#living out my wedding fantasies through my art

[kingofbodyrolls]

Jungkook fic recs 2024 🥳

In honor of Jungkook’s birthday, I want to share my ultimate favorite Jungkook stories, that I’ve read this past year (2023-2024) 💜 I want to thank each and every writer on this list for creating such wonderful stories and art - you are truly amazing ✨ All the fics on this list hold a dear place in my heart 🥹🥳

❗Most of these fics are smutty as hell or contains dark themes, so minors dni.❗ 

If you read anything on this list and you like it, please leave a comment to the writer or reblog the fic, it might seem like a tiny gesture, but it really means a lot for writers and I can guarantee it will put a smile on their faces💜 Let’s share and give lots of love!

Looking for more to read? Check ‘The Library’, last years Jungkook recs or  last years recs 🙂

[index] → jan | feb (jhs) | mar (myg) | apr | may | jun | jul | aug | sep (jjk)(knj) | oct (pjm) | nov | dec (kth)(ksj) |

Emoji meaning → angst = 🌩️, smut = 🥵, fluff = 🥰, comedy = 😂, yandere = 😈, thriller/dark = 👻, fantasy = 🪄. 

⭐When the End Comes (series; completed) @oddinary4bts [77.9k] // jjk x f.reader // breakup!au, slice of life!au, photographer!Jungkook x lawyer!reader // 🌩️🌩️🌩️🥵

📝 seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook?

🗨️ this is a sequel to ‘The Forgotten Spaces’, which was just *chef’s kiss* 😘 The series is completed now – and afsfdfdsfg it was just so damn beautiful and the ending!!! It was definitely worth all my tears 🥹💜

⭐Stretch You Out @chateautae [24k] // jjk x knj x f.reader // college!au, s2f2l, gym employee!namjoon, gym employee!jungkook // 🥵🥰

📝 you have a plan for your crappy, diabolical ex who’s set on ruining your life; making him jealous by snagging a raunchy photo with two hot employees at the gym. what you didn’t have a plan for? befriending the mischievous pair to aid in your revenge and ending up underneath not just one, but both of them.

🗨️ holy fucking shit 🥵 🫣 this was so exceptionally good! So deliciously filthy, it really delivered on every freaking aspect 💯 incredible 👏🏾 perfection 👏🏾💎

⭐The Wedding Planners @gukyi [28K] // jjk x f.reader // e2l, wedding!au // 😂🥰🌩️🥵

📝 Jeon jungkook is three things: cocky, terrible, and your worst enemy. then your best friend hoseok gets engaged to the love of his life, and suddenly jeon jungkook is four things: cocky, terrible, your worst enemy, and the man you will be spending the next seven months with in order to plan your best friend’s wedding. 

🗨️ what I love about this is one, is definitely the slow-burn and the enemies to lovers aspect too. The banter between reader and Jungkook is just so priceless and reading how their relationship slowly unfolds and develops through the months of the wedding planning was just everything 💯 Hoseok and Yoongi’s personality in this also makes this fic truly amazing.

⭐Fragment of the Past (1)(2)(3) (series; completed) @ctrlsht [28.1K] // jjk x f.reader // patient!jk x psychiatrist!reader // 🌩️😈👻🥵

📝 you are a well-known and respected psychiatrist and author. You start treating Jungkook, who suffers from PTSD after surviving an extremely traumatic incident. As you help him confront his traumatic past, he begins to act strangely, and you start uncovering something about him that will change everything.

🗨️ another first for me, with the thriller vibes and damn it delivers on that! It’s really, really good 👏 Pacing is really good and how we see more and more of Jungkook’s disturbing traits is just brilliant ✨

⭐Brother’s best friend @lavishedinjimin [5.3K] // jjk x f.reader // brothers best friend!au // 🥵

📝 in which Y/n owns a smut blog dedicated to her crush and brother’s best friend, jungkook. it was all fun and games until he finds out about it and acts it out with you. 

🗨️ at first I was like ‘this is very cute’ and then it turned so dirty so fucking fast I almost got whiplash 😂✨

⭐To Give a Helping Hand: pt1 + pt2 (series; ongoing) @oddinary4bts [1.8k] // jjk x f.reader // idol!au // 🥵

📝 when Jungkook comes home from the gym, he goes feral thinking about you.

🗨️ I don’t know where to begin… everything Ella writes is pure gold, why would this short one be any different? 🥵 I fucking loved it; it was hot and Jungkook was so needy! And you know what? I think she’s working on part two!!!!! ✨🥵 (seriously, can’t recommend this enough!!!)

⭐When Worlds Collide (series; ongoing) @letjungcoook7 [currently loading…] // jjk x f.reader // college!au, slice of life!au, s2l, fuckboy!jk, virgin!reader // 🥵🌩️

📝 since your mother's passing a year ago, life has been a whirlwind. balancing your passion for ballet with a low-key presence at college, where you’re the top student, was your norm until Jungkook stepped into your world. known for his reputation preceding him, jungkook is the talk of the campus with his casual rendezvous that have the girls buzzing. despite his allure, you're puzzled by his need for your tutoring prowess, especially given his own academic merit. yet, succumbing to his persistent requests, you reluctantly agree, only to find yourself thrust into the spotlight you've always avoided.

🗨️ this story is so good! It’s still being updated and there’s so much drama in it that is slowly being unraveled! 💜

⭐Liquor Lips @letjungcoook7 [1.5k] // jjk x f.reader // established relationship // 🥵

📝 left intentionally blank by the author.

🗨️ it was incredible good, like I want to read more (it’s not a series though!). It’s the perfect dirty little one-shot/drabble ❤️‍🔥

⭐Chasing Cars (series; completed) @oddinary4bts [218.5k] // jjk x f.reader // brother’s best friend!au, forbidden love!au, college!au, slice of life!au // 🥵🌩️🥰

📝 when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

🗨️ the series has just ended and it is seriously so fucking good ✨ But you should pack some tissues, a hot cup of tea or coffee, because you’ll want to read through everything because of the cliffhangers and drama - also remember to read the drabbles for JK's pov too 💖

⭐Bottle Up Old Love @wintaerbaer [4.6k] // jjk x f.reader // exes to lovers // 🥵🌩️🥰

📝 Jungkook may have broken up with you a year ago, but that's not going to stop him from coming to your rescue when he sees you being cornered by a creep.

🗨️ I really love how protective Jungkook is in this one, and damn the smut 🥵 It’s so fucking good!!!

⭐Hold Me Close + Hold Me Closer @ahundredtimesover [22.6k] // jjk x f.reader // brother’s best friend!au // 🥵🌩️🥰

📝 when Jimin hits a crisis, he enlists the help of his older sister - you - and his best friend, Jungkook, to put the pieces back again. That proves to be difficult when 1) Jimin’s a brat and a certified pain in the ass, and 2) Jungkook has grown and suddenly, you can’t keep your eyes off him.

🗨️ omg this was so fucking amazing 😭✨ The characters are amazing in this, there’s cute backstory, details and the sibling bond is top tier, and the chemistry between oc and Jungkook is so fucking good! The tension is perfect and I love the slow burn 🥰 I feel this was also a bit on the existential side, which I really love. Like the dialogue had me thinking about my own life! I love when that happens! And it was so fun reading about siblings, and I’m missing my own baby sister right now. Anyway, it was exceptionally good! Amazing! 💯 And there’s a mention of Jungkook’s glazed potato incident you can’t miss! It was so fun (both this and the run episode 😂). Can’t recommend this one enough!!

⭐Jump Then Fall (Into You): pt1 + pt2 + pt3 (one-shot; completed) @writtenwhalien [52k] // jjk x f.reader // bf2l, cruise!au, fake dating!au // 🌩️🥰🥵

📝 bringing Jungkook along as your date to your ex’s lavish cruise wedding seemed like a perfect idea at first — all of your family and close friends together, nothing can go wrong… then Jungkook’s ex shows up and all of a sudden you’re in a years long relationship with him. You don’t mind though, really, how hard can sharing a cabin and pretending to be deeply in love with your best friend really be?

🗨️ I seriously can’t recommend this one enough! I love longer stories because it gives a chance for the characters to develop better! And this does that perfectly; even the minor/background/supporting characters have such a deep and rich story it’s just brilliant!! 💎 And the relationship between oc and Jungkook? 🌶️ Delicious tension, having to pretend to be a couple, when you’re practically already a couple, but haven realized it yet? 🤭 It is just perfect!!!

⭐Ultimatum @parkmuse [10.3k]  // jjk x f.reader // established relationship // 🥵😂

📝 your pervy, idiotic boyfriend just so happens to also be your friendly neighborhood Spider-man (in bed).

🗨️ omfg 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 I don’t know where to start with this one, first off, if you haven’t read it before, please go read it, because it is fucking hilarious, even in the smut scenes 😂 Which, fyi, they were really good, smutty and funny!  Okay. There was one scene in there right, I laughed way too hard at!!!! Really good and amazing! 👏💯

⭐Will it Fit? @jeonsweetpea [6.7k] // jjk x f.reader // roommates!au, i2l // 🥵🌩️🥰😂

📝 so what if your roommate caught you masturbating? At least he forgot about it the next day. But he can’t exactly forget the big dildo you left in your shared bathroom…

🗨️ the banner alone had me giggling way too much! Like his face, and with the title— it’s just fucking hilarious 🤣 And the story did not disappoint one bit, fuck, everything was so good and amazing! Their banter, tension and humor was just perfectly on point ✨ This was just incredibly perfect 💯

⭐Dumbo @cinnaminsvga [17.2k]  // jjk x f.reader // s2l // 🥵😂😂

📝 you know what they say about boys with big noses… {or alternatively: jungkook has a big dick but he doesn’t know how to use it, but luckily you’re there to help.}

🗨️ this was just so fucking hilarious I don’t even know where to begin 😂 I don’t know how many times the word ‘dick’ or its many different variations is used in this fic, but damn it a lot, and damn is it fun! 🤣 There’s so many dick jokes it should be criminal! It was so good though, the story was just too funny, almost absurd (lol), but dammit it’s a new favorite! 💯

⭐Fool for You (series; completed) @btsgotjams27 [24.9k]  // jjk x f.reader // college!au, fake dating, s2f2l // 🥵🌩️🥰

📝 when Jungkook is finally single, you shoot your shot.

🗨️ This is a short series and it’s really good— it’s cute, has angst and a happy ending ✨

⭐Make it Right @jungkxook [11.5k] // jjk x f.reader // band!au, exes to lovers // 🥵🌩️

📝 you’re wholeheartedly, madly in love with jungkook and yet you shouldn’t be because it’s been almost a year since you broke up with him. worst part of it all is that you know he’s still in love with you too.

🗨️ gaaaaahhh, I’m crying 😭 This was so beautiful, bittersweet 😭 I loved it so much and their love, omg, so pure, so precious. His song for her, I’m just like 😭 (can you tell I’m a sobbing mess?) Definitely a new favorites and I loved the fact that, they both knew they were broken, waiting for each other, and even though broken, they will heal and take it slow 😭💯

⭐Coffee Stain @oddinary4bts [1.9k] // jjk x f.reader // grief!au // 🌩️🌩️🌩️

📝 you grief, and it's the expression of your everlasting love for Jungkook.

