining this shit to you feels like trying to teach old people how to rotate PDFs—”

Namjoon scoffs. “I’m not that bad. I know how to rotate a PDF.”

Wow, Jungkook mouths. “Anyway, back to the fanfiction—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Namjoon interjects. He looks at you. “It’s weird, right? Like, it’s weird that people have written this about us?”

About us.

Your scope of the world narrows to the size of a pinhead. It’d just been about Namjoon before. This is fanfiction about me, he’d said, and you hadn’t been included in that. Now it’s written about us and you’re included.

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

Jungkook rolls his lips. “It’s about the two of you fucking, to be specific.”

“Can you not—”

“Fucking a lot,” Jungkook continues. “So much fucking.”

Namjoon looks at you, and it’s all you can do to keep from laughing. The look on his face is pure bewilderment, both that Jungkook has cooked up this idea and is hell-bent on executing it and that he remains employed. And maybe it’s a little bit of nerves, too, because neither of you are ignorant of the risks. Reading fanfiction about yourselves—about the two of you as a couple, specifically, or at least two people who have sex—is weird. Not something you can unread.

And maybe it’s because you’re so determined to not make it weird that you send Namjoon a cheeky, exaggerated wink, shrug your shoulders, and say, “I’ll need a couple drinks, but I’m down.”

Jungkook throws his head back and cackles wildly, and that look of bewilderment on Namjoon’s face morphs into something else. Trepidation, maybe; definitely disbelief, because sometimes he lets himself get swept away in Jungkook’s schemes, but it’s rare that you follow suit.

As Jungkook continues to laugh, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

Namjoon has two stipulations: the two of you have to film the episode completely alone, and he, too, needs to be a little drunk.

The latter? Piece of cake, considering Namjoon has become some sort of whiskey aficionado in recent years. His drinking is streamlined and to the point—he knows exactly how much and what to drink to get him where he wants to be. You can’t say he isn’t efficient.

The former, though? Borderline impossible. From the second Namjoon states his terms, Jungkook is having none of it. Argues that he’s the one who found the story and the one who cleared it with the author, so he deserves to witness the fruits of his labor.

“No,” Namjoon repeats for the nth time, “no way. I’ll barely be able to do this with just her, let alone both of you.”

And that—that doesn’t bother you, right? You force a laugh, because why would it bother you?

There are few secrets between you and Namjoon, except your respective sex lives have been staunchly off-limits. Namjoon could be a virgin for all you know, and as you study him—the way he keeps bobbing his leg, the slight shake in his hands—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s being so weird about this.

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

Most people don’t have to worry about someone writing stories about them fucking their friends. If they do, you reckon even less actually read them. So, sure, it’s a little strange, but people from all over the world send in stranger stuff all the time, don’t they? It’s literally the reason you’re in this predicament.

Eventually Jungkook agrees. His whining has gotten him nowhere, so he just throws up his hands. Posts a cryptic little “u guys won’t believe what the next patreon ep is lmao” that sends the internet into a frenzy. Doubles your Patreon numbers almost immediately, and both you and Namjoon do a good job of pretending the pressure isn’t overwhelming.

Jesus. You have to read explicit fanfiction about yourselves. On camera.

Namjoon gets caught up with work and isn’t available until the weekend, so you’re forced to sit with the nerves for a few days. Not too bad at first, but you’re nearly coming out of your skin by Thursday with the need to know. You’re well-versed in the world of fanfiction, but this is fanfiction about you: your name, your likeness, maybe even your personality.

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

Will they get it right, the way he looks with his jaw clenched? How impossibly deep his voice can go, both when it’s raspy with sleep and when he’s fully at ease? Will the Namjoon in the story be closer to the Namjoon you know, or the version of himself he presents to the public?

And you’ve known him a long time—long enough that there are few secrets between you, but you don’t know the most intimate parts. All the parts the internet loves to speculate on. All the little gaps that, apparently, need to be filled in by fanfiction.

Will they know what Namjoon looks like when he gets off?

No, you scold yourself, jerking awkwardly like you’ve been burned, and neither will you.

Because you are not going to think about this. Your thoughts are not going to go there. Namjoon is your friend, and you’ve listened to him scold an endless amount of men on the podcast for exactly this behavior. Sexualizing their friends. You’re not going to do it, too.

Maybe that’s why you’re kind of seeing double when it comes time to record. Namjoon needed an extra shot and offered you one as well. You’d necked it without a second thought and now you’re here, trying to ignore the slight tilt of the room as Namjoon adjusts the camera.

“How’s the shot look?” he asks, gesturing vaguely behind him at his laptop screen because Jungkook had refused to lend you his fancy cameras if he wasn’t allowed to be involved.

It’s a completely normal question.

It’s a question you’ve asked and answered a million times.

Except—there’s something horribly distracting about Namjoon in this moment. The outline of his back muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The way the sleeves are tight around his biceps. He’s always been a gym rat, always carries around a protein shake that smells and looks completely foul, but you can’t remember it ever being this obvious.

And you take too long to answer, because Namjoon straightens up just enough to send you a concerned look. Which does not help. You are not imagining what else might cause his brows to pinch like that, what might have his lips parting, have sweat dotting his hairline.

You swallow. Hard.

“Looks fine,” you manage to say. He’s still staring. Are you on fire? You feel like you’re on fire, which would make sense. Would explain Namjoon’s sweating and concerned stare and the fact that he cannot stop staring at you. “Maybe a tiny bit to the right if we’re being picky,” you tack on, hoping it’ll break whatever spell the two of you are ensnared in.

It works. “To the—the right, yeah, makes sense,” he rambles.

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

Recording hasn’t been this awkward since your first episode, or maybe ever. You’re sat across from one another like you always are, and usually Namjoon would be making quip after quip by now, talking endlessly until Jungkook shushed him long enough to get the intro filmed. Now, there’s just silence.

“Should we…?” Namjoon startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table and drops a string of curses. “Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting you off. He gestures vaguely toward the camera. “I’ll just… yeah.”

Showtime.

You wipe your hands on your jeans, unsure of when they got so damp. Unsure of when you’d grown so nervous, too, because you’d been fine an hour ago. Had strolled in with two cups of tea and a little too much confidence, giddy at what you were about to do.

Maybe the nerves had shown up alongside the alcohol. This sounds reasonable, and you do not, under any circumstance or for any reason, think about Namjoon’s back. Or his biceps.

Namjoon makes it through the intro, dimples deep and wide as he smiles, and you also don’t think about the way his voice cracks and gets a little breathy when he introduces you. It’s only because he’d been drinking, and the flush on his cheeks attests to that. The same flush that creeps down his neck, still a little sweaty; disappears beneath the hemline of his shirt.

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

Now it’s your turn to startle, and there’s not much you can do to hide the obvious except ask Namjoon to redo the shot. Because it’s bad enough the internet already overanalyzes every move you make, every word choice, every instance you’ve stared at Namjoon a second longer than they thought you would—this is a blatant display of… affectedness.

“Sorry,” you say, “I wasn't paying attention. Can we redo it?”

You’re expecting a playful scolding. A ha ha, get it together, because that’s what you usually get. But there’s nothing aside from Namjoon studying you and nodding. Asking if you’re okay. Saying, “Is this—this is weird, right? Is it too weird? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

An out. Namjoon is giving you an out, and you should take it, you know you should take it, so there’s absolutely no reason at all you shake your head and say, “No, no, it’s fine! I think I’m just a little, uh. Drunk?”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“It’s fine, Joon,” you insist. “Besides, it’ll be good content, right?”

“Good content,” he parrots. “Yeah, for sure.” He fidgets in his seat, runs his hands down the span of his thighs. Very, very thick thighs. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You faceplant onto the table as soon as he’s out of the room. When did his thighs get so thick?

But the water helps. Cures whatever strange, insatiable thirst has come over you, because you feel much more human after a few glasses. Less drunk, too, which makes sense. Yoongi could barely escape your drunken, horny wrath when the two of you were together, so you chalk it up to a Pavlovian response.

Namjoon does the intro again. Introduces you strong and steady, not a hint of nerves, and explains, with a fresh blush taking over his upper body, what the episode’s going to be about. “Someone wrote fanfiction about us,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, pretty explicit. Jungkook thought it’d be funny if we read it.”

You snort. “He might get fired, depending on how this goes.”

“He should get fired regardless,” Namjoon deadpans. “Anyway, we have permission from the author to read this so don’t come after us, and, as always, we’ll put all the credits in the video description.”

“Special shoutout to Jungkook, though, who was not allowed to be here with us for this momentous occasion.”

Namjoon laughs. “I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun at home.” You both pause. “That’s not—I’m not implying anything with that! I just meant—you know, like. He’s hanging out and enjoying his day off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Moving on. I have two copies of this. Do you want your own?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Nah, just read it to me.”

“Making me do all the work,” he huffs. “Typical.”

“There’s a stack of papers in front of you that might say otherwise.”

It’s clear you catch him off-guard. He cocks an eyebrow, opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a goldfish. An obvious question sits on the tip of his tongue: You think you’d be in charge? Instead he coughs, jerks his head to the side, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

It sounds like a challenge.

Thirty seconds is all you get before Namjoon’s shuffling his stack of papers and clearing his throat. Asking if you’re ready and jumping right into it once you say you are. Reads the first few lines like they’re some old lecture notes, and they’re conservative and safe-for-work enough that you start to relax.

And then Namjoon reads, “A louder one wonders if Namjoon is a pet name person—if he’d call her ‘honey,’ or ‘gummy bear,’ ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’” and you choke.

“Gummy bear?”

Namjoon laughs along with you—the weird one that almost sounds like a dog panting. “You want me to call you gummy bear?”

“I want you to call me a Lyft,” you snark. “I’m leaving.”

He continues:

And that’s how it starts, wandering thoughts, wandering fingers—the first time Piper comes to the thought of Namjoon calling her baby, pushing inside her, showing her that he definitely doesn’t beg, but she does… Well, she’s a little ashamed. She’s apparently got a reputation to maintain, anyway, not to mention a friendship.

His eyes leave the paper and lock onto you. “Or maybe you’d prefer baby?”

“Fuck off.”

Weeks after that first time, it’s become a habit, thinking about Namjoon as something more than a friend. It’s confusing and a little mortifying and it’s starting to affect her in ways she hadn’t expected. When they record, she feels fidgety—she’s jumpy when he gets close, has all the stupid obvious tells of an unwanted crush: her breath hitches when he whispers (why the fuck is he whispering in her ear, anyway? Doesn’t he know what that does to a person?) inside jokes to her so Jungkook can’t hear, her heart rate spikes when their fingers accidentally brush, she feels itchy and hot and a little embarrassed whenever he holds eye contact with her. It’s terrible, and it’s only made worse by the way he’s doing all of those things more than usual. Or, at least she thinks he is, thinks she’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on her more than she can remember happening before or the way she’s caught him staring at her lips when she chews on the end of her pencil mindlessly. 

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

Namjoon’s staring again. You need to salvage this. He’s only on paragraph three and you’re already squirming in your chair and imagining things that are not appropriate. So you roll your lips, return his teasing. “Well? Do you stare at my lips?”

It works. “No,” he scowls.

“You sure?” you joke, morphing your face into something half-pout, half-duck face.

“We’re never gonna finish this if you keep making comments.”

“You started it,” you point out. “Go on, then.”

There’s some dialogue. Some prose that hits way too close to home, has you wondering who on earth wrote this and how they plucked every single thought from deep within your psyche. A pang of fear that maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you’d thought all these years. A moment to confirm to yourself that, no, you haven’t been harboring a secret, deeply-buried crush on Namjoon.

Then he reads—

And then he kisses her. It’s greedy and hot, his lips like a branding iron. She moans a little against her better judgment when he licks at the seam of her mouth, and in return, she can feel Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile against her own. It’s better than she’d been imagining it, really. He’s a good kisser—firm at the right times, soft when she needs it, careful but not cautious. He holds her jaw with one hand and keeps her right where he wants her beneath him (as if she’d want to move, anyway).  When their lips finally part, he rests his forehead on hers. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, and he looks at her as if she’s the answer to every question. Finally, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Piper?” His lips are still wet and pink and a little swollen from kissing, and she barely hears the question—she’s too busy thinking about kissing him again, about pulling his plump bottom lip between her teeth, teasing and…  “Kissing,” she says finally.  “What do you want?” he asks, sinking to his knees in front of her. And if that alone isn’t an answer to his question… “Whatever you’re willing to give,” she replies. It feels like she’s wanted this forever, this and so much more. Once she got the idea in her head, it’s hard to know if she ever felt differently, ever truly thought they could just be friends. Or, if in the back of her mind, in the dark corners that she never lets see daylight, she always knew she wanted Namjoon. Always knew she loved him.

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

Namjoon sits with those words for a moment. Scans the paper in his hands and frowns a little when he confirms what you already know. “The rest is, uh. Porn.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie. “Are you? You’re the one who keeps stalling.”

He huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he retorts, and then nothing is all that funny anymore.

Because Namjoon was right: the rest is straight-up porn. He’s barely able to read the part where he goes down on you with a straight face, turning a deep shade of crimson. Stutters through the part where you pull his hair, and that is not something you needed to know about your friend. You think he loses his grasp of language entirely when he reads, “When he slides a long finger into her and brushes past her most sensitive spot, she arches into him and lets his name fall from her lips in a soft cry. Piper, notorious skeptic, is a babbling, trembling mess as she gets closer to her orgasm,” because all the words are garbled together, producing nothing but gibberish. You think he’s ready to keel over and die when he reads, “Namjoon pulls away briefly, lips slick with her juices, and licks over his top one, pausing to tell her how good she tastes before he dives back in.”

“That was nice of them to include. I appreciate their attention to detail in regards to my personal hygiene.”

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gimme. I’ll finish it.” He hands over the papers immediately.

Except you regret it immediately. The words you’re staring at are not words you ever thought you’d read or recite in your entire life. Not even for a million dollars. “Oh,” you say instead.

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

“This is really embarrassing,” you confirm. “I might need another shot.”

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

Namjoon staggers forward obligingly, looks completely fucked out and pliant, willing to do whatever she asks. She remembers the sounds he made when she pulled his hair, wonders if he likes being bossed around, if he wants her to tell him what to do, to be a little mean to him. Maybe it’s different from her dreams, maybe he will beg her. She wants him so badly, she’d do anything for him. So, she pulls his briefs down to expose his absurdly large member, already mostly hard, and slaps it. Gently at first to see how he’ll react, and when he shudders and jerks his hips, she does it again, a little harder. “Look at you,” she whispers, “such a needy boy.”  He whimpers at that, eyes pleading. “Please, Piper…” he whines.   “Please what?” “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. She wants to, wants him so much, wants to feel him stretch her open, and from the looks of his cock, thick and long and drooling with precum, he could. “Should I?” she asks. She musters all her confidence to keep the condescending tone up. It feels wrong given how desperate she is to get him inside her, but it also seems to be getting him worked up and equally as desperate. “Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”  Namjoon’s cock twitches, and he begs, “I—I’ll fuck you so good, Piper…. I know how, I promise. Just… please?”

“Oh my god,” the two of you say in unison.

You so badly want to ask if this is biographical. How Namjoon feels about a little degradation; what he’d do if someone actually called his cock stupid. Ifsomeone has called his cock stupid. You dare a glance at him and conclude that someone’s had to. Namjoon just has that kind of energy.

But you can’t ask because it’d be weird, so you keep reading.

“How do you want me?” she asks softly when their lips part. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s processing all the possible options out of everything he’s considered. And then it occurs to her. “Have you imagined this before? Thought about how you’d fuck me?” she teases him as she stands, stepping into him. Piper pushes one hand through his hair, brushing it back off of his forehead and wraps her other around his dick, squeezing a little for emphasis on her words. “Yes,” he groans as she strokes him, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want, then. Want me on all fours for you? Want me to show you how it’s done, to let you lay back and ride you so you don’t have to put in any work?” Namjoon’s breathing is getting heavy, pupils blown wider with each suggestion. 

“I told you!” you shriek, laughing in between the words. “I told you I’d…” And then your gloating tapers off, because what happens next has your brain malfunctioning.

“All of that,” he whines as she lets go of his hair and brings her hand down to run a fingertip over his perineum. “Want all of that. Want to bend you over the table and fuck you right here. Hear your sounds in the microphone.” Even in her dirtiest thoughts about him, she hadn’t considered the microphone, hadn’t considered recording it. When she thinks about it though, it makes sense. Namjoon is exactly the kind of person that would get off to someone’s voice. So, she does. She makes a show of turning around and slowly bending over the table, sliding her upper body across it carefully until she can reach her microphone and turn it on. When she says into it, “What’re you waiting for?” she sees over her shoulder the way that Namjoon shivers.

This is… not good. You’re never going to be able to look at a microphone the same way, which is extremely not good for a person who supplements their income with a very popular podcast that requires them to speak into a microphone for extended periods of time.

This is very, very bad.

Namjoon must be thinking the same, because he lets out a strangled a-haaa that’s less of a laugh and more a plea to God, the gods, the entire gamut of higher powers that might be able to save him. No one’s going to, you think, staring down at the paper again. This godless piece of fanfiction will be preserved on the internet forever, will be seared into your mind forever, and no amount of praying is going to erase it.

“I should, uh. Just read the rest, yeah? Get it over with?”

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

Don’t say please, you almost say. You can’t take it; not after what you’ve just read.

So you put on a show. Steel your expression and your nerves and take it seriously. Use voices and sound effects and desperately try to stave off the awkwardness you know is inevitable because a smut fic is probably only going to end one way, and that’s with you acting out Namjoon having an orgasm.

Maybe you’ll have another one, too, if the author is nice.

It’s sweet, she thinks, the way he’s easy for her, takes his time with her. Strokes his fingertips along her sides and kisses the back of her neck reverently. As much as she loves it, part of her hopes he’s not always like this—hopes he’ll give as good as he takes, hopes he’ll put her in her place. She can feel his cock hard against the cleft of her ass, not even inside her yet, and still, she thinks about next time and the time after that. “Still okay?” He breathes into her ear as his tip rubs against her cunt.  “Yeah—want you, Joon.”  “Never thought I’d hear you say those words.”  “I never thought you’d record them,” she teases, eyes glancing up to the flashing light showing the mic picking up all of this as he starts his slow slide into her.  Piper falls even further forward when he bottoms out, letting her forehead rest on the table. He’s whispering filth in her ear, about how he has something to prove, how she’ll never want anyone after this, how no one can fuck her the way he does.  She hates that he’s right.  Each stroke brings a new sensation: sparklers, butterflies, nerve endings on fire as he fucks into her and licks and sucks at her neck, her shoulders, her ear. Piper can’t even think, and this is what people mean when they talk about being fucked stupid, she decides.  It’s perfect.  Every time she thinks she’s getting close again, he changes something: fucks her a little shallower, moves his hips just a little, slows down, speeds up… It’s driving her crazy.  “Come on,” she whines. “I’m so close…” At least she can tell he is, too. No longer able to sustain the dirty talk, he’s breathing heavily, letting out broken moans and sighs of her name. He’s moving rhythmically now, thrusts consistently faster.  “Oh, fuck, Piper,” he groans, “Gonna cum.” One of his hands finds her clit and he rubs careful circles over her, bringing her to her peak along with him, no more teasing.  When she comes, it’s with a loud moan into the studio mic, and that seems to be what tips Namjoon over the edge, too. His hips stutter into hers as he comes, her cunt clenching around him for what feels like forever.

You deserve an award, you think. An Oscar. You didn’t even groan when you had to read the word “cunt,” and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“Is it over?” Namjoon asks, words muffled by the hands covering his face.

“Not quite,” you answer. “There’s some aftercare, and at the end you ask if I’ll piss on you.”

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

“Today’s episode has been brought to you by Stamps-dot-com—”

HOLY SHIT THE NEW PATREON EPISODE???????? Posted by u/pod-shipper 4 minutes ago NO WAY. NOOOOOOO FUCKING WAY DUDE THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY THEY DID THIS AS AN ACTUAL EPISODE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT HTE FUCK WHAT EHTU FKF DFGLKDG;L (+705) I wasn’t sure if they were messing around before, and I was quite critical of the “shippers,” but now I’m pretty convinced. (+423) ↳ we’ve been telling y’all for YEARS 😤 (+197) ↳ Glad you’ve seen the light, u/RandomAcorn2058! (+5) ↳ ugh. they weren’t messing around before and they aren’t messing around now. do you guys not listen to what they say? namjoon’s been dating, and piper got out of a six-year relationship just over a year ago. if they’ve had something going on for “years” that means they’re both cheaters, and that’s a really shitty thing to assume about them. not to mention it makes the entire point of the podcast moot. (-63) Why do you guys think Jungkook “wasn’t allowed” to be there? (+314) ↳ So they could fuck lmao it’s so obvious (+329) ↳ because it’s awkward af? would you wanna read porn about yourself w all your coworkers in the room? (+2) ↳ the “it’s awkward” excuse is sooooo lame he’s the one who found it and is the one who edited the episode, he’s gonna see it regardless. (+15) ↳ Tbh I’m more curious about how he even found it to begin with? Do they have a throuple thing going on? Like, why was he looking for smut fic about his bosses? (+38)

You do not get through recording unscathed.

You are very scathed. Perhaps the most scathed a person has ever been.

Jungkook texts the group chat sporadically throughout the week, cracking jokes and making memes at your and Namjoon’s expense which is par for the course and shouldn’t have you off-kilter, but something inside you feels deeply wrong. Feels like someone’s given you devastating news; feels like it used to back in uni when you knew you’d failed an exam and were just waiting to see how badly.

It both helps and doesn’t that the internet is so invested. All the clips Jungkook keeps posting have re-doubled your Patreon numbers, and jumping up a tax bracket never hurt anyone, you included. But all of those jokes and memes largely went unanswered by both you and Namjoon, still too close to the incident to find the humor in it from the other side.

The two of you had sex.

Not literally, of course, but you figure you might as well have with the way you’re feeling. The way you’re avoiding one another. Someone wrote a story about the two of you having sex and you both read it and something about that, days later, feels really fucking unsettling.

In a bad way? You aren’t sure. It’s not like you’re mad or upset or any other synonym. You just feel… off. Itchy from the inside out, and that’s far from the norm in your and Namjoon’s friendship. In all the years you’ve known one another, you’ve never once avoided each other, including the time you’d set him up with a close friend and he showed up 45 minutes late to their date and ghosted after.

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

Maybe it’s because Yoongi had always been there as a buffer. You aren’t of the belief that men and women cannot be platonic friends, but being in a years-long committed relationship nixed a lot of awkward interactions and assumptions off the bat. Even Namjoon had known Yoongi first. Had introduced himself to you in your shared 100-level psych course with a, “Hey, you’re Min Yoongi’s girlfriend, right?” because they ran in the same underground circles and Namjoon had idolized him from afar for years.

Pretty fucked up, then, that Yoongi’s off in Los Angeles with his hot new boyfriend and you’re on your couch, Holly at your feet, pointedly ignoring your texts.

“I’m gonna get a cat,” you say to the dog, trying to redirect his attention when he starts chewing on your sock again. Holly doesn’t offer any input, of course, and he’s a lot like his father in that way. “I can’t believe you have a stepfather. You’re a proper child of divorce now, Min Holly.”

There are a pile of unread texts you continue to ignore in lieu of showing Holly pictures of adoptable cats. A few more memes from Jungkook, one from Namjoon’s new phone asking to move the recording date a few days because “something came up at work,” one from the food delivery service you admittedly use too much offering 10% off your next order, and two from Yoongi. This reminded me of you, the first one says beneath a picture of an ice cream cone on the ground, and another one of him holding a water gun that says send me a picture of my son or else.

You eventually reply back with a picture of your middle finger, Holly nothing but a blurred brown blob in the corner of the frame.

That’s how it goes for the better part of a week. Namjoon’s work issue lasts four days. He doesn’t offer an explanation and you don’t ask for one, you just wait for the all-clear text and try to quiet the nerves once you get it.

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

The more popular the podcast became, the more money rolled in. The more money that rolled in, the more you could afford nicer things. That meant going from recording in Namjoon’s living room to a bona fide office space. Third floor, an expanse of windows and natural light, thirty-five minute commute by train.

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

You can hear Jungkook’s witch cackle from the stairwell, and your mind fills in the blanks of Namjoon’s exasperated sigh. It helps, your brain reminding you that you know these people. You know this is Jungkook’s late gym day, so he’ll be in a pair of sweats and a hoodie that drowns his frame. You know that when Namjoon has work issues and feels like an inconvenience, he always shows up with two boxes of baked goods from the bakery near his place, and you know both of them will save the best donut for you.