🗨️ do you want to cry, but not able too? Go and read this! It’s so fucking sad, but so incredible beautiful and sweet, it will make you tear up in now time. As said before, Ella just have a way with words, and in this one, they sure do hurt a lot 😭 But I fucking love it ✨

⭐Bite Me, Jeon @sailoryooons [19.3k] // jjk x f.reader // f2l, vampire!au, college!au // 🥵🌩️👻🪄

📝 somehow you convince Jeon Jungkook to look into theories of vampirism for a research paper. What Jungkook doesn’t expect, is for vampirism to become a very real and very personal problem for him.

🗨️ this one is insanely good! It’s so amazing! This one reminds me of Ghostfacers from Supernatural, lol. It was so freaking funny. I was pleasantly surprised at the plot, and I loved it. If you haven’t read this one yet, and you love vampires, this one is definitely for you!!! 🥰

⭐Confided @cravetive [5k] // jjk x f.reader // neighbor!au // 🥵

📝 y/n didn't think testing out a new sex toy would cause so much havoc but no worries, her next-door neighbor Jungkook doesn't mind lending her a bit of assistance.

🗨️ holy shit it was amazing and the smut….. Fuuuuck I’m not gonna lie here okay, I was dripping, I was feeling it so fucking bad and damn. It was hot. The plot was so silly and hot, like omg 🥵

This is my little corner with my own fics— I don’t write that much (I prefer to read), but it would mean a lot to me if you checked out my work or read it. You don’t have to, it’s up to you of course 🥰

⭐Say That Again (I Dare You) [13.1k] // jj x f.reader x pjm // est. relationship (jjk), threesome, slice of slice!au // 🥵

📝you moan in your sleep, and your boyfriend knows this, but when you keep moaning another man’s name in your sleep - and that man just happens to be one of your friends? What will Jungkook do? 

🗨️ this is just pure smut, lol. I wrote it as a birthday gift to all you people 😂

⭐Say I Do [5.2k] // jj x f.reader // wedding!au // 🥵

📝you and Jungkook tease each other at your wedding reception.

🗨️ again, this is just pure smut, nothing else 😂

⭐Till We Meet Again [11.4k] // jj x f.reader // mermaid!au, fantasy!au, childhood f2l, nostalgia // 🥵🪄🥰😂

📝when your childhood friend that you had a crush on, moved away out of the blue— you never thought you’d see him again. A night swim in the ocean will have you feeling delusional, but the voice that fills your ears— sweet like cotton candy, you’d recognize that voice anywhere, it’s Jungkook.

🗨️ this is a favorite of mine, and it’s just really really cute and fluffy with a sprinkle of smut 🥰

And as a something little extra, here’s a few fics that I haven’t had the time to read yet, but damn I’m buzzing to get to read them:

Red Light (series; ongoing) @bunnybubae

Ember Burning @kpopfanfictrash

Seven Days (series; ongoing) @kithtaehyung

Dextrocardia (series; ongoing) @jeonstudios

All That Glitters (series; completed) @aquagustd

In This Paradise @ressjeon

Make You Mine @mercurygguk

Castaway @hamsterclaw

For Science (series; completed) @boymeetsweevil

Heart of the Storm @ladyartemesia

Happy birthday to our GOLDEN man Jeon Jungkook!!!! 🥳💜✨

[theoldsports]

SOUR.

Art Donaldson x Reader (Patrick Zweig x Reader) | SORRY series | 4.2k words

it’s finally here by popular demand. Patrick has entered the plot. this is set before all of the prior chapters, two days before the Donaldson wedding. can be read as part of the SORRY SERIES (read more episodes of their lives here) or on its own. lemme know if you’d like to be on the taglist.

warnings: 18+. angst. it’s brutal angst. more than allusions to Patrick’s canonical use of hard drugs. rehab, allusion to an OD, mention of Art’s disordered eating patterns. they’re bad for each other in a good way. the Donaldsons have a friendly dog. coveting another man’s wife. discussion of niche sexual fantasies. making out. biting. tornados/extreme weather. running away from your problems.

“Art?”

“Nngh.”

“Artie, wake up.”

“‘M up. Fhhh… ‘m up. What’s the matter?” Art grumbled with half shut eyes. “Somethin’ wrong?” He whispered even though they were alone. It was nighttime which meant whispering to Art.

“I don’t like this storm.”

What a sign that storm should have been.

Art smirked. “We’re getting married in, like, three days and you’re worried about the weather?”

“There’s a tornado warning. Or watch. Whichever the worse one is. I saw it on the news.”

Art frowned. “You ever been through a tornado?”

“No.”

Art rolled over from his position in [Y/N]’s arms to face her nose to nose. “I have. A lot. Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. His arm slotted into the dip of her waist and pulled her closer. “Close ‘em for me. That’s it, that’s it.” He coaxed as she followed his directions.

“I don’t see what this has to do with—“

“Shh, listen,” they both got quiet. Rain pelted against the windows. Wind whistled. Branches cracked and crunched. Thunder boomed. [Y/N] could see the gleam of lightning even behind her eyelids. “Hear it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Congrats. Your ears are workin’ best as they can,” Art teased to try and get his fiancé to crack a smile. “Now, which one’s the loudest? Which of the sounds?”

“You breathing.”

“I’m flattered. Which one outside?”

[Y/N] listened. “Right now? The rain, I think.”

“We’re in the clear for now. Let me know when the wind’s louder. Like that real, real crazy whooshing, whistling sound. When it starts whipping like that, we’ll go in the bathroom and lock the doors, yeah? Hell, we can head in now if it would make you feel better?”

“What if I fall asleep before the weather gets worse?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay awake,” Art yawned. “How about I get you up if I notice a disturbance. I gotta take care of my wife, right?”

“I’m not your wife.”

Art sighed. “…I know. I’m just practicing.”

Fortunately, no tornado ever touched down. And Art was still there when [Y/N] woke up.

It always amazed her that Art was still there everyday. For every nasty thing she said to him that she didn’t mean, every argument where she told him Patrick was right, every tennis match won or lost, every natural disaster, every tear shed. Art was there for all of it. He liked the bad moments as much as the good ones because it meant simply more time spent by [Y/N]’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

It was too much power, [Y/N] frequently thought, that she had over Art.

[Y/N] faced Art and brushed his strawberry blonde hair away from his forehead. Art often looked exhausted. He wore his tiredness on his face and shoulders. The exhaustion of constantly chasing, people-pleasing and being a professional athlete could destroy a kid. Art wore it like a Boy Scout badge. [Y/N] could watch him look relaxed forever. It was so rare he looked like that.

“Good morning, guard dog,” [Y/N] whispered. Art stirred. She could tell he was awake even though his eyes were shut due to that crease the reappeared between his eyebrows. It was never not there in his waking moments. Slowly, Art’s hand crept up and gently clutched [Y/N]’s wrist. Art used his grip to slide [Y/N]’s hand down his own drowsy face. He planted a kiss on her palm before tiredly looking at her. “Good morning.” She repeated to him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” [Y/N] replied. Gray sunlight filtered through the window. “You ready for today?” She smirked.

“What’s today?”

“Patrick’s in town.”

Art dramatically threw his arm over his face and groaned. “I thought he was in tomorrow… Everything was so peaceful… And quiet,” Art mumbled into his elbow. He couldn’t keep a straight face for long and resolved into a soft laugh. “Whose babysitting?” He asked, peering his blue and brown eyes over his arm.

“I’m picking up the cake today, so I figured I could use his strength.”

Art sat up a bit. “You’re getting it today?”

“In the later afternoon, yeah. Why?”

“It’s gonna be, like, stale.”

[Y/N] glanced over at Art. “If we had gotten cupcakes like I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re such a little jerk.” Art teased.

“Me!” [Y/N] gasped. “It doesn’t even matter because it’s not like you’re gonna eat it anyway because you don’t eat anything.”

“Little jerk!” Art said with his crooked smile widening. He leaned in, slotting an arm over her. “You heard me. You’re a little… troublemaking jerk.” Art’s nose almost pressed against hers.

“Oh yeah? Why are you marrying me then, hm?”

“…You’re pretty,” Art grinned almost timidly, bowing his head. His flat vocal timber sounded like the verbal equivalent of a blush. “Like, really, really pretty. Even if you suck.” Tenderly, Art leaned the rest of the way in to kiss [Y/N]. Once and then twice and then seven times. Maybe fourteen.

And they would have stayed like that all day.

They would have.

BANG BANG BANG.

Like gunshots.

Their lips parted and they held long eye contact. They paused. They sighed.

“Patrick.” They both said.

With a bend of his arms, the full weight of Art’s toned body collapsed on top of [Y/N]’s.

“Pretty baby!”

“No. ‘M pretending he’s not out there,” He laid flat on her, head on her chest. “Can’t go anywhere now.”

BANG BANG BANG on the front door again. Cheese, the couple’s Labrador mix barked at the sound from downstairs.

“Art!”

“Mhm-mm. Nope. Too bad. Sucks for Patrick.”

[Y/N] huffed. “You’re upsetting the dog.”

“He’s upsetting the dog,” Art started to laugh. “He showed up early. I’m just laying here. Hey, hey!” Art jeered as [Y/N] wiggled out from underneath him from backwards. She tried to inch away off the side of the bed. Her shoulders slumped against the carpet, while Art held her legs in place on the bed. [Y/N] dangled in a half on-half off sort of way. Her oversized Stanford t-shirt rolled up during the drama, exposing her breasts to Art. Unashamed, he stared.

[Y/N] twisted her foot into the side of Art’s face, causing a small cry of disgust from him. Just enough chaos for her to slip away. Without hesitation, she tossed the lightweight door open and skittered down the stairs with Art’s long gate keeping pace behind her. His arms reached out in an attempt to grab her. “He’s early! He can wait! He’s never been early in his whole fucking life!” Art laughed. Cheese jumped and barked at the hysteria.

The chase continued until [Y/N]’s hand hit the doorknob and chain. She unlocked it immediately. As [Y/N] ripped the door open, Art’s arm encircled her waist yanking her to the side with the force of his momentum, causing her to laugh with glee.

And on the other side of the door was Patrick Zweig.

Smiling impishly, Patrick took in the disheveled appearances of his two favorite people. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Nice boner.” Patrick smirked at Art, while he pulled [Y/N] into a side hug.

Art didn’t have a boner, or at least a proper one. But the comment was enough to get Art to look. He rolled his eyes and pulled Patrick in for a hug. Cheese ran over to the door for attention, when Art greeted Patrick.

Art closed the door. Patrick ducked down to greet the Labrador too. He liked Cheese, but wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around a dog in his free time the way that Art and [Y/N] did. Cheese really liked Patrick, much to his chagrin, so he pretended to be nice. While Patrick sat on the floor with the animal, he looked up at his best friends. “What’s with the clothes? You just get up?” Art with no shirt in just tube socks and boxers, and [Y/N] in Art’s old college shirt and underwear. They had all seen each other like this so many times growing up that no one particularly cared that the future Donaldsons looked so post coital. It was pretty normal. Patrick’s smirk sliced further across his unwashed face with the ghost of a laugh. “Were you guys fucking?” He said like a horny teenager.

[Y/N] laughed hard and kissed her lifelong best friend on top of the head on her way to make a pot of coffee in the kitchen. “No.” Art sighed in disappointment, flopping onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. This disappointment was either disappointment in Patrick for asking, or disappointment in the lack of sex due to Patrick’s arrival. It was Patrick’s fault either way.

When the dog got bored, Cheese wandered into the kitchen for nonexistent scraps. Patrick pulled up a chair next to Art and dropped his backpack on the floor. “How’s it going, man? You look good. Feeling ready?” He asked, leaning forward to tap Art across his bare knee.

Art nodded as if it say it’s a sure thing. “Thanks. We miss you. We appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

“I appreciate you being here,” [Y/N] cut in. “Because you’re in my half of the wedding party.” She and Art were always in constant competition over who loved Patrick more. Art wanted him to be his best man. [Y/N] won out, though, having known him since the age of seven and Art only since age twelve.

“Ladies please. Not all at once.” Patrick said. He stood from his chair and wrapped his long arms around [Y/N] in a proper hug finally. Briefly, his chin rested on her head. He stopped before it went on too long.

“Good to see you, kid. How’s it going?” At two months older, [Y/N] had been calling Patrick ‘kid’ diminutively for almost two decades. It was cuter before he got so tall.

“I called you yesterday.” He replied dryly, stepping back to look at her. [Y/N] noted Patrick’s intimately familiar eyes. Too wide, pupils too dilated. Hm. He wore a long sleeved sweater and jeans. And dirty tennis shoes.

“You bring something nicer than this for Saturday?” She teased, pulling on one of his holey sleeves.

Art snorted at Patrick’s expense and cracked a smile. His freckled elbows leaned onto the counter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here for two seconds, ‘n you’re already giving me tsuris?” Patrick quipped to [Y/N].

“Tsuris… Never thought I’d say it, but you sound like your mom, Patrick.” [Y/N] scoffed. Art snorted a laugh too.

Patrick frowned. “Guess I have to kill myself then.” He joked harshly to more laughter from the other two. M

“Yep. Have some coffee. Both of you. I’m going to put pants on.” [Y/N] turned away and moved to the stairs.

“Aw, do you have to?” Patrick called after her. [Y/N] tossed a middle finger up over her shoulder as she walked away. Art hissed at Patrick’s comment.

“Do you have to flirt with my wife?” Art sneered without malice.

Patrick smiled that boyish small, wicked, unassuming smile. “She’s not your wife yet.” He snapped back. Art smiled at him in return. The two held each other’s gaze adorned with sick grins for a moment before both of them dissolved into laughter. Everything was a competition, but it was only real if they brought it up.

Fast forward a few hours and Patrick and [Y/N] were in the car. Art had taken off for a haircut because his mom thought he looked like a messy little punk and wedding pictures were forever. [Y/N] drove because Patrick drove too fast and without mercy. He had a sports car once when he was in school and still spoke to his parents daily and had notably wrapped it around a telephone pole and walked out without nary a scratch. How’s that for nine lives?

[Y/N] had a sedan.

She and Patrick both held a cigarette out each of their respective windows as she drove.

“You should really quit, y’know.” She told Patrick.

He leaned over and blew smoke in her face. “Yeah, I’ll quit when you do.”

Patrick’s rude gesture didn’t bear acknowledging. “It’s different. You’re an athlete. I watch movies and review them for a living. It’s expected of me. You… you’re making your performance actively worse. You’re kneecapping yourself by choice.” [Y/N] explained.

“I’m good enough to take the hit.”

[Y/N] laughed and took a drag of her cigarette, asking it out the window. “And you’re arrogant enough to make that comment. Sometimes I look at you and you’re still thirteen. I swear to God. It’s fuckin’ funny,” she said. It was quiet for a moment. “Art, though. He doesn’t smoke anymore.”

“I don’t believe you,” Patrick replied immediately with a wild look in his eye. That was apparently a big surprise. “He’s totally lying to you. There’s no way—“

“Nope! Quit on his own too. He just decided he was done with it one day and got all pro-athlete about it.”

“Y-you’re wrong! You’re so wrong. He’s a liar. Last time I was in town, we—“

“No. No fucking way,” [Y/N] shook her head in manic disbelief. “When you came by to—“

“Mhm. Yep. On the patio. You didn’t notice?”

[Y/N] shook her head. “No sense of smell because of… I’m a smoker. I just… He’s such a shit.”

“A shit and a hypocrite!” They both laughed. When the glee dampened naturally and the cigarette butts were pitched out the window, Patrick looked over at [Y/N]. One good, long look. “You ready for Saturday?” Patrick asked because he was a masochist.

[Y/N] found herself often thinking back on this moment. Was this when it had gone wrong beyond repair?

[Y/N] sighed. She would only ever tell Patrick and maybe Art this. “Yes and no.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t say it like that. I have been ready to marry Art since I was, like, seventeen years old. It is unfathomable to me how much love I am capable of giving him, y’know? If he wanted the Mona Lisa, I’d be robbing the Louvre tomorrow. He’s it for me,” she said. Patrick faked a smile very convincingly and nodded for her to go on. “What I’m not looking forward to is everyone I know being in the same room at the same time. I don’t like other people except you and Art. And my editor. That’s about it.”

“You’re not at all worried about spending all that time married to someone?” Patrick tried to jab at her with his words while he scratched his right forearm.

“Not with Art.”

“Wow. That’s awfully grownup of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a grownup. With a smokin’ hot fiancé. And he actually cares if I live or die. Isn’t that crazy? My parents weren’t like that with each other. It’s… Am I allowed to say how grateful I am to you for bringing him home for break that one time, or is that stupid?”

“It’s kinda stupid,” he agreed teasingly. In reality, he wanted more than anything to put himself out of his misery. My fault, my fault, my fault. The words looped in Patrick’s head on constant repeat. He wanted to rip his skin off for so many different reasons. He couldn’t take it and he was trapped. Fuck.

Patrick scratched his right forearm again.

“Truth or dare?” Patrick slurred. He was twenty-one and drunk for [Y/N]’s birthday. She, Art and Patrick sat on the disgusting archaic carpet in Art’s dorm room.

“Uh, truth.” [Y/N] said too soberly to sober.

“Boring!” Art said, putting his hand on [Y/N]’s thigh.

Patrick took a long swing of his beer while he thought. “Okay, okay. What’s your weirdest sexual fantasy?” He asked.

“Ew.” [Y/N] wrinkled her nose.

Art thought the question was epic, but wasn’t going to facilitate his girl’s discomfort. “Hey, it’s her birthday, she doesn’t have to—“

“Um, no. I’ll do it. This is an actual dream I had. I think about it kinda all the time. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. It so dumb. So, it’s Art and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee or something. And Art… sings me Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK. And he’s dressed like Marilyn, but like a boy. No dress, but like the boy version of that look. Then we fuck. That’s weirder than you wanted. That was weird, right?” [Y/N] rambled.

Art leaned in closer to her. They were all drunk as skunks and he couldn’t help bite his lip. His arm pulled her closer to him. Art was handsy when drunk, they were all learning.

“Whose Jackie O?” Patrick asked.

“No Jackie O. And I’m not JFK. He’s just Marilyn. Gentlewomen prefer blondes.” [Y/N] had laughed so hard at that while she tangled her fingers in Art’s sandy hair.

The car ride to get cake and the drive back was the last proper conversation [Y/N] and Patrick had. The pair got home. Nothing seemed unusual to [Y/N] at all. They talked the whole time without any dry spells. The cake, in pieces to be assembled, was carefully toted in and placed way out of the way from disaster. Patrick took his bag to the bathroom, claiming he was going to shower.

[Y/N] shouted after him. “You know where the towels are!”

Patrick looked back over his shoulder at her with a smirk and closed the bathroom door behind him.

And he went out through the bathroom window.

[Y/N] had no idea he had gone until she heard his car start. For a minute, she thought it was the neighbors. She walked halfway down her hallway and saw the bathroom door open. No running shower water, no half nude Patrick shaving or something. She ran back down the hall and glanced out the kitchen window and watched his new white SUV whip out of the driveway.

[Y/N] stood there for several minutes. Staring and staring and staring after him. Not a single effort to move. The first thing she did was pick up her blue slidephone from beside the sink. She called Art, not Patrick. Patrick made his choice.

[Y/N] hadn’t realized she was crying when Art picked up on the other line.

“Honey? Honey, you there? You buttdial me?” Art said. [Y/N] thinks he said shit like that for several moments before she spoke. She just faced the window and stared for what felt like ages.

“Patrick’s gone.”

“Hm?”

“Patrick’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone.”

“He climbed through the bathroom window and drove off. We-we didn’t have a fight. Or-or… He just left. Like it was nothing.”

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are.”

Art rushed back in his blue-black jeep wrangler. It ripped into the smooth driveway causing the tires to damn near squeal. When he got out of his car and bounded to the door, it was clear that about half of his hair had been cut instead of all of it. [Y/N] would have laughed in an ideal situation.

“Baby, hey, what happened?” Art said breathlessly as he unlocked the door. [Y/N] sat at the seldom used dining room table the two of them used to hold their junk mail, sitting straight up and looking through Art. Art was alarmed. She never sat at the table and rarely was her face so expressionless. She was always feeling, expressing, something. He couldn’t tell if she was crying or not, but her eyes were red.

“Patrick seems to have decided not to join us this weekend.” [Y/N] said clearly.

Art closed up the door behind him and walked over to [Y/N]. His scraggly hair and bewildered expression lessened into some devastated softness. He knelt, as he often did, in front of her and took her softer hands in his. “Can you tell me what happened?” Art asked quietly. He felt angry tears sting at the corner of his own traitorous eyes.

“We went out, got the cake, got smoothies, and came back. We… He didn’t say anything weird. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. And then?”

“No, I mean, nothing happened. Like, he was on his best behavior. Like, he was doing so well. He seemed okay. Really okay, y’know?” [Y/N]’s voice broke and finally betrayed her. She choked on her last words and the tears followed. Art’s right hand traveled up the side of [Y/N] face to rest there in comfort. “We talked about everything, like always. He was totally fine. I swear. Then we got home and he says I’m gonna take a shower, or something. And then I heard his car pull away. That’s it.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him.” Art said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. He stood from the floor and pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Art leaned against the table [Y/N] sat at. He called Patrick. Then he called him again. And another time. Up to what felt like twelve times or so. He left voicemail after voicemail.

“Hey, call me.”

“Hey, it’s Art. Call me.”

“Art again. Call me back. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry about the last one. Patrick, call me. Are you coming home?”

“Hey, man. Fuck you. Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry about the last one too. I’m… Understandably, I’m kinda… Fucking pissed at you. I don’t need to talk to you like that, though. Are you okay? Are you safe? What happened? You can talk to me.”

“You’re an asshole. I wish you could see the look on [Y/N]’s face right now.”

“Don’t come back.”

Eventually, the voicemail box was full.

[Y/N] reached wordlessly for Art’s hand. She could feel his rare anger climbing. He got this ridiculous blush across his cheeks when he got angry and she could see it against the sunset’s glow. “Art?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened,” He said, turning his eyes to her. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize, pretty baby.”