So you walk in and Jungkook’s in a hoodie and sweats just like you expect him to be, and there are two boxes of baked goods next to the coffee machine. Both of them say hello and wave and, for all intents and purposes, everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

Not in a bad way. Not in a bad way. He almost always dresses nicely, always looks polished and put-together, usually because he’s either going to or coming from campus—fitted shirts, either of the tee or dress variety, and earth-toned cardigans; tailored trousers that are sometimes corduroy; polished loafers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra casual, a stark white pair of tennis shoes.

Today, he wears none of those things.

No, today torture comes in the form of form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt a little oversized so he can roll the sleeves. His hair is brushed back off his face instead of parted down the middle. He’s wearing gold jewelry that glints in the sun. A pair of off-white Converse high-tops. And, much to your horror, he’s also wearing his glasses.

According to the internet, Kim Namjoon is peak husband material, which you can usually ignore, but not when he’s wearing glasses.

You avert your gaze, convinced you’ll burst into flames if you stare too long, not to mention Jungkook will notice and that’s a ribbing you’d rather die than take. So you avert your gaze and pointedly ignore Namjoon, who’s talking about his work crisis to no one in particular. Something about a co-worker going on an unexpectedly early paternity leave, and Namjoon being asked to cover some of his courses until they could find a more permanent fix.

Jungkook asks a question you don’t catch. Because paternity leave means his co-worker and his partner had a baby, presumably via old-fashioned methods, and it’s not a direct mention of sex but it’s close enough to send you into a coughing fit you have to blame on your donut. Neither of them buy it, but Namjoon is a good enough person to look genuinely concerned. Reaches out, probably to slap your back, but the thought of him touching you is just… too much.

So he barely gets out an, “Are you o—” before you choke down whatever’s left in your mouth and cut him off with a, “Yep, all good!” before you’re scurrying off to the opposite side of the room like a little rat.

It doesn’t get any better.

Both of you are so stilted and awkward during recording that Jungkook has to be the voice of reason and call it, suggest trying again tomorrow. Luckily he has enough b-side stuff he can release if need be, Namjoon’s work emergency providing a decent cover, and he sends the two of you home for the afternoon with all the exasperation and incredulity of a disappointed parent.

Thirty-five minutes back home.

Thirty-five minutes to sit in the embarrassment of not being able to do your job. Thirty-five minutes to catastrophize and wonder what you’re going to do if you can’t get it together. Namjoon will keep the podcast, of course; you’ll be replaced with someone else. Maybe someone less cynical, maybe someone more, but undoubtedly a man. After this mess, you can’t imagine Namjoon would want another female co-host.

But as embarrassed as you are, your traitorous brain keeps thinking about Namjoon.

Thirty-five minutes to think about his glasses and his rolled-up sleeves and the way the denim of his jeans contoured perfectly to his thighs. Thirty-five minutes to think about, “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. Thirty-five minutes to squeeze your thighs together and overanalyze the way he stumbled over his words today; how he could barely make eye contact. Thirty-five minutes to draft a dozen resignation texts and delete them all.

You groan, head thunking against the train window. You’ll take a cold shower as soon as you get home.

That’ll cure you.

You get home and walk Holly so long he gives up halfway through and you have to carry him back to your apartment. You take a cold shower and actually find it pleasant once the initial shock wears off, so it doesn’t work to keep all your rogue Namjoon thoughts at bay. You make a simple dinner and don’t think about Namjoon sitting you on the counter and having his way with you. You tuck yourself into bed far too early and consider going back to therapy, because clearly something very, very bad has happened to your psyche.

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

But it’s a new day, and you’re determined to get your shit together. Yesterday was a fluke, because you’re so normal and so capable of being in the same room as Kim Namjoon.

Except—you’re not.

Jungkook’s there when you arrive, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Barely looks up at you to say hello, and barely returns it when you do. You double-check the time, because you can count on two fingers the amount of times you’ve shown up and Namjoon wasn’t already there, jotting down extensively-detailed notes, circling and highlighting and chasing down Jungkook to ask questions.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

You roll your eyes. “Super helpful, thanks.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes right back. “You don’t pay me enough to also be his handler.”

You bite your tongue. Arguing with Jungkook means you’ve already lost the war. Not worth it. But it still eases your worries a bit that he doesn’t know any more than you do. That Namjoon hadn’t only texted him to say why he was running late because he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk to you.

So you wait. And you wait and you wait and you wait. Jungkook lets you talk to people on his dating apps and tells you about his new gym routine until your eyes are glazing over. Orders food delivery for the two of you because he gets hungry after an hour and had already eaten what was left of the snacks before you arrived. Cracks a joke that isn’t really a joke about calling the police, because Namjoon still hasn’t shown up and he hasn’t said anything and none of your texts are showing as delivered.

You’re halfway to hour two when the office door bursts open and Namjoon stumbles through, soaked with sweat and stammering over apologies.

“I am so sor—I broke my phone again so my alarm never went off and then I missed my bus? And apparently they’re not running the regular bus schedule today so the next one was a half-hour wait, but then I…”

You don’t catch the rest, because Namjoon is covered in sweat and breathing heavily and a week ago you could’ve survived this. A week ago you would’ve cracked a joke and handed him a towel and told him to get to work. A week ago you would not have been paralyzed in your seat, transfixed on the sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

You are fucked beyond belief.

Jungkook elbows you in the ribs, bringing you back to reality. “...even paying attention?” You startle, face warming in embarrassment. Namjoon still isn’t looking at you. “This is so sad to watch,” Jungkook mumbles, and thankfully it’s only loud enough for you to hear. “Like some stupid shit you only see in nature documentaries.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, now can you?

But you’re a professional above all, so you hum an acknowledgment and take your regular seat. Pointedly ignore Jungkook. Wait for Namjoon to assume his position as well, and you’re surprised to see the space in front of him empty. No notes. No script. There’s just… nothing.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gesturing to the space in front of him when he seems confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a stack of notes in front of you.”

“I forgot them.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.”

Your tone is light and airy, not at all accusing or confrontational, but Namjoon’s jaw clenches nonetheless. He scoffs, fires a shitty little, “Were you not paying attention when I was talking about what a horrible fucking morning I’ve had?” at you that makes even Jungkook flinch. A few moments of stunned silence, and then, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, that was rude—”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, and all of a sudden you feel too big for your body. Feel like there are ants beneath your skin, feel like everything is wrong, and you don’t want to be here anymore. “It’s fine. Let’s just—”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue, but he just sighs and says, “I—yeah, okay.”

This is where Namjoon would usually launch into the intro, a dimpled smile already plastered on his face that’d drop as he discussed another failed first date with that brand of self-deprecation that makes him so endearing. This is where he’d say what have you been up to, Pipe, and you’d try not to groan because how hard could it possibly be to add one more letter, another syllable, but Namjoon seems incapable of it. This is the part that, for three years, has been seamless and easy and instinctual, just two friends having a conversation.

There’s a red light on your microphones that indicates you’re recording. It’s on and it mocks you, because Namjoon is not doing the intro or telling you about a failed date. He doesn’t use that cringey nickname. He doesn’t say anything at all. His mouth opens and shuts and no words come out. What’s worse is that you know exactly why he can’t speak, because you’re thinking about it, too.

“So, uh,” you begin, and Jungkook makes a gagging sound from behind you. “Come here often?”

Namjoon ignores you. “Right, right, the intro…” He sucks in a breath. “Welcome back to another episode of Put Him in the Trash, I’m—”

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

“Piper. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

“You said Put Him in the Trash.” Namjoon just blinks. “It’s Place Him Gently in the Garbage.”

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

He looks at Jungkook, who is hiding behind his hands. “Is she right?”

A beat of silence. “I can’t do this,” he half-shouts, half-whines. “Are you two going to be like this forever? Because if you are, I’m quitting. I’m so serious. I’m gonna quit. I can’t take it anymore. The two of you are insufferable.” Another beat of silence, before Jungkook stands at full height and lords over you and Namjoon. “Forget today. Just go home and try again on Monday. This is so—I’m seriously gonna quit.”

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

Yijeong isn’t with him, which is almost disappointing. Now that he’s dating again, you were looking forward to seeing just how awkward it could get with the three of you in the same room, but he looks good. Refreshed. The trip clearly did a world of good for him, and you can’t even bring yourself to crack a joke at his expense.

He, however, has no such hang-ups. “You look like shit.”

“Weird way to say thank you.” You click your tongue and look down at Holly. “Do you see how your father treats me? You should bite him.”

“My son would never. But also, thank you.” He flops onto the sofa. “You do look like shit, though. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not with you, preferably.”

“Oh, gross, is it a dating thing, then?”

“I—no.” You pause. It’s not a dating thing, but you still feel like you’ve got motion sickness whenever you think about it. How would you even begin to explain this to Yoongi, anyway? Someone wrote a porn fic about me and Namjoon. You remember Namjoon, right? Namjoon, that I’ve known and have been friends with since college. Yeah, that Namjoon. Anyway, someone wrote fanfiction about us having sex, and it fucked me up so bad I can no longer be in the same room as him.

No fucking way.

“You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of you. Did you just come here to insult me?”

He snorts, but his smirk dissipates a few seconds later, a familiar seriousness filling the void. “We’re okay, right? Was the Yijeong thing too soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “We’re fine, and if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” He still looks doubtful. “You want me to start singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ or something? It’s just… weird work stuff.”

“Depends. Are you singing the Dolly Parton or Whitney version? And real work or podcast work?”

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

Yoongi seems surprised by this, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe. “Like, the podcast with Namjoon?” He presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek when you nod your head. “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Like I said, it’s weird. It wasn’t, like, an argument or anything.”

“How weird?”

“You’re so fake, Min Yoongi. You act like you’re so distinguished and above drama, but really you’re just as hungry for gossip as the rest of us.”

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

God help you, you’re going to rip off the band-aid. “Someone… Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Someone… wrote? Fanfiction? About us.”

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

“About us… uh. Having sex? Specifically.”

“Oh my god—”

“Jungkook found it and thought it’d be funny if we read it for an episode.”

“Oh my god?”

“So we did? And it was really weird, which I expected, because I’ve known Namjoon for a long time, and I never, ever thought about having sex with him because we were together and me and Namjoon are friends, so yeah, it was fucking weird. But now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it? And now we can’t even be in the same room as one another.” Yoongi is a concerning shade of red. “So our show is gonna get canceled, because we can only release b-side stuff for so long until people realize something’s up, and it was Namjoon’s podcast to begin with so obviously I’ll get fired—”

“Oh my god, you want to fuck Namjoon.”

Yoongi sounds like a strangled cat when he says this, which does not help the way you feel like you’ve been hit square in the face with a frying pan. “No,” you argue, though it sounds more like a question. You do not want to fuck Namjoon. “No, no. No. It’s just because it was weird.”

“Did you forget I dated you for six years? I know what you look like when you want to fuck someone.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be weird if someone wrote fanfiction about you fucking your friend?”

“Not if I didn’t actually want to fuck them, no.”

“You’re a liar. Get your dog and get out of my apartment.”

Yoongi laughs as he stands. Pats you on the back in the most condescending way you’ve ever had someone pat you on the back. “Let me know how it goes. No need to give me credit for your moment of horny clarity.”

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

Unfortunately, as you come to find out, he’s also a correct bastard.

You want to fuck Namjoon.

Which is… not great, you have to admit, considering he can barely stand to be around you, so you take another cold shower and decide you’re going to take this to your grave. You’re going to spend the rest of the weekend getting your shit together, and you’re going to show up on Monday and be a consummate professional. You’re going to look at Namjoon and say, ha ha, isn’t it so funny someone thought we would have sex? I don’t think about it at all because I am so cool and normal about it.

You’ve got it all planned out. You’re going to show up fifteen minutes early with your own box of pastries. You’re going to look nice, if not a little pretentious—maybe a nice sweater. You’re going to be prepared with notes of your own. You might even be nice to the villain of the week so Namjoon doesn’t have to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh at you.

And then someone knocks on your door.

You find Namjoon on the other side, and all your plans immediately go to shit.

Has he always been this tall? You can’t remember. You can’t remember a lot of things, including how to speak, because Yoongi had launched you into a crisis of epic proportions and now here’s the source of it, standing right in front of you. With all of his… height. And thighs. And that heady, musky cologne he always wears, that you can still smell now even though there’s an unfortunate amount of distance between you.

“Uh, hi.”

You blink. “Hi,” you parrot, and it’s a little insulting how one single word seems to have sucked up all of your brainpower. “Namjoon,” you tack on, not awkward at all.

“Sorry to just show up,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. Very bad idea; makes his biceps bulge. You barely swallow your whimper. “It’s just—my phone’s still broken, and it felt bad leaving things how we did? So I was hoping we could talk.”

Talk. Namjoon wants to talk to you. Normally: not a problem. Currently: big problem. You manage a nod, open the door wider to let him in, and you don’t think about how jarring it is to have Namjoon in your space. You don’t think about how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, or what it’d be like if Namjoon bent you over the couch, or the kitchen counter, or the—

You cough. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe just some water if you have it.”

If you have it. What kind of person doesn’t have water? But you tell him to make himself comfortable and get him some anyway, and you mull too long over the size of the glass. Ultimately decide on a smaller one, because if things get unbearably awkward you can excuse yourself to the kitchen to get more.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” Namjoon says from the living room, and when you look up he’s sorting through a stack of books near the window. Some he’d lent you months ago, notes jotted in the corners, sticky notes in the shape of sea animals on important pages. “You ever wind up reading this?”

The Idiot. Namjoon had raved about it when he was in the midst of his 19th century Russian phase, right after he’d read a bunch of Tolstoy and Pushkin. You shake your head—though, judging from the title, you wonder if someone hadn’t written your biography.

“It’s good. If you have the time, you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, handing over his water. You take a seat in an armchair, pull your knees to your chest. Namjoon’s still looking through your books, isn’t looking at you, so it feels safe to say, “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He moves to sit on the floor, massive thighs spreading until he’s comfortable. Thank god he can’t see the look on your face. “I just wanted to make sure we’re alright. Things have felt pretty weird since we filmed the, uh.” He coughs. “Thing.”

“Right, yeah.” You realize he’s waiting for an answer, and you offer up a very rushed, “We’re fine, Joon.”

“Are you sure?”

Yeah, you’re sure: sure you absolutely cannot be having this conversation in the safety and sanctity of your own home. It’s tainted now, contaminated by all your uncontrolled horny thoughts about the man in front of you. You’ll have to fumigate. Might have to pick up and move, actually, or call an exorcist.

“I’m sure,” you assure him. “The… thing… was weird, but it’s fine. Temporary.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, in isolation, reading a porn fic about yourselves wasn’t a big deal. No one got hurt. Everyone who needed to be consulted was consulted. The episode made the two of you a lot of money, and Jungkook even promised to send some of it to the author, so your bases are beyond covered.

So, should you have done it? There wasn’t a good enough reason not to, because the story itself was never the problem.

The problem is staring you right in the face. It’s sitting on your floor, a book cracked in half at the spine and forgotten in his lap. The problem is looking at you like you hold all the answers to the universe’s secrets, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. The problem is that Namjoon is looking at you like that from across the room but you’re wondering what it’d look like from on top of you.

The problem is that you’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, have known him even longer, and you’ve just realized today that you want to have sex with him.

And you can’t say that, can you, because Namjoon came here to fix things which really does not lend itself to a hookup. Namjoon cares about your friendship and your working relationship so much he came here to try and salvage it, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to say, “I think it’s okay that we did,” and leave it at that. Because it is okay.

Because you’re the problem.

It feels like a small victory when Namjoon sags in relief. When he exhales and says, “Okay, good, because I think so, too.”

“It made us a lot of money,” you tack on.

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he laughs. “Right? Like, that was almost too much money. Just to watch us read porn?”

“About ourselves. I think that was the selling point.”

He stands. You do, too. “Never thought I’d be doing that,” he says, returning the book to where it belongs. “Definitely the most embarrassing thing I’ve done for money.”

“Being a man with a podcast wasn’t embarrassing enough?”

He snorts. Gets closer to the door. “Hey now.” You’re going to survive this. “Thanks for entertaining me, by the way. For a second there I was really worried we’d fucked it all up.”

Just the ending. Just one more thing to say and you’ll be done with this, and then you can take your third cold shower in recent memory and triple text Yoongi with a full-fledged mental breakdown. Maybe he’ll bring Holly back and you can register him as your emotional support animal.

And Namjoon must sense the awkwardness that’s crept back in, because he tries to cover it with a joke. Says, “Haaa, like you’d actually piss on me, right?”

Except it sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

Because he says like you’d actually piss on me but you hear like you’d actually kiss me, and there isn’t a universe that exists in which the following makes sense: you, stunned into silence in the doorframe, Namjoon saying his goodbyes, you thinking fuck it, last chance and saying, “Yeah, I’d kiss you.”

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Your entire body is on fire. “Is, uh. Is that not what you said?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore what I said.”

“I’d argue that it does, for the sake of my digni—”

“You’d kiss me?” Namjoon… doesn’t look put off of the idea, which is surely a point in your favor. Interesting to note that his diction is crystal clear, now. Bastard. “You’d kiss me right now?”

There’s also no explanation for the way you say: “It’s only been an option for ten seconds and you’re already begging for it?”

You’d say there’s no explanation for the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches, the way he repeats I don’t beg for anything, but maybe the simple fact is: the two of you want to fuck each other. And, judging from the way Namjoon crowds your space, keeps dropping his gaze to your mouth, it seems very likely to happen.

All that fixating you’d done on Namjoon’s thighs was wasted, you think, as you take in the shape of his mouth. His lips. The way his tongue darts out to run along the bottom at the last second before he reaches out, tilts your head up, and finally presses his mouth to yours.

And you’ve got to laugh, because no piece of written fiction could ever accurately portray what it feels like. How soft his lips are. The way he touches you—gentle, but still dominant enough to have you moving the way he wants, have you backing up into your apartment so he can smile against your mouth as he closes the door behind him.

No piece of fiction would get it right, the way you’re unsteady on your feet, breathless at the way Namjoon’s kissing you. How he only breaks apart long enough to ask where do you want me in that throaty, deep voice of his. How you’re so overwhelmed you can’t decide: unsure if you want to waste the time it’d take to get to your bedroom, but if it’s only going to happen once, wanting to make it count.

So you decide to risk it. Plant your hands in the middle of his exceptionally broad chest and push him in the direction of the hallway, and if the two of you can’t wait, can’t control yourselves, well.

But the story had gotten one thing right: Namjoon does kiss like a branding iron, hot and greedy. Namjoon kisses you like there’s nothing else he wants to do in this lifetime, and it makes you dizzy. Has you off-kilter, stumbling into the wall as you try to remember where the fuck your bedroom is and why it’s so far. Just like the fictional version of you, you also moan when he licks into your mouth.

“Should I do it the way we did in the fic?” Namjoon asks as the two of you cross the threshold into your bedroom, a cheeky grin on his face. “Do it like this?” he questions, pushing you gently until you’re on the back in the middle of your bed, chest heaving as you lift your head to look at him.

Namjoon is so, so big from where you lay, just hovering at the foot of your bed. Cheeks ruddy, bulge prominent. “What’d you say you wanted?”

Takes a second to remember how to breathe, let alone what you’d read. What do you want, Namjoon had asked, right before he’d sank to his knees in front of you. “Whatever you’re willing to give,” you answer.

Namjoon smiles. Puts one knee on the bed, and the way it dips beneath his weight is unsettling. Why does he have to be so fucking large. “That’s right, baby.” Christ, you think, because there’s another thing that fic had gotten right. No one on earth would be immune to Namjoon calling them baby in that tone of voice.

The riposte biting at the back of your teeth gets swallowed whole as Namjoon grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed. “May I?” he asks, hands poised above the waistline of your leggings. You nod, and Namjoon drags down your underwear with them. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans, awe creeping into the edge of his words.

“You want me to do it the same way? Hm? You’re being awfully quiet; thought you were giving me shit about being the one in charge,” he chides.

Because you’re short-circuiting. Namjoon’s on his knees, just like you’d envisioned, and his mouth is dangerously close to your cunt. How can you be expected to think and speak under these conditions? But if Namjoon can find the brainpower to be a bastard, so can you, because what you’d read and the way he’d reacted can both never be forgotten. So you thread your hands into his hair and pull. The resulting moan is enough to sustain you for years.

“Are you gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna make me come on it?”

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s precedent. Fictional Namjoon ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough. Had fictional you writhing and insatiable, so it’s a lot to live up to, but it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He hesitates for only a second, giving you one last chance to back out before the two of you set every last boundary on fire, and then he’s settling between your thighs and making you see stars.

Now you know what it’s like. Now you don’t have to rely on fiction, and it doesn’t matter because it’d never compare to the way Namjoon feels as he works to bring you to your ruin. The way he flattens his tongue to lick long, thick stripes; the way his lips suction around your clit. The way it feels when he groans against your core. The way he says, “Fuck, you do taste good,” like that’s a completely normal thing to say. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

But you need more and Namjoon knows it. His mouth doesn’t leave your cunt for a second, but his fingers find your mouth, so you put on a show. Wrap your lips around them, suck on them the way he’s doing to you, make sure they’re slick. Namjoon groans again, doubles his efforts. Slides one thick finger inside of you and barely lets you adjust before he’s adding a second.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Namjoon has you unraveling. Presses incessantly on a spot that has your vision whiting out. Has you trembling, a little panicked as you say, “Joon, fuck—Namjoon, wait—” as it builds and builds and builds.

You might black out for a second, because you come to and Namjoon looks… stunned. He looks like he can’t believe any of what just happened, and you blink a few times, try to come back into your body, and when you regain enough consciousness, you’re extremely aware of the large wet patch beneath you.

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

“Namjoon, that’s not—that’s embarrassing—can you grab a—”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Presses the taste of you into your skin, and all those silly protests die in your throat, because if Namjoon was needy before, he’s desperate now. Covers your body with his own, hips dipping down low enough to press his erection into the juncture of your thigh, and the weight of him is delicious. Has you fisting the fabric of his t-shirt to pull him closer, has you pulling it over his head, his pants following. Has your hands skimming down every thick part of his body until you reach his cock, hard and aching and slick with pre-cum.

“I need to suck you off later,” you say, done with overthinking. Time to just be honest, and Kim Namjoon has a dick you need to feel down your throat. “Remind me.”

He whines, thrusts into your hand a little harder. “How could I forget that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t know if this would be the only time,” you answer. “Did you bring a condom?” Namjoon nods, fetches one from his wallet and rolls it on.

He hovers above you again. Looks nervous, all of a sudden, like he can’t tell his lefts from his rights. All out of sorts. You’re about to tell him it’s fine, you don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, don’t have to do anything at all, when he says, “It doesn’t have to be.” You just stare. “The only time.”

There’s a conversation to be had. You know that. Both of you clearly have feelings you need to talk about and sort out, but you reckon they can wait. They’ll still be there in the afterglow, in the morning. So you nod, say okay, Joon, and kiss away the insecurities that still linger.

You think about the fic. Think maybe Namjoon would appreciate it if you cracked a stupid joke, just like he’d tried to do earlier. “Has anyone ever called your cock stupid?”

He laughs, breath fanning against your skin. “No. Wanna try it and see what happens?”

Might as well. You try to remember the exaggerated tone of voice you’d used. Repeat the line—“Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”—and wait.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Namjoon swallows thickly. “I, um. Unfortunately, I think that really works for me.” You laugh. Pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist as he starts to move against you. Has jokes of his own. “Please. Please let me fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, laugh tapering into a giggle. “Do you know how?” Namjoon nods, looking all too much like a puppy eager to please its owner. “Do you promise?” He nods again. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

You expect him to move fast; expect the first time to be frenzied and a little awkward. It isn’t. Namjoon lines himself up and pushes the smallest bit inside, and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. Threads your fingers together, squeezes your hand. Pushes further inside and mumbles praise just beneath your ear.

It’s dizzying, the amount of care Namjoon handles you with. How soft he is. Does nothing to ease the discomfort of the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, but he talks you through it. Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look. Spills a lot of words you’d probably be embarrassed to hear and he’d be embarrassed to say if this was any other time, but in the heat of the moment it all just works to unravel you faster.

He bottoms out. “Okay?” he asks, and you’re rewarded with a dimpled smile when you say you are. Namjoon is a devastating kind of beautiful.

But, as he gives you time to adjust and you give him the all-clear, he also fucks like a demon. What once was hand-holding is now your wrists pinned to the bed, your body caged beneath him as he rolls his hips at a pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve been deceived. Lured into a false sense of security.

It’s almost a shame this isn’t being recorded, because you want to memorize all the sounds Namjoon’s making. Want to hear them for the rest of your life. Don’t want anyone else to be the reason he sounds like this, and as he ups his pace and presses his lips to your neck, you don’t want to sound like this because of anyone else, either.

Maybe one of those times in the future, you can talk him into it.