“Yeah, but he’s my best friend. He’s your best friend,” He ranted. “That was a dick move to leave like that. I’m sorry that happened to you. He’s a piece of shit.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No! I do. I do mean that. For the last year, he’s treated us, especially you like trash. Do you not see how much more you deserve, [Y/N]? I don’t know what’s going on with him… Do you?”

“He’s…” [Y/N] looked down. “You think he’s using again?”

Art didn’t say anything, he just looked down. That was answer enough. [Y/N] buried her face in her hands with a shuddering sob. Art pulled her to her feet and into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, unable to hold his own tears back. Eventually, the pair landed on the sagging green couch. Art’s legs wrapped around [Y/N]’s middle. They kept the news on all night. In case he matched an accident description. They called hospitals and hunted for John Does that were over six feet with dark hair and stubble.

“What are we gonna do? He’s… He’s not coming back, is he?” [Y/N] whispered. Cheese rested his heavy beige head on her thigh. He obviously didn’t understand why Patrick had gone either.

“No, I don’t think he is,” Art replied, lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry.

Pathetically, [Y/N] raised her head to Art. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He said. [Y/N] forced Art to lean back against the couch and she laid her head on his chest. Cheese circled for a new position where he could be touching them both at the same time.

[Y/N] knew it was a little bit her fault. She leaned up and kissed Art on the corner of his lips. “It’s my fault.”

“Then it’s both of our faults. You can’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the only you I’ve got, babe.” Art huffed tiredly.

[Y/N] dug her hands into Art’s hair the way he liked. “Can I fix your haircut? Haircut’s a generous way to describe it.”

“Damn, I was actually trying out this new thing. You don’t think it’s cool?”

“Yeah, it’s big for guys who blindly answer their wife’s phone calls, I hear.” [Y/N] said weakly.

Wife was all Art heard and he melted.

“I have never known someone I love as much as you,” Art said. “I’m all in with you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do.” [Y/N] did know. She sunk her teeth into the freckled skin on Art’s right shoulder gently and he moaned. Over top of the spot, [Y/N] left a trail of kisses down Art’s bicep.

“I’m gonna call his mom.” He said once [Y/N]’s pace had slowed. Art’s stomach growled. When he got upset, he didn’t eat. [Y/N] told herself it was because he had forgotten to in stressful moments, but wondered if it was a punishment instead. She pretending she hadn’t heard the sound.

“They don’t talk.”

“I know. Just in case he turns up.”

Patrick did turn up. About ten hours later, wet and unconscious in the emergency room. Following a psych eval, Patrick went to a short stint in rehab. He had gone once prior at the age of twenty. Needless to say Patrick missed the wedding. It was too much money to up and cancel, according to Art’s piece of shit stepfather, Douglas. Patrick made no efforts to contact the Donaldsons since leaving, as he left or following rehab. Despite all of Art and [Y/N]’s tireless efforts to find him, all they had to show for it was his disconnected phone number and a crippling feeling of shame and loss. Patrick had vanished from their lives without giving either one of them a say.

Patrick was gone.

But Art was there for all of it.

TAGLIST:

@toxiclovergirl @basicallynotbreathing @miniemonie2001 @valentine333 @tremendoushorsepeachbanana-blog @athxnss @babyspice6 @diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @avylanchce @shysstuff @soberbabes @ysuftmikey @pussy-f41ry

[sailoryooons]

Gods of the Dark | One | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Dream god!Yoongi x f. human!reader

☾ Summary: Don’t ask for help in the dark. It’s an old tale you always heard whispered among the people of your village. But when you find yourself dragged kicking by the man you’re to marry, you have little choice but to beg for help long after the sun has set. The god who answers your pleas promises to save you, but every deal comes with a price. 

☾ Word Count: 21,606

☾ Genre: Fantasy, angst, strangers to lovers, smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Sexist and patriarchal society inspired by medieval europe, a lot of world building and discussion about theories/concept of dreams, discussions of morals and ethics, world building, angst, intense fight scenes, mentions/light depictions of an abusive family, discussions of gender roles and forced marriages, attempted murder via drowning, a physical fight between a man and a woman in the middle of a storm, sexual dream sequences featuring making out, biting (light), grinding, reader having flashbacks of trauma, a lot of thoughts about reader's terrible parents, a sort of power imbalance in the sense that reader is in Yoongi's realm as a part of a deal.

☾ Published: July 9, 2023

☾ A/N: It's finally here! This was originally supposed to be two giant chapters, but I cannot manage my time in a way to write to ~40k chapters and also fit all of this in a way that is not overwhelming or feels like it makes sense, so I have chosen to do this in 4 chapters of roughly 20k words! Thank you to everyone who has hyped me up for this idea, helped me work out some ideas, or listened to me struggle to write this because I was so unsure about the chemistry between Yoongi and reader at first. I am really excited to be writing this and have taken this in quite a different direction than the original idea when I had when I watched the Lilith MV, but that's okay. I heavily draw on inspiration from the Lilith MV, the song Possession of a Weapon by Ashnikko, The Sandman by Neil Gaiman, the movie The Witch, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab and the original myth of Hades and Persephone (where I got the deal/living in Yoongi's world idea from).

Special thank you to my amazing beta team who really helped make this fic what it is and make sure it was legible: @theharrowing and @here2bbtstrash

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

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Tuck a knife with my heart up my sleeve

Change like a season

-

It begins with rain.

White sheets of it beating against the window in a gentle murmur, a soft leak in the corner of the kitchen dripping into the metal bucket your mother has set out. The storm brings a cool wind with it, blowing in on the back porch where your father rocks back and forth in his chair, watching the deluge. 

Shivering, you throw another log into the fireplace, pulling your shawl closer as orange embers spark and crackle, drifting up the shute. The smell of burning cedar grows and you smile, sitting down in front of the licking flames and holding out your hands to warm your palms. 

Behind you at the kitchen table, your mother pulls a thread and needle through a dress she’s been working on, stitching purple flowers into the sleeves. You wonder if she’s making it for the neighbor's daughter, a girl a few years younger than you to be wed soon. 

Mother makes some of the best stitching in the village, her practiced hands etching artful flowers and vines and designs on the sleeves and skirts of most of the village women. She’s tried for years to pass the craft on to you, but your fingers aren’t nearly as nimble and your eye for art is sorely lacking. 

What you lack in art you make up for in stories, though. Head in the clouds, swimming in worlds, places and things you’ve never seen. Lives and people who only exist in your mind, entire fantasies with more colors and sights and smells than your tiny little world contains. 

You’d write them down if you could. Writing and reading is not a woman’s craft, though, and you know better than to press your father on the subject any further than you have in the past. A terse word from him and your raw knuckles after being forced to do the wash alone for weeks kept you from bringing up the topic of learning to read and write ever again, especially when you remember the sting of his slap when you pushed too far.

Still, you have your mind. You have the ability to dream up worlds and twist fantasies together, to daze off and pretend that you’re somewhere else. That you’re living another life.

You have the days where you finish working at the inn early, sitting in the corner of the room with hard bread and cheese, listening to the town’s storyteller whisper tales and myths to the children of the village.

For now, it will suffice. 

When the rain finally slows in the late afternoon, it’s cloudy and cool outside, the perfect temperature for a walk. Pulling on a pair of linen pants and a tunic, you creep toward the door, hoping to avoid the attention of your parents as they begin to prepare dinner in the kitchen, their movements methodical and silent. 

Carefully, you slide boots on your feet. As you reach for the front door, hidden from the view of the kitchen, you hear your mother call your name. You pause, closing your eyes and grimacing as you call back, “Yes?”

“Where are you going? It’s wet and cold outside.”

“Just for a short walk.”

“You’re going to catch a cold,” she protests. Her steps move near you. You pull the door open and step into the wet air, eager to get away from her. “Come help us with dinner.”

“I’ll see you shortly, the weather is lovely!”

Before your mother can come around the corner and pin you with her disappointed stare, you’re down the slippery steps and sloshing into the yard, mud and grass sucking at your steps as you hurry. You hear your father yell something like dammit, girl but you can’t be sure, the sounds of birds and the bugs swallowing his curses as you rush through the front yard.

The world is covered in a layer of fine mist, tree boughs heavy with rain as they drip drip drip onto the forest floor around you. Thick, gray clouds hide the sun still. Thunder rolls in the distance, promising more rain through the night. You don’t mind, diving into the darkness of the trees on a well-worn path through the woods.

Water floods the path up to the ankle, soaking your boots. You grin and kick your feet as you walk, watching the ripples flow outward. Water mosquitoes dance on top of the surface of the flood and you note little tadpoles swim by, confirming that the river by your house is flooding up over the bank and washing into the mainland. 

This is common most summers. Your house is out of the way from the town, almost a thirty minute walk. This far north, you’re only ten minutes from the edge of the slow-moving river that floods yearly turning the land around your property into a marsh. 

It’s your favorite time of year. A heron startles as you wander through the trees, shaking its white wings and shedding water as it hurries away on long, thin legs. You spot a snake swimming through the reeds, rushing away from you once it senses you sloshing through. 

Closer to the river, you pause. It’s hard to tell where the embankment dips down with it flooded. You can see where the flood moves faster, powered by the depth of the river and the overflow from the lake up north. Leaning against a tree, you look around this world of water. 

It seems alien. Trees block out the sky and are reflected in the surface of the flood, giving the illusion that you stand between two worlds, two dimensions. 

What would that be like, you wonder. 

According to the high priest in town, there are other dimensions. There are the heavens for the gods of light and love, who bless the world with fire and harvest and rain and oceans, who protect the people and who will absolve you of all sin and greed if you pray to them hard enough and accept them as your patrons. Who will love you only if you are devout.

You don’t believe in them for a second. If those gods of love and light do exist, they are not entirely good. They have never answered your prayers, have never saved you from pain or from sorrow. You have begged the gods to give you a new life, to let you leave. To let you go somewhere far away.

They have been silent. They were silent when your father beat you after the first time you rejected a marital match. They didn’t help you when he burned all your materials when you tried to teach yourself the shapes and sounds of letters.

So you stopped praying to them. 

There are other gods, of course. Other places for the wicked, dark gods full of trickery and greed, who seek only to fill the world with sin and deceit, who desire to make humans suffer and lose themselves in hedonism and debauchery. Those gods have a place too, the dark underworld for those who should be punished and reminded what it is to be full of sin. 

You’ve never prayed to them either, too afraid of what it would cost you. But you wonder if they answer or if they too watch the world from a mountain so high that they cannot bother to help those who need it. 

Still, you wonder what it would be like to walk between two worlds. To see one reflected in the other, to fall face first into the cool water only to surface in another place, almost an exact replica of where you’re from. 

It would be nice. Perhaps there you wouldn’t be a disappointing daughter who has turned away every suitor in the village, much to your father’s rage. There, you would be allowed to pursue reading and writing. You’d have the agency to sail the world and see the ocean for the first time, to feel the freezing spray of the seas on your face while you hunt the coast for something lost. 

Always something lost. 

In all of your fantasies, you’re looking for something. Sometimes, you’re not sure what it is you’re looking for, you just know that something needs to be found. Other times, it’s a specific object or a person, something that, deep down, you know represents the thing you desire to find most: freedom. 

A small school of fish swim by your feet. They can’t be any larger than your pinky finger, scurrying along before they’re swept up in the suction of the flowing river. Sighing, you push off the tree and begin to head back home, swatting at your bare arms where gnats bite at your sweaty skin. 