Namjoon reaches down, rubs circles into your clit. Every time you think you might be close, he pulls his hand away, smiles like the devil. You let him have his fun for a while, let him think you’re keen to lie back and take it, and then you tighten your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back.

He doesn’t think it’s very funny. Looks up at you all bewildered. “What’re you—”

“You were taking too long,” you snark. “Figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Yeah? Shit,” he says as you begin to move. “Fuck, baby, like that. Ride me just like that.”

You do. Don’t change a thing, because Namjoon’s cock is long and thick enough to hit exactly where you need it to. You can feel yourself clenching, feel yourself getting wetter, and the sight of Namjoon beneath you does nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looks even better than you’d imagined: skin flushed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, sweat-slick. You want to make him cry. Want to give him the entire world. You will.

Namjoon thrusts at the same time you roll your hips, and that’s what does it. Has you crying out, has stars flashing behind your eyelids. Has you saying fuck, fuck, fuck as he drives you over the edge for the second time. Has you on the brink of oversensitive as he thrusts a few more times to chase his own end, almost delirious at the way Namjoon moans as he spills into the condom.

Has you swooning, just a bit, at the dopey way Namjoon smiles at you, eyes half-lidded and crinkled at the corners.

“Was that okay?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’d say it was decent.”

“Maybe next time you could pee on me,” he jokes.

You whack him on the chest. “Sure. Or we could record it.”

Has you a little shocked at the way his cock twitches inside of you at the mention of it.

On Monday, you don’t wear a pretentious sweater.

When you stroll in, Jungkook’s already got the best donut shoved halfway into his mouth because he’s a shithead. He eyes you warily, probably hoping with all his hope that you spent the weekend finding God and getting your shit together.

And then he realizes you’ve got on Namjoon’s hoodie and he nearly chokes to death.

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

Namjoon appears at that very moment, and it’s so hard not to take credit for the way he’s glowing, the dazed smile on his face. But Jungkook notices, because Jungkook notices everything, and his gaze darts between the two of you: your hoodie, Namjoon’s face, your face. He opens his mouth, something inappropriate bound to spill out, but Namjoon beats him to the punch. “Ready?” he asks you, and you nod.

It’s seamless.

No hiccups, no awkward stuttering. Namjoon gets through the intro without a hitch, and it feels exactly like it used to. Just two friends having a conversation. It’s obvious Jungkook still wants to say something, but after suffering through last week, he stays quiet lest he makes it worse and sends the two of you back to the bad place.

“How was your weekend, Pipe? Do anything fun?” Namjoon rolls his lips, tries not to laugh.

So you play along. “No, not really, just some dog sitting. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Had another first date on Saturday.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

It’s a blessing Jungkook isn’t filming this, because your eyebrows raise so far they nearly disappear from your face altogether. There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Namjoon’s voice, and although you would’ve described it the same way, hearing him say it with such conviction has you a little stunned. “Wow. You gonna see her again?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sharing a private smile with you. “I think I am.”

who the FUCK is namjoon dating Posted by u/pod-shipper 7 minutes ago This has honestly ruined my entire day. I thought all the stories he told about dating were a bit… Like, what kind of guy has a podcast about relationships but can’t seem to be in one? But you could just HEAR it in his voice how much he likes this woman he went on a date with over the weekend and I’m sick to my stomach. (+2195) ↳ bro you and me both 😭 i genuinely thought him and piper had something going on fr (+1302) ↳ Seriously might stop listening because of this! Any woman with self-respect would never let their partner host a podcast with someone they’re obviously in love with. If he gets serious with this woman, Piper will be gone within 6 months, mark my words. (+927) ↳ I wouldn’t worry about it too much! My cousin works at a really nice restaurant in the same city Namjoon lives in, and she said she saw this “date” on Saturday and that it wasn’t anything serious. (+788) ↳ Piper got a cat and Namjoon finally got a second date. Face it, it’s over. (+325) ↳ cannot believe him and piper aren’t dating.. do you think i should delete all my tiktok edits? (+4) ↳ this is unhinged lmfao i thought y’all hated piper? you’re in here bitching abt her being a “misandrist” every week and now ur gonna stop listening bc namjoon isn’t dating her? pick a lane and stay in it (-64)

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and reblogs/shares are always welcome! I appreciate you very much~ ♡

[novaursa]

The Cost of Fire

- Summary: The conclusion of the Dance. Where Gwayne and the reader married under watchful eyes of the Seven.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra, was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Honor Burns. If you want to read all parts before this in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the final part of this series. That being said, it doesn't mean there will not be separate works posted that are reader/Gwayne themed.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 299

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs @sachaa-ff

The Sept is quiet, save for the murmured prayers of Septon Eustace. The light of a dozen flickering candles dances across the stone walls, casting long shadows as you stand beside Gwayne Hightower, your hands tightly clasped together. His touch is warm and reassuring, but the gravity of the moment hangs heavily in the air. This wedding is not grand; it is far from the dreams of princesses and noble ladies. Still, for you and Gwayne, it is enough—a small sliver of peace amidst the ruins of war. The words of the Septon flow through the chapel, sanctifying a union that has been long denied, long awaited.

You chance a glance at Gwayne as Septon Eustace speaks the final vows. His eyes are on you, soft and brimming with a tenderness that you hadn’t known you longed for until now. In his gaze, there is no regret, no fear—only the promise of something different, something better than what you have known. He mouths your name softly as the Septon pronounces you husband and wife. When the time comes for him to kiss you, it is gentle, his lips lingering just a moment longer as if savoring the taste of something long forbidden and precious. For a brief instant, it is just the two of you in that small Sept, the world beyond forgotten.

But the world does not forget you.

The doors to the Sept creak open as you and Gwayne step out, hand in hand. The air is thick with tension, colder than it should be, and it prickles at your skin. Otto Hightower stands at the foot of the steps, his eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of his son beside you. There is a hardness to his gaze, a judgment that has yet to be spoken but lingers between you all. Alicent is beside him, her hands clasped in prayer as if she’s hoping the gods will deliver some miracle to mend what remains broken.

“Father,” Gwayne says, his voice cutting through the chill.

Otto’s gaze sharpens. “You’ve married a traitor who crippled your King,” he replies coolly, his words laced with venom, though his voice remains calm. “This will not save us from the bloodshed to come.”

Gwayne straightens, the steel in his tone unmistakable. “It is done. I stand by my wife and our family.”

Before Otto can retort, the blaring of horns slices through the air, causing heads to turn skyward. Your heart seizes in your chest as a shadow ripples over the courtyard. Merothrax, sleek and deadly, his wings slicing through the clouds, circles thrice above the Sept before descending. The air hums with the sound of his wings beating against the sky, a warning in every gust of wind he sends tearing through the grounds below. The dragon's indigo scales shimmer, streaks of silver catching the sunlight as he twists in the air with a grace that belies his size.

When Merothrax finally lands, the stone steps of the Sept crack beneath the weight of his claws. The ground shudders as his tail swipes across the rubble, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest. Vaeron, your son, dismounts with the ease of one born in the saddle, his blue eyes gleaming as he surveys the scene below. The Kingsguard react immediately, swords drawn as they move to surround him.

“Hold!” Gwayne’s voice booms with authority, making even the Kingsguard hesitate. His grip tightens on your hand as he steps forward, positioning himself between you and the threat. “Any man who dares raise a blade to my son will answer to me.”

Otto’s eyes flash with anger. “That boy just desecrated the Sept with his dragon’s claws!” he snaps, his voice harsh with barely concealed fury. “Does he think himself above gods and men alike?”

Before Gwayne can respond, you step forward, your voice cold and unwavering. “He is a dragon, Lord Otto. He answers to neither gods nor men.”

The defiance in your tone sends a ripple of unease through those gathered. You see the way Otto’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as he weighs his next words. Alicent’s hand rises to her chest as if she might speak another prayer, but she remains silent, her eyes flicking from you to Vaeron, studying the boy—no, the young man—who now stands before her. She has not seen him since he was a babe cradled in your arms, and now he stands tall, a rider of Merothrax, with your fire in his blood and Gwayne’s resolve in his bones.

For a moment, the tension is suffocating, the silence heavy with unspoken threats. But then Alicent speaks, her voice soft yet firm. “We are not here to fight,” she says, her eyes lingering on Vaeron. “The war has taken too much already.”

Otto’s lips press into a thin line, but he swallows his anger, his eyes flicking between you, Gwayne, and Vaeron. He does not bow his head, but there is a begrudging acceptance in his gaze. “The boy has power,” he concedes quietly, though there is no warmth in his tone. “Power that may yet be of use—if he can be controlled.”

Vaeron steps forward, his gaze fixed on Otto, and the shadows seem to deepen around him as Merothrax rumbles behind him. “I am no one’s pawn,” he states firmly. The certainty in his voice leaves no room for doubt, his defiance a mirror of yours. “And neither is my mother.”

You smile faintly at the pride in your son’s words, a rare moment of victory amidst the mire of this bitter world. Gwayne’s hand finds yours once more, a silent reassurance that you will face whatever comes together. 

Otto watches the scene with thinly veiled calculation, but as he turns to walk away, you catch the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes. Whether it is fear, respect, or something else entirely, you cannot tell. But as Alicent follows him, her gaze lingers on Vaeron one last time, as if she sees a glimmer of hope—or a threat—that might one day change the course of all their schemes.

And as Merothrax’s low growl echoes through the courtyard, you know that the game has shifted, and your place within it is no longer one to be overlooked.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep is bathed in the warm glow of flickering torches. Though it lacks the splendor and grandiosity of past celebrations, tonight’s feast is still an occasion. Gwayne had insisted on it—an attempt to stitch together what remains of your family, to find a sense of normalcy, even if only for a few hours. The food is simple but well-prepared, roasted meats and seasoned vegetables set upon long tables adorned with the banners of both House Hightower and House Targaryen. The tension from the day still lingers, like the ghost of smoke clinging to the air.

You sit at Gwayne’s side, your gaze moving from your husband to your son. Vaeron, with the confidence only a dragonrider possesses, takes his place among the gathered lords and ladies, every inch the prince, despite the wary glances cast his way. His presence dominates the hall, drawing eyes even from those who once might have doubted him. He bears a regal poise, his indigo riding leathers still marked with faint streaks of ash from Merothrax’s flight. But there’s also something wild in him, a restlessness that speaks to his upbringing under Daemon’s shadow.

At the end of the table, Queen Helaena sits, her soft-spoken nature a stark contrast to the world that swirls around her. She picks at her food with delicate fingers, humming quietly to herself. Her gaze occasionally lifts to Vaeron with curiosity, though she remains distant, her thoughts known only to her. You can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her—a queen trapped in a cage of tragedy, even as she clings to her gentle nature.

Gwayne breaks the silence between you, his voice low but filled with determination. “Vaeron,” he begins, drawing your son’s attention. There’s a pause as Gwayne studies him, as if seeing the boy for the first time—not as a distant figure raised on Dragonstone, but as his blood. “It has been far too long since I had the proper chance to know you.”

Vaeron meets his gaze, unflinching. “Perhaps that was no fault of yours, nor mine,” he replies, his words edged with the faintest hint of bitterness, though not unkind.

Gwayne inclines his head in acknowledgment. “No, perhaps not. But we can make amends for what time has stolen from us. You’re my son, Vaeron, and I would know you, as any father should.” There is sincerity in Gwayne’s voice, and it resonates through the hall, causing some of the lords to glance curiously between father and son.

Vaeron’s blue eyes search Gwayne’s face, as if weighing his words. “You wish to know me now, after years of silence? I was raised by men who saw war as a way of life. What is there in me you would recognize?”

A silence follows, tense and fraught with unspoken pain, until Otto Hightower, who has been watching the exchange from his seat with calculating eyes, leans forward. “You are our blood, Vaeron,” Otto interjects, his tone softer than usual, though still tinged with his signature sharpness. “Regardless of your upbringing, that cannot be denied. We may not share the same values as those you were raised under, but family remains.”

Vaeron’s eyes flicker to Otto, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do you see family when you look at me, Lord Hand? Or do you see Daemon’s legacy?” There’s a challenge in his words, a test to see whether Otto can acknowledge what has shaped him without rejecting him outright.

Otto’s expression tightens briefly, the distaste for Daemon still apparent, but he tempers it with a measure of diplomacy. “I see both, boy. You carry traits of that man, yes, but you also carry the blood of Hightower and Targaryen, a union that could yet stabilize what remains of this realm.”

Gwayne’s eyes flash at Otto’s words. “He is more than just a symbol of peace, Father. He’s my son, and I would have him know his worth beyond whatever schemes the realm wishes to thrust upon him.”

A tense silence falls as Vaeron considers their words. He leans back in his chair, tapping a finger lightly against the table. “And what is it you wish from me then, grandsire?” Vaeron’s voice drips with the same playful mockery Daemon often wielded like a blade. “To be a well-mannered lord? A proper heir to the Hightower? Or perhaps you simply wish to mold me into something more… agreeable?”

Otto’s eyes narrow, but Alicent, who has remained quiet beside him, places a calming hand on his arm. She speaks then, her voice gentle but firm. “No one seeks to shape you into what you are not, Vaeron. But we do hope you might find a place here, among kin, where you do not have to be at war with the world.”

Vaeron’s expression softens slightly, and he glances briefly at you, his mother, before his gaze returns to Gwayne. “And what of you, father? What place do you imagine for me here?”

Gwayne’s response is steady and unwavering. “You are a prince, a dragonrider, and a son. Your place is by our side, wherever we may stand, and to be free to carve your own path—no matter what others may wish.”

A brief flicker of approval crosses Vaeron’s face at Gwayne’s words, but before he can respond, Helaena suddenly speaks up from across the table, her voice dreamy and distant. “Dragons dance in shadows… They circle in the dark… but the light cannot find them…” She trails off, her gaze unfocused as if seeing something beyond the hall. The room falls quiet, her cryptic words sending a shiver down the spines of those who know her visions often carry more weight than they first seem.

The tension lingers for a moment, but it passes as Vaeron turns back to Gwayne with a faint smirk. “It seems, father, that you and I have much to learn about each other. Perhaps we’ll begin with a flight together one day—Merothrax would not object.”

Gwayne’s smile is warm, a rare flicker of hope blooming in his eyes. “I’d like that.”

Otto watches the exchange, a look of grudging respect dawning on his face, though his eyes remain cautious. Perhaps, in this moment, he sees that his grandson is not simply a reflection of Daemon’s influence, but a man in his own right—one who bears both fire and blood, and who may yet be a force of both destruction and renewal.

As the night wears on, conversations resume, laughter and music slowly returning to the hall. The war is not forgotten, and neither are the scars left by it, but for tonight, amidst the crackling fires and shared glances, a fragile sense of family takes root.

The heavy doors of the chamber creak shut with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine. The world outside fades, leaving only you and Gwayne bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. The silence is thick with anticipation as you stand together, breaths mingling as your eyes lock. There’s a hunger in his gaze that mirrors your own—a longing that’s been denied for far too long under approval of gods. The tension that’s built throughout the day, the battles fought with words and looks, melts away in the face of something far more primal, far more honest.

Gwayne steps forward, his hands cradling your face as his lips crash into yours with a fervor that takes your breath away. You cling to him, your fingers threading through his hair as he deepens the kiss, tasting you like a man starved. The intensity of it drives all thoughts from your mind until there is nothing but the sensation of him, the heat between you both threatening to consume you whole. His hands are strong, yet gentle as they slide down your back, pulling you flush against him.

He doesn’t waste time. In a swift, fluid motion, he lifts you from the ground, making you gasp into his mouth as he carries you to a nearby table. The wood is cool against your thighs as he sets you down, but the chill is quickly forgotten as his hands begin to work on the ties of your gown, fingers deftly undoing the laces and letting the fabric slide from your shoulders. His lips follow the trail, pressing heated kisses to every inch of newly bared skin.

“Too long…” he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice thick with need. “Far too long I’ve dreamed of this, of having you like this, as my wife.”

You arch into him, your own hands growing impatient as you tug at his tunic, desperate to feel him. “Then don’t wait,” you whisper, your words a breathless plea as you finally pull the fabric over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest.

There’s a dark chuckle that rumbles in his throat as he presses you back against the table, his hands now roaming freely across your exposed skin. “Impatient, are we?” he teases, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Good… because I don’t intend to be gentle tonight.”

Your response is cut off by another searing kiss, this one more demanding, more possessive. He tugs at your skirts, hiking them up over your hips until they’re bunched around your waist. One hand grips your thigh, pulling you closer to the edge of the table, while the other makes quick work of his own breeches. The friction of his rough hands against your skin, coupled with the heat of his body pressing into yours, sends a jolt of anticipation through you.

When he finally moves into you, you both moan into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the fervor of your mouths locked together. The stretch of him inside you is everything you’d craved, the ache of it sweet and demanding as he begins to move. His thrusts are deep and deliberate, every motion designed to draw another gasp, another moan from your lips. You cling to him, nails digging into his back as you match his rhythm, each of you lost in the pleasure that’s been denied for far too long.

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged as he murmurs, “Gods, you feel better every time, better than any dream.”

Your response is a broken moan as he shifts his angle, hitting that spot deep inside that has you seeing stars. “Gwayne… please…” Your words are barely coherent, more a whimper than a demand, but he understands. His pace quickens, hips driving into yours with an urgency that sends you teetering on the edge.

The table creaks beneath the weight of your movements, but neither of you care. Your world has narrowed to the slick heat between you, the rough texture of his skin against yours, and the way your bodies move in perfect, desperate sync. But it’s not enough—there’s more to be had, more to give.

With a sudden motion, he sweeps you into his arms again, carrying you the short distance to the bed. You fall onto the soft sheets, a tangle of limbs and half-discarded clothing as he settles over you. The fire in his eyes is matched by the possessive grip of his hands as they slide down your sides, pulling you closer as he thrusts into you once more. This time, the bed gives him more leverage, allowing him to push deeper, harder, each motion drawing cries from your lips that mix with his own groans of pleasure.

“Say you’re mine,” he rasps out between thrusts, his voice rough with need. “Say it.”

You gasp, your back arching as the tension coils tight in your belly, every muscle tensing as you race toward that inevitable fall. “I’m yours, Gwayne,” you manage, voice breathless and trembling. “Now and always.”

His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else, the urgency of it matched only by the way his hips snap into yours, driving you both toward release. The world narrows, the sensations overwhelming, until finally, with a shattered cry, you come undone beneath him. The pleasure rips through you, every nerve alight as you clench around him, dragging him over the edge with you. His groan is deep and guttural as he spills into you, hips jerking with the force of his release.

For a moment, all is still—the only sounds are your ragged breaths mingling in the quiet room. He doesn’t move, holding you close as you both come down from the high, the afterglow wrapping you in a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.

When he finally does pull back, it’s only to press a tender kiss to your brow, his thumb brushing your cheek as he whispers, “My wife… my love.”

You smile softly, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, committing every detail to memory. “And you, my husband… the one thing this war could not take from me.”

He chuckles softly, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, keeping you close. “There will be more battles to fight, but we’ll face them,” he promises, his voice laced with a quiet determination. “No matter what comes.”

You nod, nestling into the warmth of his chest, content in the knowledge that, for now, in this moment, you are together—no schemes, no politics, just the two of you bound by love, trust, and the promise of a future that is finally yours to claim.

The Chronicles of the Dance’s Aftermath: The Union of House Hightower and the Younger Targaryen Daughter

Excerpt from "Fire and Blood, Volume II: The Aftermath of the Dance" by Archmaester Eldric

The marriage of Gwayne Hightower and the princess Y/N, younger sister of Rhaenyra Targaryen, stands as one of the most pivotal yet understated unions in the years following the Dance of the Dragons. In a time marked by bloodshed, treachery, and the near-ruin of the realm, this marriage represented a fleeting hope for stability, although the shadows of war still clung to the Red Keep like a persistent mist.

The Marriage and Its Immediate Consequences

By most accounts, the wedding was a muted affair, held in the shadow of ruin and loss. Witnesses describe—like Mushroom, the court fool and chronicler—the gathering as tense, with little joy to be found. Yet, within that tension lay the seeds of reconciliation. Gwayne Hightower’s insistence on wedding the princess, despite the open enmity between the Hightowers and Targaryens during the Dance, is said to have been an act of both love and defiance—defiance not just toward the whims of his father, Otto Hightower, (who once favored this union) but against the old order that had allowed the realm to descend into madness.

One cannot overlook the presence of the princess’ son, Vaeron Targaryen, upon his sleek indigo dragon Merothrax during the ceremony. His dramatic arrival and the desecration of the Sept sparked fury in the hearts of the pious, with Otto Hightower voicing his displeasure at such an audacious display of dragon power. However, it was in this very moment that the precarious threads of diplomacy between factions began to weave together once more.

Despite his bitter memories of Daemon Targaryen, Otto Hightower reportedly made cautious attempts to accept Vaeron as his grandson and integrate him into the political future of House Hightower and the realm. Though Vaeron’s upbringing under Daemon had forged a wild and defiant streak within him, his interactions with Gwayne were marked by a mutual, albeit tentative, respect. Some suggest that this connection laid the foundation for what followed—a reluctant but necessary peace.

The Birth of Alyssane Hightower and the Strengthening of House Alliances

In the year following the marriage, Y/N bore Gwayne a daughter, named Alyssane in honor of the late Queen Alyssane Targaryen, and in memory of princess's killed dragon, Silverwing. Two figures revered by both sides of the conflict. The birth of Alyssane was seen by many as a symbol of renewal—a delicate hope that the wounds of the past might one day heal. Chroniclers note that Dowager Queen Alicent herself, despite her initial reservations, took a deep interest in the child, seeing her as a potential link to unite the divided factions within the realm.

The girl’s birth also brought greater stability to the realm in the years that followed. The delicate truce between the remaining Targaryens and Hightowers, though always on the brink of collapse, was bolstered by this new generation. Rumors circulated in the halls of Oldtown that Otto Hightower, ever the schemer, entertained thoughts of betrothing young Alyssane to his great-grandson Aegon III, a third son of King Aegon II and Queen Helaena, a political move meant to fully merge the interests of Hightower and Targaryen. But in the end, the girl was given to wed Joffrey Velaryon in attempt to stop the flames of war to spread further.

Vaeron Targaryen: The Storm Within the Peace

The presence of Vaeron Targaryen, however, was a constant reminder of the untamed fire that still smoldered beneath the surface. Now grown into a man, Vaeron’s defiant nature and his bond with Merothrax made him a figure both feared and admired. Though raised by Daemon, Vaeron had a mind of his own and wielded his dragon not as a weapon of war, but as a reminder of his lineage’s enduring power.

Eyewitness accounts describe tense interactions between Vaeron and his grandsire, Otto Hightower. The elder statesman, while outwardly diplomatic, could not fully disguise his distrust of the boy. Some whispered that Vaeron’s very existence was a reminder of Otto’s failure to fully rid the realm of Daemon’s influence. Yet, others saw in Vaeron a bridge—albeit a perilous one—between the Hightowers and Targaryens, a prince who could carry forward a legacy tempered by both fire and reason.

The Realm in the Aftermath

The years following the Dance remained fraught with hardships, but the marriage of Gwayne and Y/N is often credited with preventing further civil war in the immediate aftermath. Otto Hightower, with his grip on power loosened by the marriage, began to retreat more often to Oldtown, while Alicent sought solace in prayer. It is said that, in her later years, she spent much time with young Alyssane, seeing in the child a chance to redeem the future for her bloodline.

Vaeron, meanwhile, grew into a prince whose legacy straddled both the Hightower and Targaryen lines. He became a key player in the ongoing political intrigue of the realm, always walking a fine line between his father’s calculated diplomacy and his mother’s fierce independence. In time, he would be known as “Vaeron the Bridger,” a prince who held together two rival houses with fire in his veins and a dragon at his command.

Yet, the peace that followed was not without its cracks. Despite the alliances forged, the realm was still deeply divided. The scars of the Dance would never fully heal, and as Vaeron and Merothrax grew more influential, many feared that the young dragon would one day ignite another conflict—one that would once again send the realm spiraling into chaos.

In the end, the marriage of Gwayne and Y/N is remembered as a moment when hope and ambition, love and duty, mingled in a fragile dance, one that briefly steadied a realm teetering on the edge of ruin. Whether it truly brought peace or merely delayed the inevitable remains a question for the histories, but for a time, at least, it kept the dragons’ fire from consuming the realm whole.