Dark presses in as you walk back. You had stayed in the woods later than you intended, mind drifting far off among the sounds of the world around you. A cool tingle slides down your neck as you walk, water breaking around you. 

You pause. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you spend far too long in the woods and the sun goes down. It feels like there’s someone there with you, just at your back. Slowly, you turn to look over your shoulder but there’s no one there, just the warm press of something you can’t see. 

When it happened the first time, you’d been so afraid you ran home. Now, though, you smile and look down at the ground as you keep walking. The presence, whether it’s real or something you have made up in your head, is always comforting. Always there, a gentle press of feeling. 

There are candles burning in the windows and an owl hoots in greeting when your house appears. Inside, you kick off your shoes and rush to meet your parents at the silent dinner table. Both of them look up at you, your mother’s mouth pinched, eyes weary. Your father’s gaze is thunderous as he picks up cutlery and begins to cut into his potato in saw-like motions, his knuckles going white.

You sit down without a word, bow your head to pretend to pray. Your mother clears her throat, drawing your attention. “It’s after dark. You missed your prayers.” 

It doesn’t matter. You weren’t going to pray anyway. But the way your parents look at you makes you drop your eyes down to the table, their expressions alarmed. Were you really about to pray after the sunset, when the benevolent gods were no longer listening? The only gods available to you now are dangerous. Violent. Tricky. 

Dinner is dry and too heavily salted. Still, you don’t complain. Somewhere in the world, you’re sure that there are wonderful feasts being held. Plates and platters of honey-glazed meats, roasted pheasant and charred filets. Whipped sweets and colorful confectionaries, dripping fruits and sugary drinks. 

None of those places exist anywhere that you’ve ever seen, but you like to imagine them as you chew your way through an oppressively silent meal. He says nothing, but you can tell your father is angry once again. Just as well, he at least keeps it to himself through the meal and says nothing when you’re done. 

“I’ll do the dishes,” you offer quickly when your parents finish. It’s an olive branch and they know it. They accept anyway, letting you gather plates as the soft hush of rain begins again. 

Rain washes out the night. You can’t see anything beyond the water that runs off the roof over the back porch as you dip your rag into warm water, scrubbing at the plates before setting them to dry in the stack next to you. 

Frogs croak, their loud voices blending together into the roar of the rain. Every now and again, lightning flashes above and thunder shakes the sky. You feel it vibrate through your ribs and you smile, inhaling the charged air. 

“... doesn’t have a choice!” You turn toward the open doorway. You can’t see your parents but the window is open to their room, voices coming in and out of the rain. “... force her! I’ve had… and he’s already agreed.”

You frown, stopping your scrubbing to lean further, straining your ears. “This won’t go well,” your mother says. 

“I don’t give a damn! It’s already done, woman. Enough.”

The rest of the conversation is drowned out by thunder. You frown and turn back to your task, trying to piece together what they’re talking about. You think back to your mother stitching the dress before dinner and think perhaps they’re gossiping about the neighbor again. She wasn’t happy that she was being married off and everyone knew it.

Still, she’s doing it. She’s stronger than you. It’s hard to imagine going through with something you don’t want, to live a life shackled to another person who doesn’t love you. Whose only purpose is to coexist with you and reproduce. To run a household and get through each and every day, the same as last.

It’s hard to say if your parents are in love. They are tender, at times, but you can’t ever point out a moment that your mother or father seem truly happy. Content isn’t the same as happiness. Not really. While they work together well and seem to have struck up a balance after the years, there’s nothing in the way they move through life that seems joyful. 

You had asked your mom if she was happy once. She gave you a funny look and said, I have a roof above my head and food on the table. How could I not be? 

Her response puzzles you still. To live is not to be happy. Being alive is just that - being alive. A bare minimum. But truly being happy is something else. At least, that’s how you understand it. How the heroes and characters in stories and tales live their lives, fighting for happiness. 

Later that night, you forget all about their whispers behind the sheets of rain. You’re tired and the storm is soothing, making you dream of a far away land where there are two armies entrenched in war, battling for their kingdoms and lighting the sky with storm magic. 

Another dream. Another fantasy. 

-

In your dream, a soft mouth meets yours. The kiss is slow, tongue dragging against yours, tasting of something sweet, mouth warm. It smells like clove and cinnamon, and though you don’t open your eyes to see the mouth that slides against yours, you know you are safe. 

-

It ends in darkness.

Dusk has settled around your home like a funeral shroud. Your father has been gone all day, your mother flippant when you ask about his whereabouts. Your mother is a painted picture of anxiety: mouth pinched, darting eyes that fail to meet yours, and hunched shoulders. It makes your palms sweat, the way she avoids you in the house. 

Rain comes down in patterns again, bands of storms floating by and turning the world gray. You don’t have to go to the inn with the road flooded, so you spend the day at the window instead, watching each storm flash by, listening to the frogs and watching the birds pick through bug-filled waters between each deluge. 

When the sun begins to set, you find your mother standing near the window, looking through wet glass as she chews the corner of her lip. She wipes her hands on her dress, not picking up that you’re standing in the doorway watching her.

The gown she has been stitching for the past few days lays on the table. It’s a beautiful thing, bursting with intricate flowers on the sleeves and the skirts. You don’t enjoy dresses - much less the kind for marriage - but you admire the careful needlework. 

“It’s a good dress,” you tell her. She startles from where she stands at the window, whirling around to face you. “One of your best.”

“Yes. I-” something crosses her face that’s unreadable. “Would you try it on for me? I want to make sure I got the sizing right.”

You shrug and pick it up. It’s not the first time she’s used you for sizing and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You just hope that she doesn’t make you stand on a stool for hours to place pins in the skirt, mapping where she needs to take in the seams and make the fabric fold. 

The material is a little scratchy when you put it on. It’s snug across the chest and a little bit long at the wrist, but the material ripples over you like water. Outside of your room, the sound of your father’s voice echoes. He sounds more jovial than usual, laughing loudly - another voice is with him. 

Frowning, you work the buttons on the side of the dress to secure it shut, pulling the fabric into place. It isn’t often that your father has guests over, but you can assume it’s one of his friends he has over for dinner. You make a sour face at the thought that perhaps it’s Mr. Laudermill and his son Nathaniel again, a family your father has tried to pawn you off on before. 

The list of people your father has tried to get you to marry is astounding. It’s become a joke in the town, a game of who will he ask next? At first, there were plenty of families who offered their sons to make the union. Now, after how vehemently you have protested for your right to pick your husband yourself, it’s you who is rejected when your father makes dowry offers.

It seems - much to your advantage - that the men of the town and even the neighboring villages grew tired of the girl who liked to say no. It gives you small satisfaction to know that sheer inconvenience has earned you freedom alongside your mother’s unwillingness to force you. 

Still, the Laudermills are a little persistent. Not your father’s favorite option he has ever brought up, but it was one that didn’t say no. 

You enter the main house with minor trepidation, uneager to spend the evening sighing at Nathaniel’s terrible jokes and attempts to win you over. You wonder if it’s sheer pride that brings him back this time, upset that he cannot beat the town's little conundrum. The unconquerable conquest. You get the feeling that’s why he and his father visit for dinner sometimes, Nathaniel’s pride unwilling to back down from the challenge. 

You’d respect him more if he had more admiration for the word no. 

Nathaniel and his father are in the main room of your home, speaking in laughing tones to your father. Your mother stands near the open back door, hands wringing together. There is another person in your house that you don’t expect, though. The village’s high priest nods his head along with something that your father is saying, wrinkled hands clasped in front of his robes.

Time seems to slow down. You take in the tight expression on your mother’s face, her eyes drifting over to the priest who is dressed in ceremonial purple robes, an air of professional courtesy about him. He’s nodding to Nathaniel who is speaking now, and it’s when you really look at him, dressed in nice linen pants, a long sleeved shirt and an ornate vest, that you put the pieces together. 

Too slowly do you react as your father turns to you. His smile is forced and his gaze is burning with warning when he gestures. “There’s our bride!”

The word sinks in like a blade. Right between the ribs and up, its point poking dangerous at your heart as your blood begins to roar in your ears. You’re frozen to the spot, staring at them from the threshold of your room. You can feel your pulse throbbing in your neck, your hands shaking. 

“You look beautiful,” Nathaniel says, grinning. It’s a genuine smile, a proud one. Something that says finally. “I’m so glad you’re ready, after all this time.”

“I… what?”

In a moment of razor-sharp clarity, you remember the conversation your parents were having last night, soft words whispered under the cover of the storm. You remember something about forcing her and someone having already agreed. 

No. No. Nonononononono. 

You don’t realize you’re speaking out loud as you back up into your room, the horror settling in as the rain begins to tap on the roof. Your mother looks crestfallen but remains silent as your father’s smile tightens and his face reddens. 

When he says your name, it’s full of warning. The back of your legs hit your bed and your weak knees buckle. You sit down with a huff and shake your head. “You can’t do this,” you whisper. You can’t find your voice, can’t work your throat louder. “You cannot make me marry.”

“Of course I can,” your father hisses. His smile drops and in its place is something dangerous. Horrific. The villain of all your dreams and epic fantasies. “I have given you more than enough time to choose. You have not. As the man of this house-”

“No!” you bark back, cutting him off and shooting to your feet. “I am a person-”

“You are a woman!” he roars, making the high priest flinch. “Your purpose is to grow up, get married, mind the household and provide an heir! You are the only fiendish woman in this entire forsaken village who seems to misunderstand this!”

“It is not my purpose!”

“It is, and you will fulfill it!” he hisses. “You will marry this man before the gods, with my blessing and the witness of the priest.” 

Behind you, thunder rolls. The rain comes down harder. Frogs croak loudly, bracketed by the sound of the trees bending with the weight of the wind. Your heart pounds in your chest as you stare at the people before you. Your mother with tears in her eyes, your father with fury in his face, the priest with disappointment and Nathaniel. Nathaniel with glee. With a grin. With a smirk. 

“I won’t do it,” you whisper. 

Before they can argue, you turn on your heel and leap onto your bed. Your father and Nathaniel rush at the doorway, their steps pounding behind you as you crawl through the window, your ribs slamming on the sill as you lean face forward. Rain soaks you immediately, your hands gripping the sill as you haul your middle half over the edge, intending to just flip down into the mud. 

Hands yank at your legs and you scream, a feral sound ripping through your lungs as you kick backward violently. You’re yanked back toward your room viciously, rib cage aching where you slide on the concrete frame. With another savage kick, you make contact and hear a loud shout before the hands drop from your waist. 

Pushing harshly, you throw yourself the rest of the way through the window, falling the few feet down to land with a splash. Your father is screaming inside the house but you’re already slipping to your feet, whatever he says drowned out in the rain. 

You don’t even think. You run, hands picking up the wet-leaden skirts on your dress as you tear off toward the woods. Water rushes around your ankles as you go and you hear commotion at the window as someone clambers through. You don’t dare turn around as you rush to the line of trees, unafraid of the dark but terrified of the slamming footsteps behind you.

It’s impossible to be fast in the flooded woods. You wince as your feet get cut up on rocks and sharp sticks that you can’t see. You trip over roots and kick solid things as you slog forward, biting back a cry as you try to flee. 