[cecilyv]

rescue protocol

Chimney records the entire rescue of the husky, but it’s the final thirty seconds as Buck and the dog crest the edge of the cliff that go viral. The dog (“Indigo,” the desperate owner told them, pointing over the cliff where the dog sat, seemingly oblivious to his precarious situation, “but call him Indy or he’ll run away from you” and they all sit for a second trying to figure out where the dog would actually go) hung comfortably from a impromptu harness attached to Buck’s waist, while his forearms visibly strain as he pulls both their weights up the rope, hand over hand. When he gets a foot on solid ground, he grins at Chimney and --

Chimney submits it to the main LAFD account because he knows ratings gold when he sees it. They post it, “Successfully rescued the husky and reunited him with his owner. Dogs, please remind your human friends to stay leashed and on the trails!” 

It does numbers. 

He wasn’t expecting the PR guy to reach out to Buck to do a takeover of their TikTok account, but you reap what you sow, he guesses. Now he lives in a hell where Buck has permission to record anywhere in the firehouse he wants, not even Gerrard can say anything, and he keeps popping up, asking questions like they're up for recertification.  

He doesn’t even follow TikTok (he watches videos when they get to Instagram, like the proper GenXer that he is), but Ravi sends all the videos to the group chat, so he is… gifted with the joy of watching Buck showcase the proper procedure to put on turnout gear (“This is…just a strip show in reverse,” Hen remarks) and demonstrate a firefighter’s carry and drag using Tommy as a victim (“I’m pretty sure they frown on foreplay on company time,” Ravi adds). 

Buck responds to that one with “Aww, you feeling left out? I can use you as a model for the correct way to do CPR?”

And Chimney has to laugh at how fast Ravi backtracks, “Nope, nope, I’m all good, just making a point.” 

In the end, it’s Tommy who has the last laugh, when Donato submits a video of him flying a helicopter that rescues a teenager from the same ocean cliff. 

“I could have done that,” Buck pouts, staring morosely into his beer. 

“Of course you could,” Tommy says as he kisses his frown away, while shaking his head at Chimney. 

[damedechance]

is it that sweet? (i guess so)

🤎 read on ao3 // playlist

Pairing: Gwynriel Words: 8.6k Rating: Explicit Summary: Based on 'Espresso' by Sabrina Carpenter, Az can't get Gwyn out of his mind and Gwyn hardly acknowledges his existence. She calls him after her set one night, and asks him if he wants to hang out. Of course he does.

🤎 snippet below:

xxxx

The phone rings three times, then disconnects.

Mouth hanging open, Azriel stares down at the screen and tries to come to terms with the fact that she just declined his call. Not for the first time, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. Gwyneth Berdara has never given him the time of day, and Azriel was just pathetic enough to keep crawling back.

The mattress creaks beneath him as Azriel rolls over, phone still propped up in his palm, and looks out the window at the indigo sky dotted by stars. He sighs, tossing his phone onto the empty pillow beside him, and covers his face with both hands. Gwyn doesn’t exactly give him the time of night, either.

Why should she? It’s not like she’s in short supply of people enraptured by her, as Azriel is. Tonight alone, he’s sure the bar she’s working at tonight is full of them. Velaris loves her.

Still, he’d halfway expected some sort of answer when she’d been the one to text him first, for once. Nothing especially profound, but seeing that little ‘hey’ pop up across the top of his screen while Azriel was scrolling through his friends’ stories just for a glimpse of her–it had been enough for Azriel to practically leap out of his skin racing to answer it. He’d waited nearly an hour for her next text, and she’d been the one to write ‘call me.’

Only, she didn’t pick up the phone. In fact, she’d declined the call.

Groaning, Azriel rakes his hands back through his hair before dropping them at his sides. They bounce lightly against the comforter that he hasn’t bothered slipping under, but he suddenly feels too hot to get beneath it, now. The ceiling fan casts long, spiraling shadows on his bedroom ceiling, and in a huff of frustration, Azriel leans over to his nightstand and shuts off the light. If he’s going to spend another Saturday night alone, he might as well try to get some sleep.

He does make sure to keep his ringer on, however.

[legendary-pink-dot]

Bush Pilot

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x female reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Oral sex (f receiving, and lots of it), fingering, semi-public sex, truck backseat shenanigans, seatbelts as restraints, established relationship, fetish/obsession for Frankie's hair, and a bit of masturbation (m)

Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: A drive to an isolated beach to watch the sunrise, some time to kill before dawn, soft aftermarket seatbelts, and Frankie's superior night vision.

Notes: No use of "Y/N". The inspiration for this one came from a line in my fic Airport Pickup. This fic took FOREVER to finish as I've had very limited writing time lately. Hope you enjoy it. All my love to my magic sluts/cheerleaders who don't have to hear my whining about this fic anymore yay: @imalrightllama @basicoccult @exquisiteserotonin @youandmeand5bucks @arcanefox207 @sparklefarts38 @blueheat1-blog1 @redhotkitchen

You wake up to a bump in the road and an indigo sky. Not midnight dark anymore, but not quite twilight yet either. The dashboard clock reads 4:27 AM and you know it's correct because this is Frankie's truck, and everything about it has been meticulously maintained. Its owner is particular that way.

Frankie notices you stir and twines his hand into yours, resting it against your thigh, his fingers squeezing gently. "Hey, perfect timing. Almost there."

"Sorry, fell asleep. I hate mornings." You crack open the passenger window, breathing in the crisp pre-dawn air. A bracing whiff of ocean salt fills your senses as you start to rouse.

"I know. It'll be worth it, cariño, promise. The sunrises are amazing here."

Another 20 minutes on this quiet road -- nobody else out driving at this hour -- until Frankie slowly rolls the truck to a stop and parks. You get out and stretch your tired limbs.

No streetlights here, no moon, and the stars are mostly washed out at this hour, but you can hear the surf just steps away, lightly lapping at a shore that you can't see. You curse your crappy night vision, knowing that Frankie has the edge in seeing through dim lighting, with all the night flying and navigation he's done over his years in the service.

"We still have some time before the sunrise," Frankie says, giving you a hug and feeling you shiver. You sigh into his hug, and he rests his chin on the top of your head for a minute or two. "Come on, let's wait inside. I've got blankets in the back seat."

You both climb into the back seat of the truck, and he unfolds a crazy-looking 1970s-style afghan.

"Where did you get this thing? Standard military issue?"

"Don't be mean," Frankie laughs, wrapping the blanket around you both and snuggling in. "My abuela made it for me a long time ago."

"Does she know it's your truck sex blanket?"

Frankie shuffles closer, sliding a hand up your chest and around your neck to pull your face close. "I've never used it for that." He kisses a whisper against your mouth. "Yet."

As you make out, slow and sweet, Frankie presses you further into the corner of the seat until you feel something dig into your side. It's the shoulder seatbelt and as you push it out of the way, you're surprised at how soft and silky it feels, like some luxury fabric instead of an industrial strip of webbing, and you stroke it with your hand.

"Aftermarket belts," Frankie says, watching you with a pleased expression. "The stock ones were too scratchy and uncomfortable."

"Too scratchy? That sounds like a made-up problem."

Frankie smirks. "I like my passengers to be comfortable." He slides a hand slowly down your body, his knuckles gently tracing your curves, his palm coming to rest over your center, already heated from the make-out session. "Would you like me to make you more comfortable?"

"Mmmm, yes please," you purr, kissing him more forcefully this time, nipping his lips and searching for his tongue with yours. You find it, tangle with it, suck it into your mouth, so focused on the kiss that you don't even notice he's holding your forearm and has gently wrapped the webbing of the shoulder belt around it twice.

He pauses, breaking the kiss and allowing you a second to check what he's doing. "Is this okay?"

"Very okay," you breathe against his mouth, unsure exactly what he'll do to you once you're restrained but eager to find out. He'd discovered early on in your relationship that restraints were something you liked, and he loved to indulge you. "Keep going."

--click--

Frankie smiles as he slots the latch into the seatbelt buckle and locks it into place.

The webbing is soft against your skin, and a little loose when you give it an experimental tug. "Tighter," you rasp, excitement growing fast. He adjusts the tension with the built-in clip until it's perfect for you.

You snake your free hand into his hair, already desperate to touch what you can and desperate to get your mouth on his again. He allows you to tug on his curls as you kiss, but only for a moment. His hand grabs your free forearm, forcefully this time, and pins it to the back of the seat.

"None of that," he tuts gently, wrapping the other side's shoulder belt around it. "We came here to see the sunrise, remember? Don't have much time."

--click--

"But Frankie..." you whine, testing the pull of the seatbelts and finding no slack. "I wanna feel you."

What was the line between obsession and fetish? It was something you often wondered about. His hair, his medium-brown hair that loosely curled and held shimmering flecks of silver, drove you absolutely mad. Every time you met up the very first thing you did was bury your fingers in it, the tips of the curls spiky on your palms, feeding some sort of physiochemical need you couldn't name and didn't really care to. Not being able to sate that need in this moment made you physically ache.

The seatbelt was wrapped around your forearm with the intention to let you slip out of it easily enough if you had to. But did you want to? Cravings are strong, but the deliciousness of prolonging the ache even stronger, and at this moment you don't know which you want more. The anticipation never felt so good.

Frankie senses your turmoil. He sits back and makes eye contact in the growing light, and runs a hand slowly through his hair. He even plumps the curls at his nape and fluffs one long curl that's fallen over his forehead, smiling innocently. You know he can see your fingers twitching. Bastard.

"Something wrong, cariño?" he smirks, and you can't hold back a whimper as you feel yourself clench around absolutely nothing.

"Francisco, you're a fucking menace."

"I know, I know," he soothes. "And you love it, don't you?" He leans forward and shakes his hair right into your face, but before you can swear at him some more, his curls are gently stroking your collarbone that's naked and exposed by your low-cut sundress. You whimper again, this time a pathetically needy sound, and he takes pity on you and caresses his hair over your bound forearms and hands, the ache in your fingers abating from finally, finally reaching some kind of goal.

"There you go, that's it," croons Frankie, kissing your skin swelling out between the webbing, moving down your arm and up to your shoulder. "Just a taste for you. More later. I want mine now."

In a single movement he hikes up the hem of your sundress with one hand and lifts your hip, and slides the other hand down the back of your underwear to pull them down your legs and off. Gripping a bare ankle in each hand, he spreads your legs as wide as he knows is comfortable for you. You feel split open, exposed and excited, and he's barely touched you yet.

The light is so dim that his eyes are in shadow for you, but you know they're wide and dark as his gaze takes you in, his face so close to your center you can feel his breath on your inner thighs.

"Can you see enough to work down there?"

"Of course," says Frankie, sounding almost insulted as he gently shifts your hips to pull you closer to his mouth. "I'm used to flying before sunrise. You know, I can land almost anywhere, in any terrain, because..."

You groan, knowing what's coming. "No, please... no aviation jokes..."

"...I'm a certified bush pilot." He snickers into your thigh, kissing it hard to try to mask his laughter.

"Bush pilot, really? That better not be a complaint about my wild foliage or something."

One of the things he had made clear early in your relationship, in his quiet and unassuming way, was that your grooming habits and preferences were none of his damn business. A refreshing attitude after years of dating men who had lots of unsolicited and unwanted opinions about your pubic hair and how they wanted you to maintain it. As if it existed just for them. Fuck that. Frankie never tried to change you -- he simply adapted to whatever was. One of the reasons why you adored him.

"Oh no, cariño," Frankie's voice drops deep in that way you know he's genuinely serious. "I fucking love your bush." He lowers his face to your mound and gently tugs a few hairs between his teeth. You hiss at the prickly feeling, sharp but not painful, slipping into a loud cry as he dives his tongue deep into your entrance to eagerly prove his point.

You'd never been with someone who loved pussy eating as much as him. Maybe it mirrored your obsession-sorta-fetish for his hair. Impeccable sexual compatibility, you and Frankie.

It's different each time, and this extra-early morning he explores every fold with his tongue, his lips, his teeth, scratching the surfaces and then delving deeper. He doesn't even need to look up at you to know that your eyes are shut despite the dark and that you're lost in feeling.

Every change in your breathing, the tenor and pitch of your sighs and moans, the little wiggle of your hips when his tongue flicks here instead of there. Those are the cues he looks for and the only ones he needs, and he quickly takes you as high as you can go and stays with you all the way back down.

Frankie is relentless, barely giving you time to recover before latching back onto your clit, nudging you past your overstimulation, somehow knowing just how much extra you can take. He always knows.

You barely catch your breath before he's absolutely devouring you again, lightly capturing your folds between his teeth and exploring each one as if he's kissing your mouth for the first time, moving his head to approach your center from every possible angle from his confined position and adjusting his hold on your thighs to match.

He gently slides a thick finger inside you. The stretch is a lot, it always is with him, and he lets you adjust to it before adding a second finger, and presses them as far up as they'll go, his callused fingertips teasing the edge of your most sensitive spot.

Your hips start to move of their own accord but his free hand holds you down as he keeps his fingers inside you right where they are, demanding you concentrate on feeling the pressure and stretch instead of seeking motion.

From above he almost chews on your clit, which you never considered to be a thing you'd like but you are suddenly now forever feral for, and you wiggle your hips as much as you can, desperate to get him exactly where you need him most, giving only one fleeting thought to anyone else parked at the end of this road who might be hearing your loud moans right now.

With his tongue and his fingers he holds you in that sweet limbo state, your conscious mind wanting it to go on forever but your body craving release. You can't choose which one you want more, until you see the first rays of the sun peek out over the horizon and it distracts your mind just enough for your body to fall over the crest again, louder and more intense this time, gushing and squeezing and fluttering around his fingers until he slowly pulls them out.

You were so blissed out that you never noticed Frankie had been pressing and rubbing his crotch against the floor, the seat, whatever he could find while he was eating you out. The back seat of the truck is quickly filling with light and you watch him unzip his jeans just enough to pull out his cock, hard and leaking.

If you weren't so zoned out, if he just gave you a few minutes to recover, you'd be happy to help him, but he's too impatient and fucks his fist with sloppy motions. It's a hypnotic sight, the pinkish tip peeking out between his thick fingers and then disappearing for a second in a desperate rhythm, and you slide your hands free from the seatbelts just in time to grab his hair and give the curls a hard pull, seconds before he comes in hot spurts across your thighs and swollen cunt, choking out a cry that again made you glad he had brought you to this beach so early in the day.

Thankfully, he didn't get any on the blanket. You shake it out and wrap it around both of you as he snuggles up beside you on the seat.

"Good?"

"Good. Very good."

"Yeah."

Your breaths gradually slow as you watch the fireball in the sky inch higher, your hand mindlessly finding his hair and repeatedly twisting a curl around your finger.

The truck cab finally fills with full daylight, showing you an inviting and isolated strip of beach, and no other vehicles. Frankie was right -- it was worth getting up early for this sunrise. And it was amazing.

"Frankie?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Tell me more about what it takes to be a bush pilot."

[maeby-cursed]

SOMETIMES I'M NOT MYSELF, I LOOK FOR A BETTER DISGUISE…

𓂃 DANCING TILL THE POWER GOES OUT.

a/n: following with my songfic series, this one is inspired by valiente by vetusta morla (the original lyrics are "a veces no soy yo, busco un disfraz mejor / bailando hasta el apagón") ! this is also an angst fic but the vibe in this one is a bit more pungent. i apologize for making toji like this, i will get back to my soft!toji program soon ♡ (this one is vv weird, btw, and i wrote it while suffering from a headache, enjoy)

✧ synopsis: you met toji seven months ago and since then, the only thing you've both agreed on is how much you cannot stand each other. now it's time to go; even if it means giving up trying, and leaving a familiar warmth behind.

✧ pairings: toji fushiguro x fem!reader

✧ wc: 1.6k

✧ rating: angst ! pure angst, discounted and at a good price ! angst and pain; two for the price of one ! of the richest quality and endless suffering !!

✧ cw: toxic relationship, toji suffers from toxic masculinity, a bit of an age gap (toji is early 30s, reader is implied to be early 20s), mentions of toji's shitty ass economy, heavy cursing.

There’s a storm inside your house and it is made of cries locked within the walls of your lover’s apartment.

You and Toji have been arguing for six months out of the seven you’ve known him.

Apparently, May flowers brought November showers (or better said, downpours), as well as a thick darkness, because since last week, Toji's entire street has been without light, water or electricity. 

A desert in the middle of a flood, seems almost biblical.

Both of you are in the kitchen – distressingly narrow and painted in a gloom shade of indigo –, in the midst of your fifth discussion this week. The fridge door is open while you talk, but neither of you cares, all of its contents are already wasted, anyways. The light doesn’t even flicker.

You don't know exactly how this particular fight started.

Toji had arrived at his apartment – his, exclusively – late, with a bag of fast food in hand. An individual order. When he’d arrived, he’d looked at you and asked you what you were doing there, and everything had gotten out of hand from that point on.

After six months of waiting for him in the same place, in the same position, in the same corner of his grimy sofa, you'd thought he might remember you, might remember that you are a constant in his life.

Not the case.

The fight escalates to such an extent that you find yourself shouting and gesticulating aggressively.

What starts badly ends worse, your grandmother used to say.

(And yet, it ends).

So now you stand barefoot, in your white slip, looking at him with all the fire you can fan into your eyes. 

"I have no fucking idea what is it that you want, Toji Fushiguro, but you need to stop looking for it in me. Either take me as I am or leave me, it's as simple as that."

He looks back at you, his gaze shallow. He always stares at you like this, as if instead of seeing you, he were trying to evaluate you; like you’re nothing but a mere statue to him and he’s looking for a spot where the artist could’ve slipped his chisel. 

But you don’t cower before him. Although his height seemed imposing when you first met him, he now seems ridiculous to you. A child hidden behind a brick wall.

"Could you stop talking in code for two fucking minutes?"

"I want you to stop treating me like shit. You caught on now?"

He laughs unfunnily.

"I think I treat you pretty well, girl."

"Really?" you smile. There's a part of you that cringes at the gesture; he's been souring you since you met. Now you're fed up, but you know you'll never be able to return all of the blows he’s knocked you out with. "You think coming home and taking me to your bedroom for five minutes of grunts and sweat is treating me well?"

"Our bedroom."

That does make you laugh.

"Fuck, Toji, I don't live here! You never asked me to move in with you. And I've waited for you but I'm..... I don't even know what I am. Disappointed, maybe?" Your mood begins to shift as you search for him with your stare. You want to see some sort of reaction, something that isn’t a performance, something that doesn’t act as a mirror. 

Something that tells you he cares about you.

"I thought I was dating an adult,” you continue, softly now. “That we could talk about it but... God, you're exactly like all the men I've been trying to avoid. All savages, the lot of you; too barbaric to be able to say you feel anything, even if it’s pure lust."

He raises a brow, closing the refrigerator door with a slam and leaning against the countertop with a click of his tongue.

"You want me to tell you that you make me horny?" he asks, with an ironic smirk.

"I want you to tell me that there's something that goes with the sex. Something that can last."

He doesn't say anything, just exhales loudly, huffing with annoyance.

And for some reason, the gesture takes you back two decades ago, when your father used to do that to you. A puff of air like cigarette smoke whenever you wanted something he didn't feel like giving you; mostly his time.

You don't know where the memory comes from, but it hurts. It burns and coats your throat with bile.

"There’s nothing," he whispers, at last. 

Now you really have to make an effort not to vomit.

Silly girl, you say to yourself, you already knew that. But it's no use.

"And I had to dig that out of you with a spoon, baby," you tell him, dripping with sarcasm.

He doesn't notice how you pale, how you grab the skirt of your dress and bite the inside of your cheek. He doesn't smell your despair, nor the copper drops emanating from the wound you've caused yourself by biting on your skin.

Toji's not a bloodhound, no matter how much he resembles one. He's just an asshole.

Your words make him frown and stick out his jaw. You recognize his hint – you’d recognize him by taste alone –, it's the gesture he makes before he fights.

"And what the fuck did you expect? For me to telepathically figure out whatever shit you’re thinking?"

"No, Toji. I just wanted an answer." That’s it, you suppose.

You sigh, unclenching your fists without relaxing your shoulders, and head for the bedroom. Except for your cell phone and a pair of nightgowns, you have almost nothing here. Let him keep the panties, if he gave them back to you, you'd burn them anyway. 

He follows when you pass him by on your way out of the kitchen, and, for once, he looks incredulous.

"What? You think we’re done chatting?"

"I don't even feel like looking at that asshole face of yours anymore."

Every word that comes out of your mouth stabs him in the spleen. He's never seen you like this.

You have nothing left to care for, nothing left to protect from the storm, nothing to hope and pray to see bloom. Your land is infertile and all you feel is frustration, so there's no more measuring yourself.

To hell with all this.

"Yesterday it was all about cuddling and today you're leaving,” he says. “What did you expect?" At that, he smiles with malice, one that, unfortunately, is not unfamiliar to you. "That we were going to fall madly in love? That this was about more than sex? Oh, but you're just a little girl. I've been with a hundred of the likes of you."

He's lying. You know he's lying. 

This man has never loved a woman in his life – you pity his mother – but he's not a manwhore either. He wears things out until he’s outgrown them.

It's funny — he’s always looked too big on you.

Your head turns around, but you stay frozen where you are, kneeling in front of the bottom drawer of his nightstand. On your knees, you almost look like you're praying, but your eyes condemn a truth that hurts him. It burns and coats his throat with bile.

"I never expected you to fall in love with me, Toji. I'm not that stupid," you look at the drawer again, taking clothes and shoving them carelessly into your bag. "I'm just young."

“I may be young, but give me time.” Those words, the ones you told him when he met you, a little over half a year ago, ring in his ears. “I can take a hundred men like you.”'

He remembers them now, gall climbing up to his uvula. Your smile back then clashes with your current tears. You have aged seven years in seven months.

He can see it in your posture, in the expensive fabric of your dress and the way you tie your hair back. He can see it in the depth of your cupid's bow, in the care with which you hold your hands.

You know how to handle dynamite now, but you can't stop gunpowder from blowing up.

Toji is speechless. He doesn't want you to leave, but he's already worn you out, you've already woken up from your reverie. He hasn’t outgrown you yet.

When you get up, your cheeks are covered with tears. You wipe them away carefully; you would’ve never done that back when he met you.

You were free then; of wild smiles and clumsy hands, of loud cries and smell of freesias. Young with bravado, a shell of the sea.

Seeing you like this, knowing you're going away, turns his stomach. This is the last time, and you don't smell like freesia anymore. You're all orange and lavender, unmistakable and silent.

Toji raises a hand and brings it up to you. For a split second of madness you think he's going to slap you, but he simply catches a strand of your hair; only instead of tucking it behind your ear, he lets it curl around your cheek.

His hand falls to his side – he wasn't raised to be like this. He wasn’t raised to get you to stay.

"Get out," he murmurs, the timbre of his voice low and plangent.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to find his image behind your eyelids; smiling and defiant, with a glass of champagne in his hand and kohl-stained eyes.

The tide inside washes away everything else.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

What starts badly ends worse, you think. 

(And yet, it ends).

© 2023, MAEBY-CURSED — do not copy/repost/edit.

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

[serpula-lacrymansss]

Plants update...

Japonica is still sick... I'm not sure what's wrong with her exactly, but she's declining at a much lower rate than before. I'm not thinking about stepping in just yet- I think I'd better let nature run its course a bit. She doesn't have any pests or blights that I can see, the only thing is that she needs a bigger pot, really. So does dwarf umbrella.

Speaking of dwarf umbrella, though, she seems to be doing very well.

Complete with much new growth, which pleases me. I only just noticed that she's actually leaning a lot to the left, which makes sense as thats where east is relative to this window. I turned her around; well see how she does.

Some new editions include two pots of flower mix, which maaaay have bolted a little. They kind of look a mess, but it brings me a little joy each time I see they've come up with new little flowers in pink and indigo.

So I'm keeping them for now.

Another rescue has joined the party, too, fresh off the boat. She was given as a gift to my mother... Who gave it to me since it's dying under her care- aren't we all. I've repotted her and put her in the sun- I used a lot of compost in the hopes that it'll perk her up a bit, though she doesn't look so bad now I've trimmed the dead bits.

Anyway that's about it

[yoonia]

the bedroom hymns ● chapter xv

⟶ Chapter summary | Yoongi knows that he is treading between the lines as he continues to approach you, taking more risky steps in getting you to open up to him. But secrets are meant to be kept, and Yoongi needs to hold on tightly on his patience, even when he soon finds out that time may not be on his side after all.

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader  ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Crown Princess!reader, Fantasy AU, Fairy Tale retelling ⟶ Word count | 7,925 words ⟶ Ratings | PG-13, +18 / M for Mature for future chapters; include classism, mentions of black magic, deceit, mentions of abduction, fantasy weapons. ⟶ Story Masterlist: The Bedroom Hymns | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢ ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi

chapter xv. crescendo

The air has grown cold by the time you return to the other side of the village, making your way back to the main road leading to where you first came from. Chilly breeze passes around you, strong enough to pierce through your thick coat that your body shivers in its presence. 