“Get back here, you wretched bitch!” Nathaniel screams behind you. 

It never occurred to you that he could say something so violent. It spurs you forward, mud and water sucking your feet down and making your flight sticky and slow. Rain pelts down between the leaves, the storm lighting up the treetops with purple flashes every now and again. Thunder shakes their branches and rumbles through your feet, the water rushing higher and higher. 

Nathaniel slams into you at the waist. You scream as he takes you down, his weight on top of you. Your scream is cut off as your mouth fills with water. You swallow in a panic, body thrumming with alarm as you choke, nose full of water, eyes burning. You can hear the dull roar of water, the swish of your tangled limbs on the floor. 

Clawing at him, you feel your nails rip down soft flesh and hear a muted yell. He lifts his weight off of you and you sit forward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, retching. Your lungs and nose burn as you gasp for air, fighting to get a breath in. 

Nathaniel is on you again, his hand going for your hair as he digs his fingers in hard, yanking at your scalp. Your hands fly to his wrist and you scream again, pulling at him, trying to free yourself. Tears smart your eyes from the stinging pain as he yanks hard enough that you think he’ll tear you right apart. 

“Fucking ungrateful,” he barks.

Your feet slide in the mud as he uses your buoyancy in the knee deep water to haul you back toward the house. You twist in his grip, mewling in panic and pain as you work to get your feet under you and fight back. You let go of his arm and throw a weak punch at his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go, even as you twist, hands shooting to the ground, digging through soaked earth and weeds until you feel the hard, rough shape of a rock. 

Grabbing it, you lift your hand from the water and bring it down hard on Nathaniel’s wrist. He screams and lets go of your hair. Your fingers ache from the blow but you don’t waste precious minutes, scrambling to your feet and sloshing away from him again. He’s already gripping at your dress, fingers ripping at the fabric to get a hold of you. 

Desperation claws at you and you scream for help. You don’t know if anyone else is out here in the dark of the woods but you don’t care. Bleeding, in pain, and terrified, you tear through the water, the rock clutched in your fingers, rushing in the dark as Nathaniel gives chase.

“Please!” you scream at the dark. “Anyone, please!” 

A thread of thought slivers through you about the gods. Praying to the gods has never gotten you anywhere. It didn’t make your father let you read. It didn’t get you out of your town. It didn’t save you from this. The supposed gods who rule with light and love had never heard you and you had long stopped believing in them.

But you’d never prayed to the gods of the dark. The gods who only listen to words whispered after the setting sun. 

“Please,” you beg, turning your head to the dark sky. Lighting flashes and thunder rumbles. Cool wind brushes against your face, wind that feels like it whispers I’m listening. “Please,” you scream again. “Help me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Help me!”

Nathaniel takes you down by the waist again. You gasp for air this time as your face slaps the water with a sting. The current is rushing faster here, pulling at you. Deeper. Colder. You’re close to the river, and you feel the suction of the force of the flow tugging at your body as Nathaniel digs his fingers into the meat of your arms. 

This time, he doesn’t pull you with him. He holds you down, shoving you deeper and deeper until you realize that he’s no longer interested in bringing you back. You kick at him, you tear at him. You slam his wrist with the rock again but his other hand grabs yours, wrenching the weapon away from you. 

Your lungs are screaming and water is rushing into your nose as oxygen escapes you. His grip is firm and you begin to panic. All you can think is help help help help. Please help. 

Bubbles escape your mouth as you’re forced to breathe out again. You’re running out of time and pain starts to build in your chest. You feel the way your lungs squeeze, needing air. You let out more air and press your lips tight, desperately trying not to inhale. 

Breathe in, your instincts scream. Breathe breathe breathe breathe. 

Agony. You’re in agony as you open your mouth in a final cry, unable to form the words. Unable to scream and ask for a higher power that you only believe in at this moment to help you. 

Water fills your mouth. You swallow it whole, feel it go down as you begin to spasm. 

You’re going to die. 

And then Nathaniel’s hands are gone. It takes you a moment to realize that there’s no crushing grip on your arms and in the brief moment of realization, you barely manage to push up. To break the surface and vomit, water coming out of you in a stinging, horrid mess. Your stomach turns and you feel your chest squeeze as you choke.

The storm is still raging around you, water pulling at you and pressing you into the rough bark of a tree. Blinking tears from your eyes, you look around but it’s too dark to see. You can hear Nathaniel looking for you, screaming your name in the dark. 

The back of your neck tingles. There’s a feeling in the air behind you - that sliver of breath that you often sense when you’re out in the woods alone just after dark. Like something or someone is there with you, just behind you. 

“What is it you want?” a deep, dark voice whispers. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel chilled to the bone. The voice is like none you’ve ever heard, sensual and dizzying. 

“Want?”

“You asked for help.” The voice switches to your other ear and you don’t dare turn around to find the speaker. “What do you want?” 

“What can you give?”

The voice chuckles. The sound makes you shiver, your eyelids fluttering. The voice purrs, “I can give you anything you dream, little lamb. Tell me: what do you want?”

You think about it. Lightning lances through the sky and for a brief moment, the world is a flash of silver. You see Nathaniel in the light, a few feet away from you. He’s bloody and heaving, his eyes snapping to where you hide against the tree.

“Freedom,” you gasp as the world falls to darkness again. “I want freedom.”

“What will you give me?”

“What do you want?” you beg, hearing Nathaniel move toward you.

There’s a soft hum and you feel lightheaded at the sound. “Your time.”

“My time?”

“Your time in exchange for freedom, little lamb. Better hurry, this offer is about to expire.” 

Nathaniel screams in a rage. Sloshes closer to you. Your heartbeat quickens. You can feel it in your chest, hear it in your ears, your pulse throbbing as he nears. 

“Okay,” you whisper, voice coming out shaky. 

“Then tell me you accept.”

You take a deep breath. “I accept.” 

There’s a brush at the nape of your neck, warm and soft. Though you’ve never been kissed before, you think that it’s the press of lips, intimate and barely there. Something inside you flickers to life, like a new instinct that has opened its eyes for the first time. You’re aware of another presence, a soft buzz that presses down on you as it stands up next to you. 

Thunder rolls and you feel someone brush by you.  A hand touches your cheek almost fondly, fingers dragging along the curve of your jaw. Blinking slowly, you lean into the touch, seeking its comfort. You don’t know who it belongs to. All you know is that just the feel of fingers on your skin has your stomach flipping, your toes curling. 

The hand drops from your face and you immediately miss the contact. Opening your eyes, you see another flash of lightning. There’s someone standing in front of you dressed in black, slick with rain. You can’t make out anything much, just the shape of a man in a dark cloak. 

A god. You know he’s a god, whoever this savior is. You know that something has heard your screams in the dark and has come to give you what you wanted. What you begged for. 

“She is no longer available to you,” the god announces to Nathaniel. It’s not the same whisper as a moment ago, but a deep, raspy voice. Dark. Demanding. “She’s mine.” 

“That’s my betrothed,” Nathaniel answers, though it comes out like a question, his voice trembling. “I– she belongs to-”

“Me,” the dark god assures. A loud clap of thunder makes you flinch. “Goodbye, Nathaniel Laudermill.” 

Nathaniel screams. You don’t know what happens. There’s just his shout of terror in the dark and a roll of thunder that shakes the trees and rattles the earth. You feel the vibration in the water from the unearthly thunder before you realize that this sound, this trembling, is the wrath of a god. 

The sound fades and the shaking stops. You feel more than see the god in front of you turn to face you, a sweeping warmth as he bends down. You cannot make out any features, your vision swimming with bursts of color in the lack of light. 

“You’re with me now,” he assures you. “And you should not be afraid.” 

Gentle hands reach out and cradle your face. You’re suddenly tired, every pain in your body weighing you down like stones, pulling at you until you’re closing your eyes and succumbing to the heavy exhaustion.

The last thing you remember is your whispered name on reverent lips. 

-

You’re dreaming. Your eyes are closed in this dream but you feel light and warm. Fingers brush over your cheek, soft and reverent. You hear a gentle, deep humming, a pleasant melody. It smells like clove and cinnamon, making you drift further into the dream. You lean into the hand cupping your face and hear a deep chuckle before drifting off into nothingness. 

-

The first thing you notice is the smell of clove and cinnamon. It’s a soothing scent that sends your heart fluttering as you roll over. The blankets wrapped around you feel divine, soft with a high loft that feels like you’re wrapped in clouds. The mattress is decadent, sucking you in further as you settle in on your side, inhaling deeply.

Then you remember hands tearing at your legs. Ripping you by the hair. Water filling your lungs and throat. The flash of lightning and the cold rain as you were dragged under a flood again and again. 

With a gasp you sit up in bed, heart hammering. You still as you look around, mouth dropping open at the opulent room. The bed is the largest thing you’ve ever seen, on a low platform swimming with charcoal colored sheets and pillows. The headboard looks like polished obsidian, glinting in the low light provided by dozens of flickering candles.

Stone walls make up the room, rough rock with sconces of flickering flames. The room is sprawling with a sitting area a step down from the bed, decorated with chaise lounges, a coffee table and high-backed chairs situated in front of a fireplace. Flames crackle on a log, orange light dancing across the room. On either side of the fireplace are bookshelves that stretch up to the high ceiling.

Across from the bed are open double doors where you can see a magnificent bathroom. From your vantage point, you can just make out sinks carved from a hewn rock and what looks like a trickling waterfall sluicing down the wall. 

Turning to the left, there is a set of glass doors, a balcony just on the other side. It appears to be nighttime outside, thousands of stars glittering through the glass and the largest moon you’ve ever seen suspended in the sky like a lone coin.

Carefully, you peel back the covers. You’re still in the wedding dress your mother made you. It’s stained and tattered and bloodied, making your stomach flip uncomfortably as you look down on it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you place your feet on the stone flooring, expecting it to be cold to the touch. 

It isn’t. Warmth radiates from the floor through the soles of your feet, making you sigh, tension bleeding from your shoulders as you close your eyes for a moment. Though the aches and the pains from being scratched and hit and torn down are gone, you wince as you recall them. 

Your parents were going to force you to marry Nathaniel. You don’t know how you missed the signs before, how you thought that there was any other path. With your elbows pressed to your knees, you hang your head in your hands, pressing your eyes shut and taking another shuddering breath.

This time, a sob slips out. Somehow, you had tricked yourself into thinking that your parents would abide by your wishes to make your own choices. Foolish, you realize. Your father had not grown complacent. He had been biding his time, waiting to strike. 

The smallest viper has the greatest sting.

And your mother was going to let him do it. The woman who had brought you into the world screaming and bloody was going to pass you off to a man, even if it meant that man dragged you kicking and screaming to the altar. 

Disgust curls in your stomach and your hands turn into firsts, pressing against your closed lids and making bursts of colors flash in your eyes. Split down the middle, one part of you mourns the loss of the parents you thought that you had. The other is an open wound, festering with a hateful infection at the very thought of them. 

The sound of the door opening catches your attention. Your heart leaps as you sit up straight, dropping your hands into your lap as a man slips through the large double doors near the sitting area. Your breath catches in your chest as he sweeps into the room, looping his hands behind his back as he sets his dark eyes on you and approaches. 