Above you, the sky is shifting. The golden shades that you saw in the afternoon is blending into the muted hue of the sunset. A display of pastel clouds and indigo-coloured shades are seen dancing on the darkening sky, with merely a thin layer of gold left surrounding the descending sun like a golden halo glowing right above the horizon. 

As you continue your journey home, leaving the famers’ village and the vast farm estate behind you, you find yourself getting lost in the display of light and colours that seem so uncommon to your eyes. 

It amazes you how the places that you have been to lately could be so different to one another. Not only in terms of their culture, the people you see, and the local weather that you must endure, but also in the myriad of shades of colours that you get to see in the surrounding nature, as well as the scents wafting through the air.

Noticing you shivering under your coat, Yoongi delicately reaches out to grab your hand as he walks beside you. He has been silence for a while now, ever since you left the tavern together soon after sharing a long, deep, and surprisingly, meaningful conversation. But never once had he ever let his attention on you slip that he can easily notice it when the expression on your face gradually changes over time. 

“Perhaps, the next time you are out traveling like this, you might want to consider wearing thicker clothes and prepare some gloves,” he says as he gently rubs your hands in an effort to warm up your frozen fingers. 

Little does he know that he is doing more than keeping your hands warm, as the heat starts coursing all the way to your chest, flowing right into your fluttering heart and spreading all over your face that you can barely look at him. 

But Yoongi is too deeply concerned over your dainty fingers to notice it, and you are enjoying this moment too much to stop him.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” you whisper to him while keeping your eyes down, still too flustered to look at him in the eyes. 

Ever since your unexpected date at the tavern, everything about Yoongi has become more intense. His deep gaze which lingers on you until you are made to feel completely exposed, vulnerable, as if he could see right through your facade. His actions and gestures that are still as graceful yet has gradually grown more intimate with each passing second that you spend together.

And there is also the change in his speech, his soft spoken words that feel like a gentle caress reaching deep into your soul. Even when all he does is to ask about how you are feeling with the rapid change of temperature and the buzz from the brew that you had drunk back at the tavern still coursing through your body.   

It feels overwhelming, although instead of feeling like you are intimidated by his rapt attention, you simply feel somewhat reassured. 

You feel seen, after years and years of having to live in the shadows and having no one understanding what you had to go through. At the same time, he makes you feel heard, when you were finally able to share with him your deepest and darkest thoughts, your troubles, everything that has been left unspoken for many years. And Yoongi has been so respectful as he listened, never once undermining your fears and worries when you opened up about how it felt for you being kept hidden in the dark for so long.

But keeping your eyes away from his only allows you to focus on something else. Like focusing on the flow of energy coming out of his body, for example, and the way his touch seems to exude unnatural warmth which feels like an electric current transferring into your skin. 

“I suppose your experience in traveling to different places have taught you how to adjust better,” you murmur to him with a smile once you realise that while you are trembling under your cloak, Yoongi doesn’t seem to be struggling when he is the one wearing nothing more but a thin layer of clothing that doesn’t seem adequate enough to protect him from the cold. 

“You’re still warm.” 

Yoongi lets out a chuckle, and only then do you finally raise your head to look at him. “I do adjust better with the weather, no matter where I go. It doesn’t affect me that much,” he reveals with a grin, as he talks about it as if it is something that is common to happen.  

His words take you back to your past conversation, when he talked about his life and the work that he does for the mercenary army. Granted, he didn’t tell you much about himself aside from the general things that he was willing to share, but you have learned a bit more about him which has given you a sense of relief, giving you more reasons to feel much safer when you are with him and less wary. Not even when you look at him with the knowledge that you have gained about his secretive brotherhood of the mercenary army. 

Once the cold no longer bothers you all that much, you continue to walk together a bit further until you are back at the crossroad where you had started your afternoon trip at the village of Grimm. 

The farmers’ village lies behind you, while the dark pathway leading back to your father’s private property lies ahead of you. Looking around, you finally notice what you have failed to pay attention to today before you managed to learn more about this place—that the eerie forest that you had been warned to stay away from has always been closer than you had thought.

Stretched out across the rising terrain before your eyes and atop of the surrounding hills, the forest appears to you in a form of a massive wall of trees, all standing as tall as your eyes can see, with intertwining branches and thick canopy of leaves spread high above to shield you from the darkening sky. 

In the daytime, the forest itself didn’t seem as eerie or intimidating. 

But of course, the first time you laid your eyes on your surroundings, you hadn’t met with the farmers or received their warnings, nor had you paid any attention to the deep woods. Now that the darkness has begun to spread around you, everything about the forest seems to be warning you to stay away. 

“Are you sure that you’re not interested about that tour downtown?” Yoongi asks as you stand together at the crossroads, with your eyes looking into the deep forest and his eyes locked on you. A part of you wishes that you could stay with him just a bit longer, yet the dark sky above becomes the silent reminder that you shouldn’t. 

“I’m quite sure,” you quickly say to him before you start to consider otherwise, because you are also quite sure that you are running out of time. 

Yoongi had first offered to take you on a tour downtown once you concluded your talk, to see more of Grimm and the places that should be more interesting than this secluded village and its modest tavern. But your time spent with him had already lasted longer than it should have. 

So the moment you realised that the day was already turning into dusk, with a heavy heart, you were left with no choice but to refuse his offer and let him know that it was finally time for you to leave.  

“That’s too bad, because if I am allowed to be honest with you, I am not ready to see you go so soon,” Yoongi admits to you, which warms your heart just as much as it warms your cheeks. Standing before you, Yoongi takes your hand in his and leans down, pressing his lips on the back of your hand in a gentlemanly manner as a way to bid his goodbye.

“Still, I must thank the Fates for keeping our paths crossed, that we are able to meet like this despite our limited time together,” he gently says to you as he straightens back up. As his gaze softens just as much as his voice does, your chest feels tight with doubt. 

Will we see each other again? 

Will I have another chance to speak with him like we did today? 

Have I missed out on a chance to learn more about him?

These silent wonderings continue circling through your thoughts, and for the first time, fear grips at your chest at the mere thought that you might not see him again. 

“Do you trust the Fates to bring our paths back together again?” you ask him in return, unable to hold back from wishing loudly that you will meet each other again the next time you walk through the portal, that he would be there when you emerge on a different foreign land for another unexpected journey. 

With certainty in his eyes, Yoongi nods and says, “I do. I believe it will happen, as long as our souls continue to look for one another, we will find our way back to each other again.” 

His faith seems alluring, that you cannot help but feel the same hope growing in your chest that perhaps fate would bring you back together again. But you are too deep in admiring his confidence with his belief that it would take hours later for you to recall his words and wonder what he truly means.

“Then I shall pray that you are right,” you mutter to him, “If we do ever cross paths again, then I’ll be able to admit that Fates may have a hand in us finding each other no matter how odd the possibilities are.” 

Your words seem to please him. “Then I shall count on it to happen again,” Yoongi says with a wide smile on his face, while you silently wish for the same.

Unlike before, Yoongi insists in walking you home. With the night soon falling, and the threats of the dark curses of the forest troubling your thoughts, you have no choice but to agree with him this time. The journey is more tasking now than before, when you are going uphill rather than going down from the main road. 

But with Yoongi by your side, you find no trouble carrying on. His presence brings you peace, while his gentle voice keeps your nerves from spiralling out of control as the darkness around you thickens. 

Yoongi glances at you to notice that you keep sneaking a peek through the shadows, wary of what you might see in the dark, and he begins to question you, “You know, if the darkness bothers you, perhaps I could—” 

Even before Yoongi can finish his words, you can already tell what he is trying to offer you, as he has been trying to do the same ever since the moment he first brought it up back at the tavern. To be given the chance and reason for him to use his magic, to display his mana right before your eyes, just so he could get a reason to see yours. 

You had expected that he would bring it up again before he finally lets you go tonight, after you had solemnly refused that offer previously at the tavern. Only because you knew that you couldn’t do the same in return. 

To reveal to him the mana within you that may lie dormant, or the magic that your father may have placed on you to keep your safe in your journey. 

And yet, as you silently anticipate to hear Yoongi’s alluring way of stating his offer, those words never come. You turn curiously to question him about it, only for you to notice Yoongi looking far away into the distance, far beyond the deep foliage of the woods to see something that your eyes cannot see. 

The way his brows are furrowed and the stiffness forming on his shoulders feel unsettling. There is tension coming out of his body, even if it doesn’t seem enough to show you that there is a possible danger lurking through the darkness.

“Is something the matter?” you question him while glancing around, wondering what might have caught his attention, since it seems to be important enough to draw such reaction that you are now seeing from him. 

At the sound of your voice, Yoongi snaps out of it. Drawn back to your presence, the dark expression he wears on his face clears out as he turns to look at you. 

“I have been looking forward to finally gain an extended time with you by walking you home, but I’m afraid this is as far as I can go,” he suddenly says with regret in his voice. 

A myriad of questions come to surface, filling your head along with uncertainty, yet you choose not to question him further. A part of you feel the same regret of not having that extended time to spend with him, but there is also a part of you that is overcome with relief, because this would only allow you to hide your father’s secret hideout from him and, hopefully, the magic portal that is hidden behind the locked doors.

“I suppose I’d have no choice but to let you go, after all. What a pity,” you mutter to him with a low voice, hoping that your conflicted feelings wouldn’t show through your words.  

“Yes, it’s a pity indeed,” Yoongi says, and you can see a glimpse of bitterness sparkling in his eyes; his annoyance at the sudden disturbance which seems to require his presence seems so palpable. “But I will make it up to you if we do meet again,” Yoongi stops himself by shaking his head before correcting his words, “No, what I mean is—when we are to meet again.” 

You cannot resist the ghost of smile forming on your face at how promising his words sound. “You sound so confident.” 

“I must, if I am to see you again,” Yoongi says to you with a genuine smile, and you find yourself sharing the same feeling of hope of seeing him again. As he bids his goodbye for the second time, Yoongi doesn’t take your hand in his, but politely bows before you as he says, “Until then, Princess.”

As Yoongi rises to his height, you can only look at him while feeling dumbfounded. The different nickname that he has given you is filled with jest, no doubt spoken with humour instead of derision—because there is no way that Yoongi knows who you are, isn’t there?—yet it still throws you off that you find yourself unable to speak. 

With a small grin, Yoongi lowers his hat to cover his face, allowing you no chance to speak at all before he turns away and starts walking down the pathway where the two of you had come from. You remain for a moment at the same spot to watch him disappear between the trees before turning away, continuing your journey back to the house hidden beyond the hill. 

For a moment, you continue to walk as if you are lost in a daze. Something inside you feels heavy, and it seems to be getting worse the more distance you have between you and Yoongi.  

Suddenly doubting that you will have the same luck of seeing him on your next journey, you quickly turn on your heels and rush back to find him. 

You have no idea what you are hoping to find by chasing his tracks and following his shadows. Perhaps your desperate need to cling to him has taken over you that you fail to think logically about this. But you know for sure that you have no plan at all as you rush between the trees, ignoring the shadows reaching out to you as you follow the trails that he has left behind in his departure. 

And yet, the pathway that you had walked on with him has been left vacant, with no trace of his shadow left behind. 

He is gone, you wonder to yourself as disappointment grows within you. How did he manage to move so fast? 

As you take a moment to catch your breath, you take a quick glance around, trying to see if you can still catch his shadow and find a way to stop him before he could go any further. You continue going down the hill until you nearly reach the line of trees bordering between the woods and the village, where you finally catch the sight of Yoongi disappearing towards a different part of the woods, and you quickly run to catch up with him.

Yet Yoongi is walking too fast. 

From one side of the woods to the next you try to follow him, walking across the foot of the nearest hill without emerging into the main road, and you find that Yoongi has gone further away from you. 

There is nothing that you can do to stop him as he walks straight into the deeper, darker side of the forest, disappearing between the shadows of the trees just as the sun dips beyond the horizon, making it seem as if the darkness has engulfed him completely. And it steals any chance that you have left to catch up with him before the curse of the forest rises in the coming nightfall.

Yoongi’s legs feel heavy as he trudges along the dirt path taking him through the deep thickets. His heart feels just as heavy, though it has nothing to do with the unsteady ground or the muddy path he is walking on. 

He simply feels this way because of his reluctance to be apart from you. 

Deep down, he realises that this feeling will only get worse the more he spends time with you. The pull that he feels toward you has been growing steadily stronger, and if he should continue meeting up with you like this, the longer he is in your presence, the bond that has been formed between you will only become more solid. 

Even as he has gotten further away from you, his heartbeat is still racing rapidly. His entire body still feels tense, not only because of how excited and nervous he had been for being able to spend time with you. But because he had gotten close—so close—to revealing everything to you. 

“I might have to show it to you to prove it…”

He can still hear his own voice as he was offering you a quick show of his magic, the words came slipping out of him before he could stop it, before he could even think or consider all the risks.

It would only take one touch, one single brush of finger, one contact between his hand and yours, and he would have revealed it all. His secret. His father’s secret. Your father’s secret. 

His hand tenses right beside him as he walks through the woods, still feeling the urge to reach out to touch your fingers. The tingles of his magic that had been calling for you still lingers with every twitch of his fingers and ever stretch of his palm. 

If only you had said yes and accepted his offer. 

He regrets that it never happened, as not only did he lose the chance to hold your hand, he had also lost the chance to be completely truthful to you. And yet, at the same time, he is also relieved, because your rejection had only given him more time to be able to get closer to you before something like that—the revelation of his identity—could ever happen. 

It would be too soon for it to happen now, he keeps telling himself as he slowly clenches his hand. Because she might pull away if he finds out about everything before she is ready. 

He can already imagine what would have happened if he had pushed his intention earlier, if he had been more adamant in forcing you to reveal your true self and have his magic activate the mana inside you. 

All he intended to do was to confirm his suspicions about you using the Wicked King’s magic to travel around. Such action would help him find answers, and he would have been able to use it to track down the King, and then after, to be able to find Queen Milena. 

But the more he thinks about it, the more it feels like a breach of trust. He can picture you steadily pushing him away once that happens, that the truth will only scare you away instead of pushing you closer to him. 

One day, it would still happen; the day when the truth behind your heritage is finally revealed to you and how the two of you had been connected since birth. But that time is not now. For that moment to happen, Yoongi would have to gain your complete trust, to allow you to get to know more of him and him to you. Something that would be impossible to gain with just a couple of short encounters made. 

As Yoongi continues his journey through the forest, he uses the silence that is now engulfing him to silence his mind. 

The scent of the forest mixing in with the evening breeze calms him down, while the dark movement of trees distracts him from his own thoughts. It would be crucial for Yoongi to regain his composure and clear his mind before confronting the ripple of mana that had summoned him merely moments ago, forcing him to separate himself from you. 

Yoongi is quite familiar with this energy, hence he knows what to expect as he continues going deeper into the woods, ignoring the sounds of the forest and the branches that seems to be reaching out to him, until he finds the dark presence standing in his path. They are standing merely a few feet away from Yoongi’s portal once he stops, not too far from the gate which he had used earlier in the afternoon as a mean of transport to reach Grimm. 

Which only means that he had been using it to follow Yoongi’s trails. Once again. 

Wearing the formal uniform from the Empire’s knighthood instead of a disguise that he normally uses as a common member of the mercenary army, Sergeant Jang Yijeong stands under the shadows formed by the thick foliage, his back leaning against one of the thickest trees with his eyes looking straight above his head, as if he is able to look past the foliage and see the darkening sky above. 

He still has his gaze locked on the unseen sky as Yoongi approaches him silently, and the fairy soldier murmurs with a voice that comes out as gently as a hum, “It seems that it would rain soon.” 

“Would that be the reason why you sent out a sign for me to find you here?” Yoongi jokes with a scoff, “Have you come only to tell me that it’s raining tonight? Do you perhaps carry an umbrella with you to protect me on my way home?” 

“Not really,” Yijeong says with a shrug, unbothered by Yoongi’s mockery. His expression remains calm as he turns to look at Yoongi. Even if the sight of the Crown Prince wearing a commoner’s clothing surprises him, he surely isn’t showing it. But the flair on his skin bothers Yoongi a little, showing him that his friend had been using an additional magic when he was stepping across Yoongi’s portal. 

For what, he has no idea. But it is enough to make him grow alert. Because there has to be a reason why his friend needed to use magic to cover his own trail.  

“So—what have you gained from today’s meeting with the mysterious princess?” Yijeong asks before Yoongi can start asking questions.

This time, Yoongi is the one struggling to control his expression. With his bamboo hat still covering his head, he knows that the shade would still be enough to hide his furrowed brows as he questions his best friend, “What are you implying?” 

“I am just assuming that you are to gain some information the moment you have the chance to,” Yijeong continues, “Wasn’t that the reason why you sought her in the first place?” 

“That’s not the only purpose that had led me to start following her, and you of all people know that,” Yoongi seethes, hating the way he cannot actually argue with that assumption when it is partly true. 

Yoongi curses inwardly as guilt grips at him in the chest. He suddenly feels like a criminal for deceiving you, while at the same time, he cannot regret the actions that he had made so far because they have given him the chance to meet you and talk to you in person. He sees it as a blessing to have been given the chance to get to know you, after all the years that he had spent chasing shadows without a single clue where to find you. 

He had even spent years questioning himself, doubting his own memories and faith, almost believing that you never existed. 

Until the ripples of magic first began appearing, stretching out through space and time each time you used the magic which took you to different places the same way he uses his portals. 

As if Yijeong has the ability to look into the inner battle that Yoongi is currently having, he tilts his head and raises his brows. “It’s not?” he questions Yoongi, remembering quite well everything that Yoongi had shared with him in the past. 

It was during the first night he felt the burst of energy that came when you opened your father’s portal when Yoongi revealed his true mission for the first time to Yijeong. Except that the only thing that Yoongi did was to reveal who you were, just to let his friend know that the mysterious traveller that Yijeong had met back in Smotia may truly have a connection to the missing Queen, and that you have somehow made contact with the magic that not many would be able to control.

Yoongi had shared his suspicions with his friend that night, believing that you had been granted a way to use the magic. 

It was then when he decided to follow you, except that while he did so to confirm the threads of fate connecting your souls together, he merely revealed to Yijeong his need to find out about your magic; to see if it had been the same magic which was used by the person responsible for the Queen’s disappearance, to learn the secrets behind the missing Queen, and to see if following your trails would lead him into finding her. 

Yoongi has yet to understand the reason why he felt the need to hide his own agenda, when he could have opened up and shared everything with his best friend. Just like how he has always been able to share about everything with him for years. 

Perhaps he had done it out of pure instinct, as he had been tormented by doubt at the time he was divulging his thoughts to Yijeong. He was doubting not only the soulmate bond that he believed to have since he was no more but a young child, and he was doubting your existence, having lost sight of you ever since the day the Queen disappeared. 

And he wanted to keep everything to himself until he was able to prove it. 

That you are truly the missing piece of his soul that he has been seeking for so long. 

“Oh, that’s right. What was it that you said before?” Yijeong says in a mocking tone, drawing Yoongi back to focus on him again, “You’re only making sure that she remains safe.” 

With a frown, Yoongi recalls saying those exact words to Yijeong just a while ago. Hearing it spoken back to him only makes him feel uneasy. 

He has been keeping too many secrets and has been spending the whole day teetering on the edge of spilling everything out, and his friend seems to be poking at the right direction because his skin will not stop bristling in annoyance. 

“I meant it when I said that I felt the need to protect her,” Yoongi slowly admits, and hearing himself saying this out loud, he realises that these are no longer empty words to be spoken.

Especially after what he had learned earlier when he sat down with you, when he listened to you sharing a small part of your life that he couldn’t have known if he had only relied on the intel that his men had previously given him. 

Yijeong gives him a sly grin. “Protect her, by stalking her and acting like a mysterious escort?” he asks again. Only this time, Yoongi can sense his mocking tone softening. 

“When you first told me about it, I had assumed that you would remain in the distance, hidden away as you watch her movements, instead of approaching her directly and going on dates with the innocent girl,” Yijeong continues to question Yoongi as he shifts against the tree that he has been leaning on and moves his arm around. 

Only then does Yoongi notice that his friend has been swinging his short sword lightly by his side. Free from its sheath, the sword glimmers in the dark. The tip has grown stained, making him wonder if Yijeong has been using it as he was strolling through the deep forest. 

A protective magic to cover his trails. A sword on the ready and pointed out as he made it all the way here. 

Something is happening. Yoongi can feel it, and he knows that may have something to do with the reason why Yijeong had decided to come here after finishing his royal duty at the palace. 

But Yoongi merely shakes his head, unable to focus on his friend, nor to try and guess what his friend had been dealing with before he made it here. Not when his mind keeps replaying the conversation that he shared with you. Yijeong’s curiosity of his actions keeps triggering his memory that he can almost hear your voice again, to hear your words, and he can almost picture you being locked up inside the main palace at The Citadel as how you described it in your story. 

No wonder you had been so desperate to step out of the palace. 

And I had been so close, he wonders to himself as realisation dawns on him. As he recalls those long nights when he sent out his men to observe the main palace of The Citadel, only to receive reports about them being kicked back from the territory. As if there was an invisible barrier stopping them from getting too close. 

Within that kind of protection, the King and his men would have been able to protect you from any kind of threat that may come towards the empire. But outside, with nothing more but the spell that had been cast inside your ruby necklace, you are more liable to incoming danger. 

Just like that day in Narlès, when you were almost put to harm as you came across the group of thugs that seemed to have the ability to use dark magic to look past the shielding spell protecting you at the time. 

Sighing, Yoongi shakes his head once again to brush away the thought of you coming into harm’s way. “There are varying factions in play who have set their eyes on the Wicked King at the present time, now that he has gained attention with his empire growing in strength and territory, and human kingdoms seeking alliance with him,” Yoongi says bitterly while growing more and more concerned has he continues, 

“He may have succeeded in hiding the Princess’ existence from his enemies for so long, but if someone like me was able to find her through the magic that she is using to travel around, someone else could be looking the same way. Not only would they be able to trace her, they could use her as a way to get to the Wicked King once they know how important she is to him.” 

Swinging his short sword side to side while looking as if he is deep in thoughts, Yijeong glances sideways at Yoongi. “Of course, you would know, because that was your initial agenda when you followed her, wasn’t it? To use her to get to the King,” Yijeong mockingly says, poking at Yoongi’s deep remorse further, leaving him speechless. 

Yijeong stops talking, and the weapon that he is playing with glows under the streaks of light surrounding them as he lifts it up. “Are you sure that gaining information and protecting her at the same time were the sole reasons why you have been trailing her?” 

The crease in Yoongi’s brows deepens. “What do you mean?” 

Yijeong says nothing at first and continues swinging his sword around the same way he would during his practice routines. Yoongi realises that Yijeong is doing this to help him think, so he remains quiet and waits until Yijeong is ready to share his trail of thoughts. 

After a short while, Yijeong stops playing with his sword and turns to face Yoongi. “I know who she is to you,” he suddenly says, and before Yoongi can say anything to respond, Yijeong continues, “I can tell from the way you’d react whenever I talk about her that she means something more. Not just a means to an end, but something more.” 

“And what would that be?” Yoongi asks in return, trying to see how much Yijeong knows about his well-kept secret. 

The grin on Yijeong’s face widens as he playfully—with a disrespect that should be frowned upon at the empire yet welcomed by Yoongi only because of their friendship—clutches at Yoongi’s shoulder with one hand. His eyes glowed with mirth when he speaks, “Once upon a time, back during the ancient times when fairies were roaming freely in this realm—”

Yoongi groans and mumbles, “Here we go,” not knowing where this is heading, although he does have an inkling of what his friend is trying to say. 

“The Fates had found us all—our ancestors, I mean—valiant, slightly feral and unruly, but it was all because most of us had to roam through the realm without a purpose, without anything to bind us to one place, and most of them, in their lives of solitude, managed to create havoc. So they started to created us in pairs,” he continues on with a light tone while a mixture of dread and unease begins to rise in Yoongi’s chest, for knowing that his connection to you is about to be revealed. 

And yet relief washes over him when Yijeong continues on to say, “The Fates gave each of the ancient fairies their love-mates, to whom a fairy would have their soul bonded with so they could have some place, someone, to come home to after their wild adventures. If only to make sure that order could take place once again in the realm. And that was before our ancestors began building our empire into what it is today.” 

With a deep sigh, Yoongi feels as if the weight on his shoulders being lifted, knowing that the wouldn’t have to keep this fact as a secret for much longer. Seeing the tension in Yoongi’s body fading away, Yijeong nods and takes a step back, releasing him from his hold. 

“That is what she means to you, isn’t it? She’s your love-mate,” Yijeong says. “Your soulmate, if we want to use a present term.” 

Closing his eyes, Yoongi releases a deep exhale of breath and nods. “How did you know?” 