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, you think. Inky hair falls into his enigmatic eyes. His skin is deep gold, a contrast to the all-black blouse that he wears tucked into black pants. You see the open collar of his shirt revealing a patch of tan skin and an elegant throat, but it’s his face that shatters your mind. 

The man - or god, you think - has a square, masculine jaw offset with a delicate mouth the color of rose petals. His nose is straight and wide and would look ridiculous on anyone else. On him, it’s the perfect balance, his cheekbones high and angular, cutting the roundness of his nose. 

“Good to see you’re awake,” he greets. The man stops at the edge of the step that leads to where the bed sits higher than the rest of the room. You stare and stare and stare at him, unable to process words as he grins at you. His voice is dulcet and warm, but not the voice that promised to save you. “How do you feel?”

“I…” you rasp out and you shake your head, unable to think of anything else.

His mouth quirks and he nods. “It sounds like you had a terrible time. How about you take a well-deserved bath and get out of that terrible dress? Sorry to have left you in it, I was under strict instructions not to invade your personal space.”

“Yes, please.” You hesitate. “Where am I? Whose instructions?”

“You’re somewhere safe with someone who wants you to remain safe.” 

“Where is safe?”

He gives you a secretive smile as he nods toward the bathroom before turning on his heel and striding away. On unsteady feet, you follow him. It helps that the floor is warm, giving you the strength you need to make it down the two steps and across the stone toward the bathroom. 

“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer your question,” he admits. “I’m just here to help you get settled. My name is Taehyung, by the way.”

“Taehyung.” You say the word, familiarizing yourself with the shape of it as you enter the room and stop. 

The bathroom is far more luxurious than you realized from afar. There is a waterfall running down the black rockface between two basins, trickling into a little fountain that drains on the floor. To the right side of the bathroom is a large body of steaming water. 

Herbal scents fill the room as you near the edge of the dark surface of the water. It reminds you of hot springs in a cave near the southern villages, a place you’d only heard of but never seen. It’s massive, surrounded by a smooth, stone edge. There is a corner full of what appears to be salts, soaps and herbs alongside flickering candles. 

Opposite the hot spring is a giant glass window that overlooks mountains and lush greenery. From the window, you can see the entire world of wherever you are stretched out in the most dazzling and wonderful display. You can’t help but feel as though you’re somewhere that belongs in the epitome of night.

“How deep is that?” you ask, turning to Taehyung with a wary expression as you gesture to the body of water. 

His expression softens. “Waist high when you stand in the middle. There is a ledge that you can sit on all the way around. It’s incredibly safe and very warm. I can stand just outside the door if anything goes wrong.”

“Okay.” 

Taehyung points to a stack of clothes resting on a stool near a cabinet full of towels and jars of things. “Those are for you to change into. The towels are for you to dry off, of course. Anything in the bathroom is yours to use.” Taehyung must sense your hesitation, because he gives you a soft smile. “You’re safe here. I promise.” 

“I’d feel better if I knew where here was.”

“Bathe. Relax. Then I’ll take you to him.” 

Taehyung does not give you a chance to ask to whom he refers. He strides out of the room and the door swings shut seemingly on its own. You blink a few times at it, standing in the middle of the warm bathroom in a daze.

Spinning, you look around the room and find yourself drawn to the window. Up close, you realize how high up you are. It’s a bit dizzying, and you look  down at the ground only to see that there is a garden bursting with purple and blue, neat rows of flowers that stretch until they meet a line of trees. 

A world of mountains unfolds beyond the window. You’ve never seen mountains but they are larger than you could have ever imagined, snowcaps stark against the night sky. It’s mesmerizing and a little too big, so you turn away from the window and head for the steaming basin of water. 

Peaking over the edge, you can see the bottom. It doesn’t look that deep, but your stomach twists as you pop the buttons on your dress. Your fingers feel stiff and disjointed as you work to undress. You look down at the ripped threads and the dirty fabric and think about how much time your mother spent stitching it.

Suddenly the dress feels suffocating and you pull hard on the garment, popping buttons from the threads and sending them clattering on the floor. You shed the dress and kick it away from you, stripping off your undergarments and lowering yourself to the edge of the water. 

A sigh leaves your mouth as you slide your feet and legs in first. The water is hot, though not scalding like you expected. Closing your eyes, you remain sitting on the edge for a moment, letting your calves soak and muscles unwind, fingers gripping the edge tight. 

Taking a deep breath, you slide forward a little, firmly placing your feet on the ledge Taehyung spoke of. For a moment, your fear spikes. You feel it sharp in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping the edge of the basin. With a few deep breaths, you carefully slide down to the ledge proper, sinking in the hot water to the chest. 

“I’m not going to drown,” you whisper to yourself. The words come out shaky and you’re not entirely sure that you believe them. “I’m not going to drown, I am not going to drown, I am not going to drown.”

You repeat the mantra until you believe it, your fingers grasping the edge of the stone seat as you try to relax and melt into the water. It takes a while, but you finally grow too tired of remaining tense, taking a deep breath and gaining the courage to relax. 

Gently, you rest your head against the edge of the basin. Heat seeps into your skin and you feel the anxiety bleed out of you, your tensed muscles unwinding. You hadn’t realized how clenched up you were until you let go, and your body sags a little bit in the water. 

Time slips away. Thankfully, your body doesn’t hurt the way you anticipated that it would. Frowning, you press your fingers into your skin where there should be bruises and pain. There is no evidence on your skin that Nathaniel laid his hands on you the night before - the day before? You’re unsure how much time has passed, only that there is an eerie absence of your wounds.

Turning your head, you look at your dress discarded on the floor. There’s certainly evidence of a struggle spattered all over the fabric, but it makes you wonder if the god who answered your prayers has healed you.

A god. 

The thought comes to you in a snap and you stare down at the water, eyes unfocusing as you try to recall the details of what happened. You remember screaming for help, the sound of your desperation ripping through your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever screamed like that, terrified and wild. You remember thinking about the gods, begging them to hear you, willing them to listen. 

Water had been filling your lungs. Crushing out air. You remember the rush of the stream around you as it pulled at your fighting body. Nathaniel’s hands gripping you and holding you under viciously, fingers like claws as he tried to drown you. 

Then you surfaced and choked, completely shrouded in darkness…. And you remember that quiet voice made of smoke and shadow. Thinking of it now makes you shiver, despite how hot the water is. The voice had promised you freedom in exchange for time and had taken you to wherever this place was. 

You open your eyes, unsure when you had even closed them. Glancing around the room once more, you decide there is no way that you’re anywhere close to home. You’ve never seen anything like this bathroom before, a feat of what appears to be architecture and maybe magic. 

Soaps and salts line the edges of the bathing pool. When you feel brave enough, you dart across the middle like a minnow, trying not to think about how you nearly crossed death’s bridge in a shallow body of water not long ago. 

Unscrewing lids, you smell each of the glass bottles of liquid, humming in delight. You settle on a hard bar of soap that smells like lavender and mint. It feels good to scrub your skin raw. You imagine that you’re washing away all of the memories of Nathaniel’s fingers on your skin and the scratchy dress your mother made for you.

Fingers and feet pruned and skin feeling stripped of a top layer, you reluctantly exit the bath. The towels are the softest thing you’ve ever felt. You run the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head up at the sky and sighing. Wherever this dark god has taken you doesn’t seem so terrifying, yet it puts you more on edge, these luxuries. 

The clothes Taehyung left out for you fit well enough, though it’s obvious they are not your exact measurements. He’s provided you with soft, black pants and a loose, black tunic with intricate designs that look like clouds on the sleeves and collar. 

You hesitate when you’re ready to leave the bathroom. So far, it seems that whatever bargain you’ve struck with this god has been in your favor. But you know you’ve made a deal in a moment of fear, and you’re not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to.

Time.

Though you’re nervous, you can’t stay hidden in the bathroom forever. Nudging the door open, you peek around the edge, gaze sweeping the room as you look for Taehyung. He’s standing in the sitting area, face toward the flickering fire. He looks both terrifying and beautiful, hands linked behind his back as he watches the flames. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Taehyung calls without turning around. “I mean it when I tell you that you’re safe.”

Slipping through the door, you walk toward him, regarding him warily. “Still,” you answer. “I don’t know where I am. Are you even human?”

He does look over his shoulder then, flashing you a wicked grin. “I’m not.” 

Taehyung’s answer doesn’t put you at ease, but you’re unsure what to do. Wordlessly, he gestures for you to follow him as he heads through the door and out of the room. For a moment, you hesitate. What would happen if you refused to leave the room? Is your deal with the god already in effect? What are its limitations? 

You can answer none of the questions you have, so you follow Taehyung, hoping to find answers soon. Except as soon as you step out of the room, you think you might have even more questions. 

The halls are dark and lit with flickering torches, casting an orange glow up to the cavernous ceilings. Though you’ve never been in a castle or seen one, you have an idea of how grand they are. There is no doubt in your mind that this is a castle, the halls resplendent and sweeping with artwork and fabric and statues. 

In front of you, Taehyung walks jovially with his hands linked behind his back. He hums a tune you don’t know, but it sounds smooth and warm. You follow behind him, casting your gaze around as you walk, trying to remember which turns you take and what paintings you pass. 

You reach a tall, closed set of wooden double doors. Taehyung raps his fingers against the door, looking over his shoulder at you with an excited grin. Your stomach flips and you wipe your palms against the bottom of your tunic. Your hands feel shaky and you twine them into the fabric, willing them to stop. 

Taehyung must hear someone on the other side of the door, because he opens it and steps in and to the side, gesturing for you to enter. You take a deep breath and walk by him into the room, stopping immediately as you look up, your mouth falling open. 

It’s a library grander than you could ever imagine. Your town had quite a small library at the church that belonged to the high priest, but this is something beyond your wildest dreams. The ceiling stretches higher than your imagination, filled with floating lights and stars - the entire night sky is stretched above you in swirling constellations of purple and blue. 

Three floors make up the library, each lined with books and windows that look out into the evening. You can see sprawling gardens beyond the tinted glass, but it’s the shelves of books that catch your attention. Stepping into the room further, you slowly spin, looking at the sheer amount of volumes that line the walls. There are multiple seating areas with rich, velvet blue armchairs and couches, tables full of books and papers and ink bottles and maps. 

Your throat tightens as you look at Taehyung, your mouth wobbling. The urge to burst into tears has never felt greater than this moment. You never imagined that you could stand in a room with so many books, and the desire to pull one off the shelf and delve in is cut short by the single, glaring fact that you don’t know how to read them. 

Distracted by the books upon entry, it takes you a moment to notice another presence in the room. You feel a tingle at the back of your neck, one that draws your eyes toward a long table near the fireplace. It’s the same feeling you had when you were saved from Nathaniel, an awareness that buzzes along your skin.

A man stands in front of the table, watching you with dark, feline eyes. He’s beautiful. Otherworldly, really. His round features remind you of the moon, but it’s the sharp eyes and the careful pout of his mouth that draws you in. He looks both delicate and dangerous, and you notice the quirk on his lips as he watches you watch him. 

He’s in all black. Black pants tucked into black, knee-high boots, and a black, long-sleeved shirt. There’s a layer of necklaces around his neck and you can see shapes and runes that are unfamiliar to you. The same runes and shapes are on the rings on his long, delicate fingers, folded in front of him. 