Shrugging, Yijeong sheaths his sword away. “Having a soulmate is a rare thing to happen for the likes of us, especially in the present time. Now that we have order in place, finding someone who is fated to our souls have grown rare,” Yijeong muses with a soft voice. “And we’re not Weres or Vampires who are still destined to have a companion to spend the rest of their immortal lives with, so obviously, that thought never crossed my mind. Until recently.”

Yijeong turns to look straight into Yoongi’s eyes, staring deeply as he speaks with a gentle voice. 

“The night I was out in the slum district of Smotia to search for the runaway mage under your command, you sent out men to track down the source of an unfamiliar mana, you felt from downtown did you not?” he asks, to which Yoongi confirms with a nod. “That was her, wasn’t it? It was the night when I met her at a tavern. Unfortunately, I had to encounter her without knowing this.” 

Yoongi says nothing, so he simply continues, “But she has yet to make contact with magic then, so the only thing that I could gather is that you felt her soul that night, calling out for you for the first time.”

With a bitter chuckle, Yoongi shakes his head. “I keep forgetting how perceptive you can be. I still don’t understand how you managed to put things together when I tried my best not to give it away.”  

Yijeong responds with a scoff. “I’ve been to places, just like you have been, remember?” he grins, causing Yoongi to chuckle. “I’ve seen soulmates recognising one another, and how they were able to find each other through the invisible threads pulling them together. And I’ve seen how these bonds growing and strengthening once they gave in to the connection that was fated for them. It isn’t hard to notice that you are being drawn to her presence the same way, that it wasn’t just the magic that she is using which helps you to find her.” 

Narrowing his eyes at Yoongi, he tilts his head, as if he is trying to get a read of the Crown Prince. “I can tell that the more you spend time with her, as you keep getting close to her, the more you would be able to feel it. Is that also the reason why you have been staying close? Have you been trying to confirm the bond that you have between you?”

Yoongi’s shoulders sag in defeat for the first time. “Again, you are too perceptive for your own good,” he says, drawing a smile on Yijeong’s face as he looks at Yoongi without a hint of guilt in his eyes. If any, the Sergeant of his Empire’s army looks proud of himself for being able to read him. 

“You are partly right, as much as I hate to admit it. I wasn’t sure about the mate bond, thinking that it was nothing more but an old myth that belonged in the past. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, much less to share this with anyone else. Not until I have everything confirmed and make sure that  

Yijeong leans back against the tree behind him. “When you first told me that Queen Milena had a child, and that the Wicked King may have been hiding her from the world, I had an inkling that there was something more about her that may have caused you to be so invested in finding her, but a part of me refused to believe it.” 

Yijeong squints his eyes as he gauges Yoongi’s reaction, who isn’t giving him much. Not like it would be easy for him to see it anyway, with the bamboo hat shielding his emotions and the dark crawling closer now that the sun is completely gone. 

“I couldn’t put it together until recently, only after I went on that mission to the Werewolf Kingdom, East Hallow, and met this newly mated couple who had hired me because they have been in a bind,” Yijeong continues.  

“And then, of course, the matter that happened with your necklace,” he adds, as his gaze flickers down Yoongi’s chest, right where he knows the necklace would be hanging under the thin shirt that Yoongi is wearing. “The first time she used the portal by herself, your necklace showed a reaction. I thought that it happened simply because your magic reacted to the portal magic that mirrored your family’s, but I know that there is something else affecting it.” 

Yoongi clenches his hands, resisting the need to reach for it as Yijeong continues, “Your amulet was supposed to help you find her, wasn’t it?”

“I hate that you are always right,” Yoongi says as he lifts his head with a deep huff of breath. Carefully, he reaches up to his neck to pull the necklace out of his shirt. The amulet shines in the dark, sprinkles of blue dust coming out of the stone, allowing Yoongi to tell the moment you walk through the portal taking you back home. 

“The amulet—it was imbued by the same magic that was passed on to me by my father. It was supposed to help me track down the source of magic that The Wicked King had kept hidden from us. Obviously, I never thought that she would have access to the magic herself in the King’s absence,” Yoongi explains while he continues to observe the reaction coming out of the necklace, until the blue gleam begins to fade. 

“But the Emperor had placed another spell inside the amulet,” he adds, as his memory takes him back to the Emperor’s chambers, on the day he received the secret mission from his ailing father. “A spell that he once used to track down the Queen, altered in a way that I would be able to make use of it by tracking down the only missing link I may have left to find the Queen.” 

Yijeong nods. “The Princess. Your true soulmate. Which gave you another purpose for you to go through with this mission.” 

Once again, Yijeong surprises him for being able to surmise this much. What Yoongi cannot reveal to Yijeong is that he is right about Yoongi finding a new purpose now after meeting you. 

Thinking about you only reminds him yet again of your story. Picturing you living such a sheltered life before you were finally brought here to the fairy tale realm causes a tight pinch in his chest. 

If only you hadn’t been under the Wicked King’s care, perhaps you could have had so much more. You could have been able to see the world, to experience life the way you deserve it. Instead of having to find it by sneaking out of the palace’s walls and slipping away from the King’s guards with measly disguises protecting you, or by sneaking through the King’s hidden portals just to see the world. 

Recalling the way you looked at your surroundings when he took you on a walk across the meadow today, how your eyes were filled with wonder and joy the whole time, Yoongi hates thinking that you were never given the chance to have it all. 

When Yoongi talked about you finding freedom during your excursion back in the market town, he never could have known how close he was from the truth. He also never expected that you would admit to it so openly once he gave you the opportunity to share a bit of your life. Bot now, after listening to your story, he can’t decide if he should be happy that he had been right about your circumstances, knowing now what kind of life that you have had to endure under the Wicked King’s rules. 

But knowing the truth had only made him feel determined to change that. 

The freedom that you have been yearning so badly in life, Yoongi is willing to give it to you in a heartbeat, to make it possible the moment you allow him to do it for you, to help you escape from the life that you had to remain stuck in because of your family’s secrets. 

Despite the trust that he has for his friend, Yoongi has no idea how much about this fact that he could share. Even with the signs, how his feelings are constantly growing within him, the doubt that he feels about this soulmate bond is still present in his thoughts. No matter how small, it does come in his way of focusing on his true mission for reclaiming the empire’s true glory. 

“Look, I’m not here to stop you from messing around with her,” Yijeong casually says as he straightens up right in front of Yoongi while giving him a slight bow, a gesture that is meant to show respect to the apparent heir of the empire’s throne, which only means that whatever it is that Yijeong might say next would be important enough for him to shed his title as the Crown Prince’s best friend.

The sudden formal stance that Yijeong holds as he speaks only makes Yoongi grow wary. Because despite the calm tone of his voice, Yijeong’s gaze becomes hard when he looks at Yoongi to say, “You’ve been summoned.” 

Swallowing down the uneasiness taking over him, Yoongi lifts his chin to ask, “By who?” 

Yijeong refrains from answering for a moment, which isn’t making things any better. But Yoongi’s unsettling gaze soon makes him waver, and Yijeong has to reluctantly speak up. “The Empress wants to see you.” 

Sighing to himself, Yoongi tries not to be bothered by the news. He had somehow expected that the Empress would one day find a way to bring him home under her terms. Being left in the dark with no power in her hands would have made her feel restless, especially knowing that she no longer has any control of Yoongi as long as he is away from home. 

He shouldn’t worry about the Empress when he has eyes on her even when he is away. But it does make him wonder what the Empress is up to now. 

“Did she say what she wanted?” 

“Only that she wishes to see you. To talk,” Yijeong continues with a small grin. Yet the bitter and unamused tone that he is using when he talks about the Empress’ wicked schemes makes Yoongi grow restless even before Yijeong adds, “She has guests staying at the empire that she wishes you to meet.” 

Something flares in his eyes, and Yoongi’s chest tightens. He doesn’t like seeing that look. Not from him. And Yoongi already knows that he wouldn’t like whatever Yijeong is about to say next.  

Yoongi seethes. His voice is filled with venom when he asks his loyal friend, “Who?” 

“Byron Koshar. The Emperor of the Neo Empire of Kosha.” Yijeong’s voice is filled with hatred as he mentions the name of their former enemy, and that hatred brings chill running down Yoongi’s spine when his friend continues to say, “And his daughter, Princess Celestyna, the second Princess.” 

— © 2024 Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind is not allowed. unsolicited translations are not allowed.

[sleepy-steve]

@steddieangstyaugust 03/08 // “The sunset looks lovely, don’t you think?”

wc: 368 // rating: G // cw: none // tags: angst, post-s4, canon compliant, yearning divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics

The sky bleeds red, feeding into oranges and pinks in the low clouds, eventually fading into a deep indigo where the brightest stars are just starting to show at the height of the view. Over the quarry, Steve watches the peach clouds crawl across the sky, barely noticeable were it not for how long he’d been sitting on the hood of his car. 

He takes another drag of his cigarette, tapping the ash off to the side. The conversation he should be having plays in his mind. Talking about the way Dustin had snarked at him this morning, how Lucas had argued with him, and the way Erica had set them both straight (Steve couldn’t help but agree with her but knew better than to say it out loud). The laugh he’d receive in response to the story, head thrown back and teeth bared in a huge grin. 

Steve would pass the cigarette over and let him take a drag. Watch the way his lips wrapped around the smoke and feel the flush creep up his neck. He’d talk about whatever thing Robin had chatted his ear off about at work, because despite how much he’d claim annoyance and often wouldn’t understand half of what she said, he loved her so much. She’s his family. Steve would say as much, talk about how no one has understood him like she does, been there for him like she has. Talk about how he’d do anything for her. Then Steve would stumble over his words, I’d do the same for you, too. Anything, if you needed me.

He’d see a flush across his cheeks, unsure if it was heat in his face or from the sky, hidden behind curls, the hair pulled across in nervousness. Huge brown eyes looking up at him, crinkled with a now somewhat shy smile. Maybe Steve would place a hand over his. Maybe he’d lean in. 

A bird squawks, passing across the quarry, startling Steve out of his vision. There’s no one beside him, no shy smile, no bright laughter. He takes another shuddering drag of his cigarette, eyes blurring as he turns back to the sky. 

“The sunset looks lovely, don’t you think, Eddie?”

[nanawritesit]

SM Entertainment Girl Group Idol AU (fem!reader insert)

feel free to use this for shifting or as a fanfiction backstory! (just tag me if it’s the second one hehe)

disclaimer: the extra info sections aren’t all original ideas, many were found on pinterest/tiktok :) images aren’t mine either

tw: none that i’m aware of

Group Profile:

Group Name: Etoile (meaning star/ point of a star in French)

Members: 5 (5 points on a star)

Fandom: Starlight

Concept: Ethereal, Cosmic, Elegant

Debut Year: 2017 (between Red Velvet and Aespa)

Debut Song: “Constellations”

Debut Album Title: “5 Makes 1”

B-Sides: “Aries,” “Nebula,” “Orbit,” “Stardust,” and “Pisces”

Fandom/ Lightstick Color: Indigo and White (stars in the night sky)

Group Chant: All: “Twinkle twinkle!” Nabi: “Hi Starlight! It’s…” All: “Etoile!”

Members Profile:

Y/N: Oldest, Center/ Face of the Group, Main Vocalist, Speaks Korean, English, and Chinese

Cho Nabi: Leader, Lead Vocalist, Korean, Speaks Korean, English, Chinese, and Japanese

Marie Tang: Main Dancer, Chinese-American, Speaks Korean, English, and Chinese

Han Iseul: Visual, Lead Dancer, Korean, Speaks Korean

Ikeda Kaori: Maknae, Main Rapper, Japanese, Speaks Korean and Japanese

Extra Info about the Group:

Pre-debut, Etoile released a cover of Girls Generation’s “Genie,” and it blew up so fast that fans couldn’t wait for them to debut

Etoile is known as “the bridge between third and fourth generation” in the kpop community

The members are also known as “the princesses of SM”

Etoile does a lot of variety shows because everyone loves the members’ funny personalities and playful group dynamic

Etoile was featured in a popular kdrama as themselves, though they only had a few lines in a couple episodes, it became a fan favorite and made the ratings sky-rocket

Etoile’s second comeback, “Andromeda,” is said to have one of the most difficult girl group choreographies in kpop. It was also the song that got them their first win

When Etoile got their first win with “Andromeda,” all of the girls were crying hysterically, including Nabi who was supposed to give the speech. She ended up handing the mic to Y/N, who had just been smiling happily the whole time. Y/N pulled Nabi into her arms as she gave the speech, and then the other three girls assembled a group hug around them. It became such a tender moment for Starlights that everyone watching started crying too

Etoile did a collaboration music video with Sailor Moon where all the members got to dress up as the sailor guardians. Y/N was Sailor Moon, Nabi was Sailor Mars, Marie was Sailor Mercury, Iseul was Sailor Venus, and Kaori was Sailor Jupiter

Etoile has their own plushie characters that are put on headbands and other merchandise for Starlight, similar to BT21 and Skzoo. Y/N’s is a white swan, Nabi’s is a blue butterfly, Marie’s is a black cat, Iseul’s is a pink puppy, and Kaori’s is a yellow duck

Etoile did a collab with “rom&nd,” a korean makeup brand, where each member got to create their own shade of lipstick. The five shades the members created sold out in just three minutes.

Etoile performed a cover of EXO’s “Growl” during one of their concerts in male school uniforms, and Starlights were so impressed by how cool and masculine they were

Being sandwiched between the two girl groups, Red Velvet and Aespa are like the older and younger sisters of Etoile (respectively.) The Red Velvet members are always checking in on them and giving them advice, and Etoile does the same thing for Aespa.

Starlight is famous for being one of the most loyal and devoted fandoms. They buy the girls billboards and food trucks for their birthdays, protect them from antis, and offer so much love and support.

The members have their own youtube channel called “Etoile Clubhouse” that they have permission to use freely. They post lots of different content, including challenges, games, song/dance covers, mukbangs, get ready with me/us videos, and q&a’s

Extra Info about Y/N:

Y/N is known as the loving mother of the group, while Nabi is more like a strict dad

Kaori was still in high school when she debuted, and Y/N took care of her like a mother would her daughter. She would wash and iron her uniform, prepare her breakfast and lunch, and help her with her homework every night. Kaori’s mother was so thankful, as she couldn’t do all this for her daughter herself, still living in Japan

While all the girls are close, Nabi and Y/N are best friends, they even have friendship bracelets

While Iseul is the visual because she fits the KBS the best, Y/N is the center/FOTG because her visuals match the group concept the best. She’s known for her “white swan” visuals: ethereal, graceful, and elegant.

Y/N and Iseul were also chosen as members of GOT the Beat

Y/N was the first member to have a solo debut in 2021. Her debut song was fittingly titled “White Swan.” Nabi helped her compose the songs, Marie helped her with the choreography, and Kaori had a rap feature on one of the tracks. Y/N performed it at the MAMA awards, and everyone was singing/dancing along to it so hard they almost forgot about the actual awards show!

Y/N is an ambassador for Dior and Chanel. Many brands were offering her deals after Etoile became popular due to her unique visuals, so she got to choose the ones she liked best

Y/N is known as the “OST Queen” of the group, she has sang many drama OSTs

Y/N’s best friends at the company include Yeri (Red Velvet,) Taeyong (NCT/SuperM,) Karina (Aespa,) and Ten (NCT/SuperM/WayV)

Y/N has had cameos in many different artists’ music videos, including Stray Kids, Enhypen, and NCT Dream

SHINee’s Key dubbed Y/N “SM’s secret weapon”

Y/N was part of a one-time collaboration unit with Dreamcatcher’s Dami, Weki Meki’s Doyeon, IZ*ONE’s Yena, and fromis_9’s Chaeyoung. They released a single called “Wild Mind,” and it was so popular that fans were advocating to start a new group with just these idols!

Y/N once dyed her hair indigo to match the fandom color, and fans started to dye their hair the same color to match her. The shade became known as “Y/N hair” on social media

Y/N and Marie were mentors on a Chinese idol training show, all the girls loved them because they were super helpful without being too tough. It also gained Etoile a lot of Chinese fans

Y/N has very impressive high notes, Starlights have made several youtube compilations with titles like “Y/N obliterating the sound barrier with her high notes for 5 minutes”

Y/N’s nickname from Starlight is “Angel Voice” due to her clear, bright voice

Y/N sang a cover of Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero” on Etoile Clubhouse, and Starlights tagged Taylor in it so much that she was shown the video in an interview. Taylor responded: “I’ve watched this video so many times! Her voice is so pretty. I met her once in Korea too, she’s so genuine and sweet! I’d love to collab with her, or Etoile as a whole. They seem so fun.”

Y/N was getting a lot of lip-synching rumors, until one day a staff member shared a video of her practicing before a concert with her mic on. It revealed her raw vocal talent and debunked all the rumors.

[wardenparker]

Summer Rose

Professor!Santiago Garcia x female OC Co-written with @julesonrecord

Rating: E for Explicit 18+ Word Count: 6k Warnings: OC is named (Daphne Antonelli) but has minimal physical description. Age gap 10+ years. Both parties are consenting adults. Alcohol consumption, mutual pining, professor/student, oral sex (f and m receiving), 69, sexy mythology references, vaginal sex, protected sex, fingernails/scratching, a bit of biting. Summary: Daphne is having an absolutely terrible day and has missed office hours to turn in her final paper to Professor Garcia. When she turns up on his doorstep to turn in her assignment, the professor she's been crushing on for ages offers her a supportive ear -- and help relaxing. Notes: A little collaboration between myself and my beloved Jules featuring a character we've working on (Daphne) and today's wet daydream of college professor!Santiago. Honestly this is just a bit of porn with the barest thread of a plot, and we're not sorry. Also, just a disclaimer that I have no clue how one finishes a masters degree, but it doesn't matter. We're here for the porn, not the threadbare plot.

Twilight is beautiful on campus. Santiago has always thought so, even before he had the letters after his last name that demarcate him as faculty. He enjoys the blush of the sun fading, the purple of the dusky sky fading to blue-black, indigo, then glitter with starlight.

He likes walking home after class this way; a quiet moment to ease his mind after lectures and before grading. This late in the semester, it will be one of the last walks before the summer term. As he passes through the quiet neighborhood and climbs his front doors, he glances up, spies Orion's Belt in the heavens. He thinks about introducing the story next time he holds his Mythology and Myth-Making class. Did he include it this year? He can't remember. He'd been... distracted.

His phone pings with a text as he sets his messenger bag on the dining room table and undoes his cuff buttons, rolling them up. Too damn hot for this, damn dress code rules... He peers down at the message, and notes it's from an unknown number. His students know to text him if they have an emergency, so he opens it straight away.

Hi, Professor Garcia. I know that it's after office hours, but the fact is...I missed office hours altogether. Would it be an inconvenience to call you and explain? Otherwise I'm not sure how to get my final paper to you. Thanks, Daphne Antonelli (Mythology and Myth-Making)

Santiago lifts an eyebrow. He recognizes the name. Oh yes, he recognizes it. In fact, he's called it to mind more often than is probably appropriate, along with the image of a very beautiful graduate student with a focused stare and drop-dead gorgeous eyes. She was an attentive student, responsive, ready to answer questions but never one to hog the spotlight, making insightful, empathetic, and razor-sharp questions. It was unlike her to miss anything, never mind not visit office hours. They'd spent many such visits over the semester. Short. Professional. Of course.

So why does his heart rate increase, his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he thoughtfully taps the phone screen, spelling out a careful, professional text?

Hi Daphne. As this is your final paper, I would really like to have it ASAP as I am required to submit grades on Monday. Why don't you swing by my home to drop it off?

Feel free to call, he types, then deletes before sending. He wanted to hear her voice. He did need that paper. No reason why he couldn't do both in person. No reason at all.

He had had his graduate students over for a spring dinner after midterms so they know how and where to find him. The bonfire that night had lasted for ages, as tipsy grad students who were feeling feisty with a full meal in their bellies debated the cultural implications of different myth origins and the similarities of some creation myths that they had just been discussing in class. Daphne had been amongst the students that night, animatedly defending her points with unmatched ferocity that was impossible to ignore.

The text that comes through a few moments later takes a while for her to decide on, judging from the continuously undulating bubbles indicating how long she was typing compared to the brevity of the eventual message.

Thank you for understanding. I'll be over shortly so the rest of your night isn't interrupted.

Satisfaction. He tosses the phone down and leans over the table with a slow sigh, taking a look around the room. The same old familiar wall-to-wall bookshelves line the tidy bungalow. The same pendant lamps up, tacky, that he'd meant to change when he bought this place... four years ago. His degrees might be hung in his office upstairs, his clothes are here, he shaves here, but who does he have here, really? Nobody. Warm sheets for a night and then no one. Nothing. There was no reason to bother, really—

And then Daphne. Daphne with her slowly blossoming smile that melted from shy to beaming when he said hello to her on campus. Daphne with her neat notes in the margins, Daphne with the legs that had so often been tucked primly next to his as they leaned over a book or paper together, never touching but so close, close enough so that he could smell her perfume: cinnamon, orchid, incense.

"Fuck," he mutters to the table. There's no way of hiding from himself, not really. He pushes off the wood and stalks to the kitchen for a beer. He cracks it open efficiently and takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing. He wants her. That much is clear. How could he not? She was intelligent, fierce, gorgeous. He could fool himself all he wanted, her coming here was a bad idea. It's been a long semester, keeping her close but not too close.

But, he realizes with a jolt, she's about to graduate. This is her final, his course is over. He is... well, technically by Monday, no longer her professor.

"Fuck," he mutters again, this time to a magnet of a catfish, his only catch from a weekend out fishing with the guys.

It's twenty minutes later precisely when his doorbell rings. There was no sound of a car outside on the street or dramatic slam of a door, but when he opens the door there is a bicycle leaning against his front gate and a frazzled looking student on his front step.

"Hi, Professor." Daphne stands on his step with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment on her face and she digs into her bag right away to pull out a manila folder with his class name and number written on it alongside her name. "I'm so sorry about this. I know it's technically late and that you'll have to dock points for that. It's completely my fault."

"Hey, hey, easy." He lifts a palm and lowers it soothingly, taking the manila folder gently. "There's no need to be sorry, accidents happen." Then, as he knew he would, he asked, "Would you like to come in? It's the end of semester, though. Maybe you have a party you'd rather get to?" He smiles fondly, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe and folding his arms to show off his tanned forearms, shirt sleeves straining slightly.

Yeah, he's still got moves. And he wants to show them off. To Daphne. Who is no longer his student. Who's staring up at him with the anguish slowly sliding from her face. He wants to remove it, stroke her stress away with his thumb, ease it out of her slowly—

Fuck, he's screwed.

"I'm not really – I mean, I haven't –" She doesn't get invited to parties, is what she's trying to say. Not that she doesn't enjoy parties, because she does. She absolutely does. The night they spent here at his house just sitting around the fire talking and sharing a meal was one of her favorite graduate school memories. But she isn't great at socializing with the other students in her program, she's found. There is something a little odd about Daphne, and it has reverberated through her life to keep her just a little on the outside of normal.

Maybe that's why she nods, accepting the invitation with swallowed thanks, and steps inside her professor's house. Her professor who has more than a decade on her in terms of age but has never held his years of experience or knowledge over her head. If they were colleagues, she might have even considered him a friend. As it is, being his student, she's stuck in a sort of limbo with a useless crush and fond memories. "I've had kind of a crazy day," she admits sheepishly. "Even if I had been invited to any of the parties on campus, I don't think I would be going."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Daph," he says, with real sympathy. "Is everything all right? I just opened a beer, would you like anything?"

"A pipe burst at my place and my landlord is claiming I'm liable, then my computer crashed in the middle of doing one last edit on your term paper and the tech office gave me grief, it's just...it's been a long day." She barely even nodded in agreement that a drink would be a huge relief, but he is immediately retreating to his refrigerator to grab her a beer. "Oh, and my summer plans fell through today." Her shoulders sag, the stress of the day dragging her down and determined to keep her there. "I'm just lucky I got up to take a shower first thing this morning or else the day would've been even worse."

"Oh, Daph, that's a rotten one," he says, placing the opened beer on the coffee table and settling his hands on her shoulders. "What happened to your summer? Surely you're going off to some incredible internship, you're more than qualified." And she is. He'd have recommended her to any program she wanted, and had, in fact, written her a letter of recommendation earlier in the year. "You know I'm not going to dock points, right?" he asks more quietly. "None of today was your fault, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. That shouldn't burrow into her chest and bloom into warmth like it does, and Daphne's eyes drop to the floor immediately to carefully focus on the toes of her boots instead of looking him in the face. That's your professor. Don't be creepy. "I had that internship lined up in London with the publishing company but they pulled the rug out from under me." She shrugs, feeling more vulnerable in the moment than she wants to admit. "Apparently the CFO's kid decided all of a sudden that he wants to be an author, so they rescinded my offer. He's going to get it instead."

His chest pangs. He hates that there is nothing he can do to fix this for her -- because she's right. That's the cherry on top of an extremely long day, and all he can do then is what feels most natural, which is to lift her chin up with the crook of his finger, his voice soft, gentle. "Hey."

When she meets his gaze, he watches them flicker slightly, scanning his face as he drinks in hers. Her eyes are so pretty. Like fresh honey dripped from a spoon.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says again, and means it. "You deserve that spot, but you'll find something better, okay? Hey, look at me." She had turned away slightly, embarrassed or perhaps made shy by his praise, but her eyes fix on him again, golden and fringed with thick lashes. "I promise, you will. There's lots of ways into this world, and you're too talented not to break in. Okay? You want to sit down, tell me about it?" His fingers clasp around her delicate elbow, ready to guide her to the couch.

"There's not a lot more to tell, to be honest." Two people with two beers steer almost mechanically toward the couch, and Daphne finds herself being seated on his plush leather sectional just before he sits down beside her. This spring has been chilly and he still has a throw blanket out, which he pulls close to them as if to have it at the ready. "No summer in London means I'm going to have to either go back home and figure out my next step there, or find a new place here and do the same. Because I'm sure as hell not staying in the place I'm in now. As if the landlord weren't bad enough, now the plumbing is going."

"Huh." He trails his arm over the back of the sofa, sipping his beer thoughtfully. "What kinda guy is this-" Asshole, he wants to say, but quells it, "Fellow? Any chance he'll back off? Perhaps once he... calms down, he can be reasoned with." He's approaching the boundary of reason himself. He can see it, taste it, the drip of something sweet down his throat. "Beautiful woman like you? You could convince a man of anything."

The pffft sound that comes out of her mouth goes with a wave of her hand, but she does accept a sip of the beer that he's brought her with a grateful sigh. "The apartment is a piece of shit anyway, if I'm honest. I hate it there. It's just that it's affordable." There's a moment's pause where Daphne's eyes widen in panic and she deflates again with a groan. "I already put in my notice at my job, oh my god."

"Hey, hey, Daphne." He puts his beer down and reaches for her, wrapping one arm around her waist, cupping her flushed cheek with the other hand. "C'mon, it's going to be okay, I promise, but for right now, I need you to relax, okay? Can you do that for me, bebita?" They're so close now, almost nose to nose. He's lost in her eyes again, but he can feel the burning heat of her little cheek in his palm.

She had been so sure she was going to start crying instantly with that realization, but two searing hot hands on her skin steady her. His touch is grounding, pulling her away from the edge of panic and drawing her into his aura so effortlessly that she didn't even realize how close he was until she felt his breath on her skin. "O—okay—" He can't know that the thing keeping her from having a complete panic attack on his couch right now is the fact that all the blood in her body has rushed to her aching clit, but damned if it isn't working. Daphne nods vaguely, trying to keep her head from swimming, but all she feels is his hands on her and the way his coffee brown eyes have turned to oceans in front of her. "Okay," she repeats softly.

"Okay?" Santiago nods, his breath coming a little fast. "I'll help you. I'll help you relax, sweetheart. You tell me to stop any time, okay?" He leans closer so slowly, their breaths mingling. He can almost count her eyelashes. Her nose is sweet and soft as it brushes his, but it's nothing compared to her plush lips. They seal against his and he feels the world fall out from under him. Something deep and ravenous unlocks and spills out all over his inside. He barely chokes down a groan.

There is no doubt that this is the most surreal moment of Daphne's life, and it isn't as though she hasn't been in some weird situations before. It's a miracle that she managed to get her beer bottle onto the nearby coffee table without spilling or knocking anything over, but she needs her hands for this. For a year and a half she's been working on a master's degree and avoiding too much contact with the one professor who makes her mind fog up and her daydreams wander, until finally she had landed in his classroom.

And now on his couch.

Kissing him.

If it were anything besides the most surreal moment of her life, she might have jumped backward or at the very least, pulled away. But Daphne has imagined kissing Santiago Garcia far too many times to do anything but sigh in response and open up for him like a summer rose.

"It's okay," he repeats soothingly between kisses: to himself, to her, to the waiting tension in the room. "I've got you, cariño. I've got you now, there you go, so sweet for me. So pretty. Beautiful, smart girl." He deepens the kiss, tasting her lips slowly, reverently, one hand sliding slowly down her soft sweater to rest on her waist and squeeze gently. He brushes his thumb over the soft material and then flicks it open, wanting closeness, to drag his palm up her thin blouse, wide and slow across her back.

The sound that bubbles out of her is a plaintive moan, unsure but wanting, and one of her hands grasps for steadiness on his arm even as the other instinctively sinks into his curls to keep him close. The battle is want versus wisdom, and it takes longer than she's proud of for Daphne to drag her lips from his and pant for a breath that still has no prayer of clearing her head.

"But." The fog in her mind has settled thick and heavy like the arousal in her core, and even as she's trying to straighten herself out she's still clinging to him with digging fingers and sharp nails. "You'll get fired," she manages to breathe out a few seconds later. Her only real protest being that she doesn't want him to get in trouble over a whim – which is surely all this is to him.

"Baby, no, no," he shakes his head, almost laughing with relief that that is her only concern. "No, you're graduating. I'm not your teacher any more. You handed in your paper. We can finally do what I – what I've been—" Shit. This is going to sound so bad. "What I've been thinking about since I met you," he admits.

Santi leans his forehead against hers, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's so inappropriate, but it's true. I've been waiting so long to kiss you, baby girl. Let me kiss you." He brushes his fingers over her knee, lifting her skirt just a little. "Let me make you feel so good, my little nymph. Do you even know how long you've been haunting me?" His mouth brushes her again, gently, over the corner of her mouth, the edge of her jaw, the flutter of her pulse, which smells delicious, deep and floral, her scent.

His cock aches against his zipper.

"Fuck." This time Daphne groans, sinking further into the couch, and feels herself giggle softly in disbelief more than she's actually aware of making the sound herself. "You've been haunted?" She challenges, eyes burning with courage now that she's heard his confession. Heard him beg. Did he really just beg for her? "Do you know how long I put off taking your class because I didn't know if I could even concentrate around you?"

Using the opportunity of her gently reclining body, Santiago leans in for the catch. "I never could," he murmurs into the hollow of her throat, his hands sweeping her skirt up, revealing her pretty legs, and god her thighs, so plush and luscious in his hands. He takes a moment to stroke there, brush the hem of her panties with his thumbs. "Never. You came in with Eros and made me Apollo." One thumb slips gently under the gusset of her panties. "Are you running, little nymph, hm?"

"Fuck—I—no, I—I don't even think my legs work now," she huffs, all at once tense as a bowstring with desire and measurably more relaxed as the reality of the man she's wanted forever finally touching her exactly where she wants him.

Well, not exactly. But it's not going to take long to get there at the rate they're going.

"What should I..." Daphne's head falls back on the sofa cushion as his thumb strokes her slit and she moans. "Santiago is a lot of syllables to moan."

"Santi. You can call me Santi from now on," he murmurs, removing his thumb from her panties only to twist the thin white cotton things, Jesus, so fucking wet, around his fingers and slide them down, down. He tosses them to the side and shucks off her high heeled boots while he's there, his eyes locked on where she glistens for him, needs him. "But you can call out any god you want to, bonita." He flicks his gaze to hers and smirks. "Show me how much you were paying attention, yeah?"

If she can even remember a single name from his class at this point she'll be shocked, and the cool air of his house on her overheated cunt is enough to have her squirming instinctively underneath him. Her brain has pretty much given up the ghost already, overstimulated in the very best way possible far before the rest of her body feels the same. Although she has a feeling that it will get there. "Santi..." Trying it out, there is a sweetness on her tongue and heaviness in her core that really is just a whine waiting to break free. Daphne's hands have found their way to his shirt front, fumbling to free the buttons even while she's nearly shaking with desire. "If you get to touch me, I want to touch you, too."

His lips find hers again, almost impatient to taste her again. "You can touch me, I want you to," he mutters against her lips, lifting her blouse hem from her skirt as she takes care of his buttons. Santiago doesn't pause, doesn't make it easy for her or for himself, drowning himself in the touch of her, the sweet little noises emanating from her throat, the ones taking a running leap on the way to begging for everything he's ready to give. He lifts her shirt over her head and begins tugging down her skirt an inch at a time, his fingers dragging slowly over her hips, her now bare legs.

Nothing is exactly torn away, not specifically, but the pile of clothing that collects beside his living room sofa accumulates quickly and haphazardly — shirts and sweaters and everything else discarded blindly as they drown in kissing each other and swallowing those moans that make their way to the surface over and over again. With that building freedom Daphne finds a buried courage — not that she is a timid lover by any means, but there is an eagerness below the surface here that she hasn’t felt in so long. When the only thing left between them is the flimsy pair of boxers that do nothing to disguise how achingly hard he is, Daph bites down on his bottom lip to pull a groan out of him and soothes it away by sucking on the same spot as her fingers slip under the waistband of his last remaining piece of clothing.

"Fuck," he hisses, hips jumping forward so that the weeping tip of his cock brushes against her hand and he groans. He sits up straighter, caught in a web, aching to touch her – at least take his boxers off, fuck – but loathe to move away from her curious little hand. He settles for sitting up on his knees, staring at the place she's touching him, watching her explore him as though in a trance.

Taking advantage of the momentary shift, Daphne sits up along with him and nudges Santi backward so that he is on his back now instead of her. His curls are mussed and his eyes are so black with lust that he looks positively debauched before she’s even had a chance to touch him very much. Once he’s on his back, though, Daphne hooks her thumbs in his boxers and peels them away, groaning at the sight of him. Harder than diamonds and leaking precum like an eager teenager, a sly smirk rides across her face knowing she did that to him. “I want to suck your cock,” she admits, gaze flickering between his length and his blackened eyes. “You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent imagining sucking your cock under that desk in your office.”

Santiago closes his eyes a moment. Is he fucking dreaming? Or is his most fucked fantasy coming true before his eyes?

"Probably almost as many as what I've spent imagining what that wet little pussy tastes like." His voice is a low rasp, but he pulls himself together enough to halt her hand on his throbbing dick. His fingers squeeze around hers, gliding over the rigid shaft slowly, with control. His breath fans over her forehead. "You want this, baby? Hm? Gonna have to give me something in return. Come here," he urges, a low purr, her very own siren. "Come here and give me a little taste, cariño."

“Even Kama had to worship a lover in order to find his release,” Daph breathes, having spent an entire semester doodling images of the Hindu love god’s sugarcane bow and bird companions in her notes while thinking of all the various ways her professor could be worshipped.

"Kama was burnt alive by Shiva, sweetheart, and I don't plan on doing any different to you. Come here, that's it." Santi helps Daphne turn in his lap, both of them facing the wall. He guides her hips over his face as he lies back on the couch. Thank fuck it was big enough, for this and more, and then her perfect pussy is hovering over his face, tantalizing him. At heart? Santiago likes torturing himself, loves the thrill of giving into pleasure. Perhaps that too, is why he waited so long to take this girl into his bed. Perhaps that's why he's slow and sure as he spreads her lips, flattens his tongue, and tastes her indulgently, from clit to hole.

Daphne's momentary flash of composure is gone again as soon as he tastes her. Her legs shake on either side of his head, thighs pressed to his ears so her moans are muffled but it isn't on purpose. It's just been so long since she had a man between her legs who knew what the fuck he was doing that just having her clit noticed is a vast improvement. Daphne's body sags momentarily before she is shifting all her weight to one hand and wrapping the other around the base of his cock to stroke his base with the pressure that he showed her – the pressure he likes – while she takes as much of him as she can into her mouth.

When he moans it's with a growl into her pussy she can feel vibrate all the way up through her lungs.

She's not fucking sitting, and he knows it's because she's still, however minutely now that her moans are ringing sweet and clear across his living room, in her head instead of fully in her perfect body the way he wants. Licking up her slick almost lazily, he drags his nails lightly up the outsides of her thighs before firmly catching her hips in hand and pressing her into his waiting mouth, his evening stubble scraping across her folds. Only then does he give her a real reason to moan, encouraging her to grind while his laps at her clit with his tongue, filling his hands with all the gorgeous skin he can reach.

"Sit," he grunts, "Fuck, baby, I wanna to go to the field of fucking reeds with this pussy on my face, come on, you can do it, give it to me."

Come on, carińo, I know you can come for me, such a good fucking girl, he thinks, his brain a hazy lightning storm at the sensation of her hot throat squeezing around him as she swallows. Fuck, he could let her do this all night, but he's hungry for her pleasure and he's so close, he can taste it. Santiago lifts her hips with a final loud suck and trails a finger around her slit, teasing, almost pressing, but only just, his thumb running circles around her clit. With a deep breath he lifts his mouth, slips his tongue and a single finger inside, fucking into her with slow, measured movements.

The overwhelming pleasure of having more than just the tip of his tongue inside her pussy has Daphne moaning so earnestly that she pulls off of him cock with a lurid pop. "Dammit—I—fuck, I'm going to cum—Santi, baby, oh my f—" The shaking of her legs and the coil in her core twist down on each other so her thighs tighten and he breathes into her like he's going to devour her whole as she falls apart at the seams.

Oh yes. He really likes hearing her moaning that, but not more than the way she gives in as her orgasm rocks through her, grinding her hips down, into his waiting, eager mouth, helping her ride him through it until the aftershocks ease. His voice is barely a scrape when he lifts her up, his aching cock swinging between his legs as he presses forward, eager for her mouth. "Did so good, baby, such a good girl for me. I need to fuck you. Need to fuck you, baby. How do you want it?"

"Any way." Daphne gasps, trying to wrap her head around any kind of how that's more artful than just sinking down on him right here and now. When she does wrap her head around it, though, she groans in a less ethereal tone. "Let me grab a condom." Like any sensible, sexually active college girl, she carries one in her regular purse. Emergency cock wrap, if you will. She just never thought she'd actually need it.

"Wait, I got it." He scoots up a moment, digging into the small table beside the couch. From the drawer Santi draws out the foil pouch and rips it open, quickly rolling it on before turning his attention back on Daphne, who's watching him with drowned eyes, eyes deep and longing and still so lovely.

"Lie back, sweetheart. You ready for me?" He slowly glides the head over her silky wet folds, smearing her slick across his tip.

Deciding she absolutely does not need to know how many other girls have been fucked on this couch -- possibly at the end of their own courses -- Daph pushed herself up on her elbows to kiss him fiercely. Tonight is not to be wasted. Tonight is to be a fantastic memory. "I'm ready." Her nails drag down the base of his scalp, having caught a near purr from him earlier when she did the same. "I want you to fuck me, Santi."

Almost before his name is out of her mouth, he's pushing inside her with a low rumble, his head falling back slightly into her hands. Her nails scrape sensation over his scalp and down his spine, and her cunt is licking flames over him, so warm and perfect he almost comes right fucking there, but halts, breathing damp against her lips, his teeth nipping her lip possessively.

They hold like that, frozen together in the heat of the moment as he regains his composure and she adjusts to the stretch and fill and thickness of his cock inside her. The only movement, in this long moment of coming together, is the languid slide and tangle of their tongues together as they drown in the intimacy of feverish kisses.

Gradually, Santi comes down enough to get restless, eager again. He nips and bites down over her jaw and descends on her throat, sucking a mark low on her collarbone as his hands pay some long overdue attention to her pretty, heaving tits. Mine.

When the mark on her neck is soothed with his tongue, he sits up slowly, his eyes a glittering black, his lips parted. He looks like he's about to devour her. He takes one of her calves in his hand, eyes never leaving hers, tipping her knee up towards her head and then out, spread wide for him. He grips her ankle in a warm hand. Then, with a grunt, he's pulling back and pitching forward hard enough for their skin to clap obscenely, fast enough to make them both soon begin to tremble.

The position that he's in has him almost entirely out of her reach, just close even to graze her nails over his chest as he thrusts into her at a pace frantic enough to make them both pant and heave. Her back arches off the couch with a keen and her hands grapple with the couch cushions for purchase to hold on tight as Santi fucks her so deeply and insistently that she can practically feel him all the way up in her throat.

"Gripping me so fuckin' tight, baby, Jesus," he says through his teeth, his jaw tight, streaks of pleasure raking down his chest with her sharp, clinging nails. Keeping his relentless pace, he bends forward, pushing her thigh up, testing her limit. When he's low enough he seizes her mouth with his, grinding deep.

"One more for me, pretty girl, one more," he whispers huskily, his other hand skimming down her body to rub at her clit.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, so good baby, oh my fucking god—" Something in Daphne's mind short circuits, and the rambling begins in earnest the higher and higher she climbs toward a second orgasm. Tripping over her own tongue and throwing her hands up over her head as he slams into her so hard that either they are moving up the length of the sofa or the entire sofa is moving, Daph is completely lost in her pleasure. That volcano of pleasure building in her core is damn near ready to explode and the only thing she wants more than to erupt is to take him with her.

The second her expression breaks and she cries out for him, he's gone. He thinks he's done even before she clamps down on his cock like a goddamned vice, ripping his orgasm from him in a half dozen hard but increasingly languid strokes.

His upper body grows heavy, and with a groan he grinds in deeply just once more – never mind why – and leans his forehead on her soft breast, pulling out of her with a sigh. His entire body is basking, floating. If she puts her hands in his hair again he might even fall asleep.

There's a moment of quiet as he ties off and disposes of the condom, and for a split-second Santi disappears around a corner but he comes back with a warm, damp kitchen cloth to clean them both up with before curling back around her on the couch. "Goddamn," she huffs, giggling softly to herself as his arms come around her.

"Tell me about it," he says sleepily, flipping the throw blanket over the two of them as they settle, kiss, explore lazily what before had been greedily consumed. "Still not sure I'm not dreaming," he says, only half-joking, tracing her lips with a smile. "Did I really get so lucky?"

"I'm not sure how you're the starstruck one out of the two of us," Daphne teases, even though it's through a thin veil of honesty.

"Bonita, I've been increasingly starstruck all semester," he chuckles. "You have so much to look forward to. Shit, you're definitely going farther places than I am. I'm just happy to be here," he presses a kiss to her left tit, "To enjoy-" to her right nipple- "The satisfaction of being right." He kisses her forehead and studies her, his lids heavy. "Do you need anything before you fall asleep, baby girl? You wanna sleep here or in bed? I can't let you bike home this late, querida, so don't even try. Besides, you can shower here, my plumbing is fine." He smirks here, as if anticipating the swat he's earned himself.

"It's not that late." Daphne wrinkles her nose at herself. The protest was just good manners. She doesn't actually want to leave. She wants to wrap up in him and breathe in this comfort for as long as humanly possible. When he levels her with a disapproving look, Daph just ends up grinning. "Let's go to bed," she suggests, catching his lips as he drags them along her jaw. "And when I wake you up in the morning with my lips wrapped around your cock again, you'll be glad your back isn't sore."

The laugh bursts out of his chest with delight, easy and real. "All right, baby, all right, and what makes you think I won't beat you to it?" Santi pulls her to her feet, wrapping the soft blanket securely around her shoulders before guiding her upstairs with a hand at the small of her back.

No matter which one of them beats the other two it, they both know they aren't done. Whether it's a weekend, a week, a month, or even more. This night is just the beginning.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

My Masterlist!

[wanderingnork]

Having finished all Wizard101 worlds, I can actually make a full tier list! And yes, I know some of these are DEEPLY controversial opinions. (Polaris not being best world? Le gasp!)

I’ll explain the rankings, worst to best, below the cut.

F: Avalon. It’s the worst world. I, a myth wizard with subpar gear, soloed everything except the Indigo Giant boss, who I just needed help with because of his stupid damage output. The world design is cramped: you’ll be asked to go on an epic quest to retrieve something from a villain who lives right around the corner. The entire Lakeside area, with several distinct “biomes” (I don’t know a better word), is either the same size or smaller than the Caer Lyon area—which is a single town. The cartoony square trees and simplified textures are out of place in Arc 2’s more complex world designs. Its placement in the Arc 2 narrative is jarring. Yes, it gives us some Morganthe background, but that’s not remotely the core of the plot. Sandwiched between Zafaria (atmospheric, relatively high stakes) and Azteca (somber, arguably the highest stakes in the game), it feels…silly. It could have been a side world and if it was, I’d have a lot less beef.

D: Marleybone. While it has some redeeming qualities (I do love the steampunk elements very much and the Big Ben dungeon is a goddamn blast), it’s overall…meh. Every area is virtually identical various shades of gray—at least in Mooshu, also repetitive, the color schemes change by area. It’s terribly classist and when you look any deeper than the surface things get weird. Why the fuck are we attacking street sweepers???

D: Empyrea. My complaints about cramped world design go for this one, too. The supposedly huge Aeriel Jungle is smaller than all of the city of Zanadu. As much as I love the game’s pop culture references, this world took it too far. A wink and a nudge or a clever spin is WAY different than just dumping the cast of Star Trek into the main plot. And it’s every two steps in Part 1! The NPCs are 50/50 endearing and obnoxious to me. I adore the Aero Plains, at least. It’s one of the most aesthetically pleasing areas of any world. And Part 2’s focus on the Raven-and-Spider conflict is really good.

D: Zafaria. There’s an essay to be written on the troubling tropes at play in this world and more expert people than I have written those. Tldr, the sheer volume of stereotypes, the use of the “noble savage” trope, and mishmashed cultures are really an issue. And there isn’t a lot else going for this world, plot-wise or cool-NPC-wise. I find Zafaria forgettable, unless I’m cringing. Or thinking about the awesome giraffe librarian, who is indeed awesome.

C: Celestia. It’s just really uneven. I fuckin love the District of the Stars and Stormriven, but the Floating Land and the fact that I have to deal with Marleybonians are not thrilling. The crab empire is…fine. Quirky and par for the course. I appreciate how the story advances toward the more epic elements of the setting and the postapocalyptic history as you go along, but getting that far can be a drag.

C: Mooshu. This one shares most of Zafaria’s racial issues and suffers from Marleybone’s deeply repetitive area design. Repetitive enemies, too—monstrology on that world is visually boring as fuck. But it’s a lot less forgettable. The War dungeon is one of my favorites in the game, and the first time I can remember going “oh hey this game does more than kid’s book isekai.” Taking it as a whole, and including Catmandu and Kembaalung which have gorgeous design, it’s a perfectly average kind of world.

C: Wysteria. LORD BRAMBLE WAS RIGHT GODDAMMIT WHY CAN’T I SIDE WITH HIM??? I mean…it’s a Hogwarts Triwizard Tournament expy. It’s cute. I like having a world with no vast plot impact. The library dungeon design is absolutely kickass. But it’s just not…big enough to rate super highly. It’s there and gone. If we ever get to go *back*, I’d probably put it higher.

C: Wallaru. It’s pretty cool. The Outback area was gorgeous and as a horror fan I fucking adore Freddie Kroaker. The bosses were great, I’m a huge fan of the cheats in Wallaru (soloed almost all of them). What I couldn’t quite figure out is how I feel about the politics. It felt…off, how they handled the association between this fictional world and real Australia. I’m not educated enough to speak extensively on it, just to say that it felt Weird from what I do know. And hoooo boy. As much as I fucking adored the finale with the Doom Moon, I am N O T a fan of the sudden conspiracy reveal. Can we…not do antisemitic tropes like that? Please?

C: Aquila. It’s super cool and aesthetically gorgeous but ultimately it’s a collection of cool dungeons and epic combat challenges. As a player who primarily is here for the story, I am completely neutral on Aquila.

C: Novus. This got kicked down from B (where it belongs on plot reasons) by three things. One: the puzzle monster dungeon THAT ACTUALLY MADE ME MOTION SICK. I’m sure they were trying to get creative. N O P E. Two: while I know the NPCs needed to be unlikeable, they may have taken that too far. Mario di Mario specifically was so obnoxious I like to think my wizard actually punched him. Three: the Marleybone area was dumb as hell visually. Why the fuck did they use fire hydrants as houses? In context of all Marleybone stuff we’ve previously seen, it makes no sense.

B: Krokotopia. Suffers from somewhat repetitive level design, but the color scheme changes in every area and each area’s new theme is a banger. Especially Tomb of Storms. I adore the Manders so much. The issues of Marleybonian colonialism—which will come back all the way down the line in Novus—are at least loosely addressed. Including House of Scales, which has incredible design, music, and combat, I enjoyed pretty much everything in this world. (Caveat: Selenopolis hasn’t been released as of this list. Krokotopia position subject to change.)

B: Polaris. Wonderful world. Way too fucking cramped. Why is the Forlorn Tayg, a supposedly vast area, barely the same size as the Gulag? It also moves too fast for me, I could have done with a little more lingering and sidequesting. But I fucking love all the NPCs, I love how you meet a male ballerina wearing a tutu who’s not a joke and the penguins don’t have deranged sexual dimorphism in their designs, and the Borealis Titan is incredible.

B: Mirage. Many lovable NPCs and many beautiful areas, with special shout-outs to the Chronoverge and the Alkali Barrows. Loved the cat politics. The Pacman dungeon is hilariously brilliant and the Sands of Time are glorious. Suffers from SEVERE stereotyping and racism, I spent a lot of time absolutely cringing. Brought back deranged sexual dimorphism in character designs (why are the camels Like That). I may be the only person who didn’t like Istar and I’m okay with that.

A: Wizard City. It has its ups and downs. I include the Catacombs here, as well. There’s just so much content for so many levels, you know? I love the vast majority of it, both old and new designs. I don’t love the Gobblers, that’s…always been weird to me. Surprisingly I’m not a Catacombs fan. But everything else, the Three Streets and Unicorn Way and Ravenwood and the Commons…yeah. I love it. It really feels like home, somehow.

A: Karamelle. WE GET TO JOIN A UNION AND TEAR DOWN CAPITALISM. There are gummy bears you can fight! Fields of candy corn and orchards of gumdrop trees! I did almost this entire world solo, including the optional bosses, except the Bundozer. Has one of the creepiest areas in the entire game—you know the model town where the speakers play the Karamelle theme? Ever go to the edge of that map, where the speakers fade and the whole world goes quiet? It’s great. I don’t like gross-out humor though, so loses points for Gobblerton. And…the accents were painful.

A: Dragonspyre. While it struggles with deeply repetitive area design, there are enough unique locations—the Crystal Grove, the Great Spyre, and the Grand Chasm stand out here—that it’s not as overwhelming as Mooshu and Marleybone. More importantly, to me this is where the game gets its stakes. The threat that Malistaire presents—waking the Dragon Titan—stops being theoretical. You’re walking through the consequences of the last time the Titan woke. You get your quests from the ghosts of Dragonspyre. It’s serious now. Your eventual victory means something in a way that other victories haven’t.

S: Grizzleheim. Including Wintertusk here. Has some of the best, most unique level designs in the entire game. Areas are of reasonable size to traverse, but still give a powerful sense of scale to the world. Stunning music throughout. While I affectionately call it “Grizzlehell” for being so fucking difficult, that’s actually really amazing. It feels like a true challenge, especially when the worlds around it are speeding by. The stakes grow in a reasonable way throughout the quest line, from the easy stuff in Savarstaad Pass until it makes sense in Wintertusk that you’re here to stop the end of the world.

S: Lemuria. God. I loved this so much. It falls victim a bit to the problem of Too Many Shout-Outs that Empyrea did, but here…they mean something. The use of Silver Age/pulp fiction heroes is meant as a thematic exploration of what heroism means. It’s not pop culture for the sake of the thing, it’s an analysis of that culture through affectionate parody. What does it mean to be a hero? Is “heroism” a single thing, or something more? Can something be heroic sometimes and villainous another? It’s a good interrogation of that concept, is what I’m saying. The areas are reasonably sized for easy travel, but still have diverse “biomes” without feeling cramped. Each one is so unique! The heroes of Lemuria are endearing, and Dasein is wonderful. The unfolding plot is strong, too. I was genuinely sad when I left Lemuria and cheered aloud when I got to see the Heroes again at the end of Wallaru.

S: Azteca and Khrysalis. These two have to go together. I get why people don’t like them. They’re…kind of a lot. They’re full of “defeat and collect” quests with shitty drop rates, the bosses have insane health, and there are just so damn many quests. But…not only are they both beautiful in design with gorgeous music, they also have some of the highest stakes in the game. After so many worlds of victory, Azteca’s finale is a punch in the face. With brass knuckles. You fail. You lose. A whole world is destroyed. And the narration throughout the world, pointing out your heroism and superiority, makes it hit even harder. (As a paleo nerd, it makes me smile that Azteca is dinosaur-and-Aztec themed. The Chixulub impact crater is off the Yucatán Peninsula, home of the Aztecs—the world of non-avian dinosaurs ended there. Cool nod to real geological history.) And that failure makes Khrysalis feel intense. You now know that this game won’t always guarantee victory, so stopping Morganthe has a genuine sense od suspense—will the game makers let this be a victory? Or will Arc 3 be dealing with the fallout of the end of the Spiral as we know it? And Khrysalis is fucking dark. A whole sidequest is finding a mother’s lost child, who has been brainwashed into a military cult and may die. This was changed in a recent update, but when I played through the world the “defeat and collect” quests were “kill and collect.” It pulls no punches and never tries to make things simpler or friendlier. There are pop culture references, sure, but many are to older grim fantasy stories like those of Michael Moorcock and his contemporaries. It’s heavy. There are truly high stakes. You feel like you can fail. And to me, that story makes the combination of Azteca and Khrysalis the best worlds in the game.

[novaursa]

For a request, maybe a rhaegar targaryen x sister reader who is similar to Visenya? Like she’s the warrior type and kind of stern and stoic??

Dragon's Dance

- Summary: Rhaegar was the only one who knew your soft heart.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The clang of steel echoes across the training yard, a rhythmic song of battle that draws curious eyes from the gallery above. You stand across from your brother-husband, Rhaegar Targaryen, a gleaming blade in your hand. His indigo eyes are intense, focused on you, yet there is a softness beneath his gaze that only you have ever seen. You tighten your grip around the hilt of your sword, feeling the familiar weight that has always brought you comfort.

"Shall we begin, my prince?" you say, voice calm, the hint of a challenge lacing your words.

Rhaegar’s lips curve into a slight smile as he raises his blade. "Only if you promise to go easy on me, ñuha jorrāelagon," he teases, his voice carrying that gentle warmth reserved for you alone.

You scoff lightly, taking your stance. "Ñuha prūmia, don't expect mercy today," you reply, using the Valyrian term you only ever use in private moments. It has always been your way—your fierce exterior crumbling just a little in his presence.

Without another word, you move. Your sword arcs through the air, and he meets your strike with a resounding clash of steel. The power behind your attack makes his arm tremble, but he holds firm, his smile widening as he steps back, deflecting another blow aimed at his shoulder. The two of you circle each other, boots scuffing the packed dirt, your movements like a deadly dance.

Rhaegar’s fighting style is graceful, calculated—each swing and parry precise, as if he is playing his harp, coaxing music from the strings. But you, you fight like a storm. Unrelenting, fierce, a force of nature that does not yield. Your strikes come faster now, driving him back step by step. He manages to block each one, but it is clear you are pushing him to his limit.

Sweat beads on his brow as he tries to counter, his blade slicing towards your side. You twist, narrowly avoiding the strike, and bring your sword down towards his shoulder. He manages to catch it with his own blade, but the impact forces him to his knees. You press the advantage, your sword at his throat, the cool metal just grazing his skin.

"Yield," you command, your voice low, your breath mingling with his as you stand over him.

Rhaegar laughs softly, lowering his blade. "I yield, sister, you have bested me again," he says, his voice a blend of pride and affection. The formal tone falls away as he looks up at you, indigo eyes shimmering in the afternoon light. You can see the love there, and something within you softens. You step back, offering him your hand.

He takes it, his fingers entwining with yours as he rises. The training yard fades away, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. Rhaegar’s free hand comes up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “You are magnificent, Y/N. Truly,” he murmurs, his thumb caressing your cheek.

Your heart, always so guarded, melts at his words. “You flatter me, Rhaegar,” you reply, your tone teasing but your eyes warm. “Are you trying to make me forget how I had you at my mercy?”

“Never,” he says with a smile, drawing you closer. “I would not dare. I am merely stating the truth.”

You shake your head, unable to stop the smile that tugs at your lips. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into an embrace. Here, in his arms, you let the mask slip, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his.

Rhaegar presses a kiss to your temple, a soft, lingering touch. “You are my strength, my fire,” he whispers, his voice a tender murmur against your skin. “There is no one like you, Y/N.”

Your heart swells, a rare vulnerability surfacing as you look up at him. “And you, Rhaegar, are my light in the darkness.” It is a confession, one only he is privy to, words meant for him alone. You lift your hand, fingers tracing the line of his jaw before you pull him down, capturing his lips in a gentle, lingering kiss.

The world falls away, the courtyard, the Red Keep, the weight of your family’s expectations—none of it matters in this moment. It is just you and him, bound together by love and fire, a bond forged in the flames of your shared heritage.

When you finally pull back, breathless, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hand strokes your hair, the gesture soothing, and for once, you allow yourself to relax completely, to be vulnerable in a way you never are with anyone else.

“I love you, Rhaegar,” you whisper, the words slipping past your lips, unbidden but true. It is rare for you to say it, to voice the depth of your feelings, but with him, you can. You always can.

He holds you tighter, his own voice soft but steady. “And I love you, Y/N. Always.”

The courtyard, once filled with the sound of clashing blades, is now quiet, the only sound the soft murmur of your breath mingling with his. In this moment, you are not the fierce warrior, the Targaryen princess, or the daughter of a mad king. You are simply Y/N, held close by the man you love, your heart safe in his hands.

[kandadze]

Ep 28 loose thoughts

I'm glad for the lighthearted opening, because I know it'll just go downhill from here. Also, PSJ lumped with the men while ZYZ gets to annoy them from the distance is peak comedy. Again, I'm pretty sure we'll need all the laughs we can get.

Also, this is purely from an aesthetic point of view, and seeing ZYC out of his usual deep blues, grays and indigos was jarring, to say the least. The sandy beige does not compliment his porcelain complexion at all... unless they were going for this washed-out, weary look specifically, in which case, A+ (and boy, does he have reasons to be weary lol). Bonus: Ying Lei and PSJ knowing exactly why he's calling ZYZ a bastard 😂

"Next time, please finish your words in one go." Where's the fun in that though, ZYZ? You walked right into that one all by yourself 🤣

Of course Li Lun's way of "asking" for the scale was to threaten its owner with death. I'm afraid he hasn't learned anything... pity, really. I would love for him to have *some* sort of character growth.

Wow, ain't she miss popular all of a sudden! Is the Chongwu Camp guy gonna help LL to save Bai Jiu's body, or is he gonna go with his boss's orders after all? And of course the boss has *something* on the princess - I refuse to believe that his repulsive ass is Meng Xuan.

What's with that look, LL? Did you forget that the 3-face-mask - what's his name again? Wen something? - is after ZYZ's inner core? Did you think he was gonna stop trying to get it when you backed out of your deal? (Unless he's more like, welp, there goes my chance to get rid of the  poison...)

The whole "why do we need the scale" sequence is sending me. Ying Lei: she's so good at making up stories! ZYC: she probably got that from one of her novels. YL: I was not allowed to read erotica!!! 🤣 Meanwhile, in the distance, WX: let me spin this even harder, for maximum effect. ZYZ: 😲😱🤯😵‍💫🫡 YL: 🤢

But of course, the show will not let us forget that the success rate of interspecies romance in this universe is exactly zilch, nada, and zippo... and here I am, still holding onto hope for some kind of satisfactory ending. Oof, the way WX went "you owe me a life" so matter-of-factly... give me more female characters with a backbone of steel!

Omg can I just barf. Wen Zongyu *is* Meng Xuan? Is it just me who finds the taste of the Wilderness women we've seen so far shacking up with humans - Bai Jiu's mom and now the princess -  highly questionable? Like, why. My aroace ass cannot conceive how the princess could fall for *that* guy, of all people. I've sat through all the tragic romances so far not quite understanding maybe, but believing in all of them, but this, no.

(Also, it is now confirmed, that little bridge is like a tourist attraction for lovers, only every couple who sat on it is doomed. You should've played with your sparklers at the dock, ZYZ, WX!)

Oh wait hold up? Meng Xuan is someone WZY knew? He pretended to be him? Oh for fuck's sake! But the woman the princess poisoned *was* WZY's wife, right? And WX's dad and WZY knew each other??? This is so confusing ffs

"An innocent person's only crime is to own something valuable." "People with a treasure are always surrounded by bad wolves and cunning foxes. In most cases, in order to protect the treasure, they become a bloodthirsty beast, too." "It's a choice. She could choose not to." Love this whole convo on innocence and how it can get twisted, and ZYC restating his values. (I also get distracted by his eyelashes, like, constantly. 😅)

Oh, is WX going for the jugular. (And it appears only ZYC knew about the princess killing WX's dad. When did he find out, I wonder.) Also, hello? The *triple* murderer gets to make a request? For ZYZ's inner core, nonetheless??? I mean, I know why she's asking for that specifically - Chongwu Camp lackey did get to her first, after all - but that's not how "paying back" works, lady.

ZYZ, you just promised ZYC that you won't seek death, and then not only do you risk your life for him almost immediately after, now you're back on your self-sacrificial bs??? I swear, ZYC's patience for this demon. And his love, too. "Keep your inner core. I won't exchange it for anything, not even the Cloud Light Sword." Ahhh my heart.

Did he really pull a demonic equivalent of "my body, my choice"??? ::dies:: and then he goes, you don't want to make that choice, I'll make it for you. I immediately flashed back to Ying Long making the decision for Bingyi, oh no 😭

Awwww goddamnit everyone (not you WX, you're on the right side here), stop making ZYC sad! He cares for all of you, stop forcing him to make impossible choices! (You can tell I'm really invested when I start talking directly to the characters lol) In a way I understand why Ying Lei and PSJ would choose Xiao Jiu over ZYZ. YL's grandpa's death is no doubt still fresh on his mind, and even though in a way he seems to be going against his grandpa's final act of love, it's also a sort of "life for life" reasoning. For PSJ, even if her views of demons shifted since we first met her, Xiao Jiu is first and foremost a kid who reminds her of her brother. So I understand where they might be coming from, and I still don't like that ZYC has to deal with his found family fracturing before his very eyes.

Goddamnit, Ying Lei's projecting his own wish for being special and chosen. Makes sense, our underappreciated comic relief might not be expressing it much but we've been shown his constant vying for attention and validation (especially from ZYC and XJ) often enough. Headpats my dear boy, you *are* special. You are also, however, using emotional blackmail to sway ZYC, and I don't like that.

Ah, PSJ, back to annoying tf out of me. "Not 'we.' Just you and Zhuo Yichen" is it now? Damn it, this show just keeps finding ways to make my heart hurt. Don't break up the family!!! Not like this! You tell them, ZYC! (ZYZ's face when ZYC in essence said, over my dead body!)

............

Remember folks this is me yelling into my notepad as I'm watching bit by bit. At this point I had to stop because I reached my limit and at the same time had a terrible thought that this is another illusion. Because no way in hell did I just watch them-  Draw. Weapons. On. ZYC???!!!

This can't be real. ZYZ, stop this nonsense!

....... I hate it here.

Okay, before I go any further, I *know* from the MV and the trailer that whatever the fuck just happened can't be real. But they better have a *very* good explanation because my poor heart pretty much stopped for a moment.

So they got the scale. Yippie.

What was the point of all of this if she dgaf for the letter? Please get them both off of my screen, he's a fucking monster and she has no taste, and I dgaf for their tragic story (barf). I think this is the first time I got seriously annoyed while watching this drama, which, considering we're on ep 28, is a feat in itself.

How tf did he recognize PSJ's arrow? Can he tell it's hers by its trajectory? I guess he's just naturally brilliant at everything killing related?

OMG ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, DRAMA. We were told earlier that the fish can communicate with Longyu! And they gave us a shot of fish in that pond they were all standing at! They even showed us WX holding up something before the "break-up" started - I just didn't realize it was her "notebook"... So everyone was acting??? But there was no way ZYC could've read her notes, so was he the only one who wasn't??? 😭 You mofos, how dare you put him through stress like that!!!

"Go away." "Okay." Someone's sleeping on a couch tonight... From the music in the background I know we're supposed to find this reveal funny, the *four* of them definitely do (while laughing at him), and I just keep thinking of what it must've felt like to him. Isn't his biggest fear losing his loved ones? Whether by death or by a difference in thought, which changes love into hate? (Stil not over that little speech on love vs hate XJ's mom gave several eps back!) Even if it was a ruse, for him it was real. In short, ZYC my man, I applaud you for your restraint; I would've blasted the lot with some ice by now.

Oof another reveal. Will the asshole care? I doubt it. ZYZ's hand on WX's shoulder because of course she's gonna blame herself. Aaaand I was right, the asshole doesn't care... can someone just shoot him for me, please.

Wow, ZYZ, you little attention whore. And again they're giving us the "you can't choose your origin, but you can choose your own life," just as they're marching us towards the inevitable end. Nooo, not the leaves speech! Seriously, the amount of beautiful, soul-crushing lines in this drama! Aaaand he just said the title. The dream will end, we will wake up, we'll go back to reality. But we'll remember the dream forever... I feel like WX is expressing our hopes for a different ending, and ZYZ is confirming our fears that it can't be changed. Goddamnit.

And then she goes, let's live together, even though there's definitely something wrong going on with her??? Thanks for the forehead touch, drama, I'm a sucker for those.

Aw LL, you sad little demon possessing a dying child's body. I find it fascinating how different his cave looks now, almost ethereal with all the flowers and floating lights, while he's decaying (not to mention all the raw meat he's been consuming).

ZYC changed clothes, thank goodness 😅 I mean, y'all *could* just apologize? Why make it seem that he's the unreasonable one for being genuinely upset over something he didn't know was an act? The prolonged hovering of their hands, I can't 🤣 Do you want to get the scale stolen? Because that's how you get things stolen in this world, by not using them immediately. Come to think of it, why don't they know how to use it? You'd think Ying Long told them, right? (What you wanna bet that somehow WZY knows?) What the heck did I just say? They're already being watched...

Good on you for not being fooled (I mean, ZYC *never* smiles like that, why does she keep making the same mistake), but oh goodness did he lose the thing he was supposed to guard with his life *fast*. I hate that we see them so reactive so often, and just *not* smart. They *just* said LL was going to try to get the scale - but they still left Ying Lei by himself? Please, you're supposed to be good, not *dumb*!

Huh, I guess I should've known there'll be another twist(s). I'm exhausted so all I have left is, I appreciate the little moment of softness between LL and his human livers dealer, and did ZYZ really teach LL *all* his tricks? We shall see. (And as I promised myself, I'm not checking out the preview. My sanity's frayed as it is.)

[gyupremacy]

Beauty Marks | lsm.

↳ Pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader

↳ Genre: smut, established relationship

↳ Au(s): idol!AU

↳ Word Count: 1.2k

↳ Rating: 18+

↳ Warning(s): unprotected sex (cover your stump before you hump), fingering (f. receiving), facial, fondling, oral (mutual), swearing, dom!DK, sub!reader, light choking, brief biting, an absurd amount of pet names

↳ Summary: Dokyeom's been getting dogpiled lately for the little "gifts" you give him before he leaves for the studio. Let's just say... it has some interesting results.

↳ a/n: Thanks to a *lovely* poll in a SVT server I'm in, we have the lovely DK getting down and dirty with a daddy kink. Thank you so much for Indigo @playmetheclassics beta-ing and creating this banner!

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You have been a hot topic amongst Seventeen these past few weeks. All things considered, you WERE the girlfriend of one sunshine and main vocalist, Dokyeom.

However, your relationship with him was not the main source of chatter - at least not as a whole - but one aspect was a recurring presence: your lips.

Your boyfriend knew about your habit of overdoing it a bit when it came to your lipstick. Applying at least three layers at a time, the remnants of the ruby red marks were ever present on him.

Whether it be on his face, his neck, or his shoulder, it had gotten so bad that the other members were placing bets on where the next kiss mark would be.

"There is no way Y/N is going to let you out of the house these days, hyung," Chan snickered with Seungkwan.

"That girl will pounce on you someday, Kyeom!" Jeonghan joked...

"Looks like she already has!" Seungcheol added, laughing.

Normally, he would brush off those kinds of remarks, but it has started to annoy him. He didn't mind letting the guys see how affectionate you were with each other. However, the assumptions about the dynamics of your relationship were what bothered him.

Comments about him being "whipped" for you weren't anything that warranted a response, but the implications about him essentially being your "boy toy" did.. He didn't have any problem with his masculinity, nor did he feel the need to prove it, but the fact that his personal life was up for discussion was something he disliked.

"Easy guys! I don't think Dokyeom looks too happy right now," Joshua warned.

"Come on, Shua! He knows we're just playing with him! Right, DK?" Mingyu laughed.

"Right," was all he could muster through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else.

That's when he, not so quietly, got up and left the scene, leaving the rest of the members in awkward silence.

"So… does anyone want a beer?" Jihoon chimed in.

The door of your apartment slammed open, and that's when you knew your boyfriend had come home.

"Hi, baby! How wa-" you didn't even get the opportunity to finish your sentence when Dokyeom pounced on you instantly.

You were pinned against the wall and door that led towards your bedroom, with his body enveloping you like a shield.

"That little stunt you pulled earlier today caused quite the commotion among the guys. Don't you think we should do something about that, baby girl?" his voice went down several octaves more than his normal tone, leaving goosebumps down your skin.

"W-well, if the guys were giving you a hard time for the lipstick stains I left, maybe you could talk it out with them?" you tried to say in defense, but a dark glint was visible in his eyes.

"No, I was thinking of something more… on the punishing side," Dokyeom said as he pushed you into the room and onto the bed.

Your sex life was fairly vanilla, all things considered. You both had discussed wanting to try new things but knew each other's limits: no degrading, inflicting pain, and always making sure you were okay with what was happening.

"You're so sexy, angel. Too bad you had to embarrass Daddy in front of his friends," he shook his head, his hand wrapping around your throat with a slight squeeze. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes," you muttered..

"Yes, what?" Dokyeom teased.

"Yes, Daddy!" you moaned.

He was pushing it when it came to the "Daddy" thing. You didn't mind using pet names in the bedroom, but you never heard the end of it after you teased him once with it.

"Good girl! Now, let's get these clothes off you," Dokyeom didn't hesitate, taking your shorts and underwear off in one motion, only for him to reach underneath your shirt to discover you were bare.

"Nothing underneath, either? You must be aching for pleasure," he bit his lip and bent his head down placing kisses along your stomach.

Dokyeom moved lower to place kisses on your thigh, biting your inner thigh slightly as he did so until finally moving onto your dripping core

Dokyeom lapped up the juices from your core, looking into your eyes the way you like them. He alternated between the usual kissing and teasing motions as well as thrusting his tongue into you.

"Oh fuck!" you moaned, tilting your head back, wanting nothing more but to stay like this.

"If you moan, I will stop," Dokyeom warned. You bit your lip in agony as you wanted to scream out in pleasure at his actions. He reached up towards your body, squeezing the soft mound in his hand.

He brought his hand back down your body, taking his thumb and pressing it against your spot. The digit soon disappeared inside of you, reappearing and disappearing once more at a rapid pace.

"Does that feel good, baby?" Dokyeom asked.

"Uh huh, It feels so good inside me," you manage to muster out, all while trying not to moan.

"That's good! I'm going to take my pants off, and I want you to suck me off." he unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down before throwing his underwear across the room.

You moved over to lie down on your stomach, bringing your lips up to the tip of his member and bringing him inside your mouth.

"Yes! Just like that!" Dokyeom praised.

Wanting to feel him in the back of your throat, you attempt to go further down his shaft until your gag reflex gets the best of you.

"Don’t worry about taking me all the way, Y/N. We'll have plenty of room between your other lips," he winked, flipping you once more on your back.

"I was waiting all day for you to come back home so you could be inside of me." you bit your lip, ready for the familiar stretch that came with your boyfriend's thick member.

He teased your lips with the cockhead at first, only to enter you in one swift motion him. It took a while for you to adjust to his size, but the familiar tightness in your lower belly was all you both needed to continue.

"Oh, god! I'm so close!" Dokyeom said as he rutted inside of you.

"Me too!" you gritted through your teeth while still suppressing the moans you wanted to let out.

"Where do you want it, princess?" he requested.

You quietly murmured "face" before he slid out of you, motioning for you to get on your knees on the carpeted floor.

He rapidly jerked his member looking down at your lit-up eyes and eager tongue sticking out just for him. Shots of clear liquid come out all over your face and tongue.

"Now that's what you call a beauty mark!" Dokyeom giggled, placing a kiss on your cheek and then getting up to get a towel to clean you up.

He enters the attached bathroom, grabbing a towel to clean you off. You both curled up on the bed, making small talk.

"What were you going to ask before I… interrupted?" Dokyeom smiled.

"I was about to ask you about your day, but after that, I got my answer." you breathe out.

There was a moment of silence between you two before you interjected.

"Were you mad about me leaving lipstick stains on you?" you queried.

"No. I guess it was all the frustration from the guys' teasing and I need an outlet to release it," Dokyeom mused.

"Well, if it means anything, none of the other guys has anyone to leave kiss marks on them," you joked.

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