This is the face of a god. You know it in the way that there’s something ancient in his eyes and in the way he glows from within. His power is tangible, a crackling energy pressing up against every nerve in your body. 

“How are you feeling?” his voice vibrates right to your core. Soft and dark like you remember it, though a little rougher now. Gravelly. He studies you, unmoving. “Hopefully well-rested?”

“I feel…. Better.” Finding the words is hard in his presence, especially under the scrutiny of his gaze. You want to dart out of the room and hide, but you also don’t want to leave the library without exploring. “I think I should thank you?”

It comes out as a question and he smirks a little. Your stomach flutters at the sight; he raises a brow. “You’re welcome. Are you hungry? You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.”

The door shuts behind you and you startle, whirling around to see that Taehyung has left you. Your nerves fray further and you turn back to look at the god watching you. Behind him on the table, you realize it is a feast of sorts. Roasted meats and poultry, platters of fruit, plates of cheese and neatly arranged crackers, steaming pans of vegetables and things you cannot identify. 

He notices. “You must be starving. Come. Eat.” When you don’t move, he sighs. “I didn’t save you just to harm you.” 

It’s true enough. You carefully approach the table, eyeing him as he unclasps his hands and pulls out a chair for you. When you hesitate, he arches a dark brow again and you feel yourself grow warm in the face, muttering your thanks as you hurry over to the chair and sit down. 

The god’s presence is buzzing. He doesn’t touch you, but it’s like you feel him anyway, just an inch away from you. He helps you slide your chair in and gives a deep, contented sigh before he moves toward the opposite end of the table, taking the dull hum of energy with him. 

Across the table, he sits. His gaze finds yours again as you stare at him, finding it difficult to look anywhere else. Even with the smell of a divine meal, your attention on him is a fixed point. If this bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans back in his seat, casual and confident. 

“Have what you like,” he offers. “I don’t know what you enjoy and I didn’t want to pry.”

The table is full of options. You chew the inside of your cheek. There is glazed duck and roasted ham, creamy looking potatoes and sauced vegetables. Your stomach growls and twists painfully as you stare at your choices. 

“The duck is good,” he offers gently. You glance up. He nods towards the dish in question. “Sorry, it’s probably overwhelming.”

“A little,” you answer, but take him up on his advice and go for the duck. “Where are we?”

“In between.”

You frown as you plate different foods, fingers sticky as you do. You’re hyper-aware of him watching you and you try not to look up, feeling your hands quake as you add roasted veggies to your plate. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it does. We’re at the in-between of all things. Not a solid place in your sense of understanding. It’s not a physical manifestation of a land mass, but it is a world that contains physical things.” 

“A… dimension?”

“Exactly. This is my domain.”

“And what… are you?”

You look up at him then. His lips twitch at the corners and he tongues the inside of his cheek. “A god. But you already knew that.”

“Wanted to hear you say it.” 

Silence falls between you as you pick up a knife and fork, cutting carefully into your meat. You pop it between your lips, sighing when the duck melts on your tongue with the taste of honey and something else. You sag in the chair, not realizing until now how tense you had been to this point. The food sends a wave of warmth through you and the god watches as you take a few bites, patient as you eat.

“This is fantastic,” you say, glancing at him as you reach for a glass of water. “The flavors are like nothing I’ve ever had.”

“I assure you that all things here are like nothing you’ve ever had.” You hum in agreement, taking another eager bite. You cannot imagine anything in the real world tasting this succulent. You almost wonder if perhaps this is all a dream. “You didn’t pray before you began to eat.”

Your chewing pauses. He’s bemused, giving you a sideways grin with his brows raised. You swallow thickly and say, “Praying never got me anywhere until recently. Why did you help me?”

“Because you asked.”

“You didn’t have to, though.”

It isn’t a question. He answers anyway. “I didn’t.”

“So why did you? The other gods have never helped me.”

“The other gods aren’t me.” His voice is soft and lethal, raising the hair on your arms. “We are not all the same, and you’d do well to not make any further comparisons moving forward.” 

You lower your gaze. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Gods are fickle beings. We are quick to offend and slow to let go. You don’t know any better and are thus forgiven.” 

“What do I call you?”

For a moment, he hesitates. You think he isn’t going to answer just as he says, “Yoongi. You can call me Yoongi.”

“Is that your name?” 

“It’s one of them.” 

“How many names do you have?”

He chuckles. It’s a delightful sound and you smile, watching him lean his head back against his chair, looking up as he shrugs. “How much time do you have?”

Time. 

Suddenly, you remember that you aren’t here on this god - Yoongi’s - good graces. You’re here because you called for someone in a moment of need and he agreed to help you, but at a cost. Your time. He had asked for your time, and a sense of anxiety tiptoes its way up your spine as you think about the ambiguity of his deal. 

Swallowing harshly, you shift back in your seat. The food in your stomach feels a little heavy, far too rich for you to eat more than a few bites. You’ve only ever known your parents’ staples of meat, bread, cheese, and root vegetables. 

“When you saved me,” you begin. “You made a deal with me.”

“I did.”

“My freedom in exchange for my time.”

His eyes are glittering as he watches you, completely still. The fireplace next to you crackles. It makes shadows dance across his face, giving him the appearance of something wild and untamed. Your heartbeat quickens as you watch him, this godly being, as he stares you down. 

“That was the deal,” he finally hums. His head cocks to the side a little. “I don’t usually discuss business over dinner.”

“I’m done eating.”

He huffs but doesn’t seem annoyed. “Perhaps tea, then? It will help settle your stomach.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that my stomach needs settling?” 

“I know a lot of things.” Yoongi rises and gestures to the chairs directly in front of the fireplace. You stand, following his lead. There’s a quiver of energy in the air and you pause, turning to look back at the table to see it’s completely bare, no trace of anything left. You whip around to look at Yoongi as he sits in a wingback chair. “I can do a lot of things.”

A steaming cup of tea sits on a wooden table next to the chair you sink into. The cushions are soft, swallowing you in and making your muscles melt. The cup is warm when you pick it up, steam curling off the surface. Sniffing, your eyes flutter as you inhale the smell of mint. 

“What are you the god of?” You open your eyes and look at him. Both of his feet are planted flat on the floor, his arms resting on the arms of the chair. He looks a little stiff, more so than he did at dinner. Orange firelight reflects in his inky eyes. “You’re a god of the dark.” 

“There’s no such thing,” he scoffs, and you frown. “Your concept of gods is skewed. There is neither good nor evil, light nor dark. There are just gods.” 

“So it doesn’t matter who you pray to?”

“We don’t need your patronage. If we did, we wouldn’t be gods, would we?” You’d never thought of it that way. You sip your tea, letting the warmth and sharp mint bloom in your mouth. “We’re beyond the simple classification that mortals use to understand and organize what they think our intentions are. I have been classed as both good and evil, light and dark, benevolent and malevolent.”

“But surely there are things that are inherently evil, even among the gods.”

“Of course there isn’t. Evil is a point of view. It is a word used to define the feeling one has when the opposite of their desire occurs.” 

“I… guess that makes sense. But isn’t something like murder wrong?”

“Are you not the villain of the duck you ate today?” You blanch. Yoongi looks smug as he gestures vaguely with his hands. “Are you not evil for calling down the wrath of a god on Nathaniel Laudermill?”

“He was going to kill me.”

“You rejected his hand in marriage. You did the opposite of what he desired. I believe in his eyes, you are the evil. Is Death evil for doing what he was made to do?” 

Yoongi’s words make your head spin. You gulp a mouthful of scalding tea before setting it on the table next to you, your mind reeling. The realization that you’re sitting in a library with a starry ceiling arguing over morals and the concept of evil with a god who has saved you from certain death makes you giggle. 

He seems surprised by your sudden outburst, raising his brows as you cover your mouth, your fingers pressed to your lips as you try to contain your sudden mirth. “Sorry. This seems absolutely insane. I’m arguing over the word ‘evil’ with a god in a realm that is everywhere and nowhere at all. It feels like perhaps I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not. Though your dreams are dizzying and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You should be proud of them.” You furrow your brows. How does he know what you dream of? Before you can ask him to clarify, Yoongi says, “You wanted to discuss the deal.”

“Oh. Right. What did you mean by wanting my time in exchange for my freedom?”

“It’s simple. I want you to spend two weeks each month here.” 

Yoongi’s words sink in as you look at the window behind him. Outside, the world is sinking into what you think might be night. The sky is swimming with stars and constellations, stuck in a perpetual twilight of sorts. You’re reminded that somehow, Yoongi is like the moon and the night itself, especially when you find his dark gaze on you as he waits for your response. 

“Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company.” 

“That’s it? You just want me to hang out in exchange for saving me?” He nods. “That seems too easy.” 

His lips curve upward. “Maybe I’m very annoying.” 

For some reason you think it might not be true. You think of all the things that you’ve heard about the gods. Yoongi tells you that everything you know about them is wrong, but you know that the gods of the dark are tricksters. They are experts in the art of luring mortals in, and you wonder if that’s what he’s doing now. 

“Does it have to be consecutive weeks?” you ask, trying to bide time to collect your thoughts and work out his intentions. “Or can it be a collective?”

“Consecutive.” 

“What… what happens when I go home? With my family.”

Yoongi’s face grows stormy. You shift in your seat. “You’re under my protection,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “You’ll bear a mark that protects you. No one will force their will upon you again.”

“Can you?”

He shakes his head, long hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks haunting in the firelight, but beautiful. You avert your gaze, fixating on the books in the room instead. “You have my word, I will never control you. I promised you freedom, that includes me.” 

“But I have to be here. I can’t escape from that. Is that freedom?”

“You made that decision of your own free will. It’s your words that bind you here, not mine. While you’re here, you are able to do whatever it is you desire. In fact, I encourage it.” 

“Wording is really important to you, isn’t it?”

He chuckles and inclines his head, fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “It is. Consider the first day of your deal already spent. You slept most of it off while you healed.” Yoongi stands, drawing your attention to him. “Sleep more,” he insists gently. “Tomorrow, I’ll give you a tour.”

The thought of a tour - and seeing Yoongi for more days - thrills you. Taehyung appears at the doorway as Yoongi escorts you out. He wishes you goodnight and lets Taehyung take you back to your room, though you feel his gaze and presence as you leave. 

It isn’t until you’re back in your room that you realize you never asked Yoongi how long your deal is supposed to last. It occurs to you that while he has given you a sort of freedom, perhaps he has taken something from you after all. 

-

Tall trees surround you. Above them, you can make out a swirling sky of stars and planets and several moons, so bright that it turns the forest a shade of blue. The woods around you are familiar, and there’s a well-walked path just ahead of you that leads to the river by your home. You’ve walked among these trees and creatures hundreds of times, but never with a sky like this.

Crickets chirp as you walk through the woods now. Grass tickles your bare feet, the earth soft and damp beneath you. It smells like fresh rain, but there’s no flood or mud as you navigate by instinct. 

It’s peaceful out here. How many times have you come here to escape your father’s rage? How many times have you sat, back pressed against a tree, watching the light fade from the world until it was too dark to see where you were going? You always managed to get home safely, even with the lack of light. 

The river rushes a few yards ahead. You pick a spot to sit and watch, beneath the cover of leaves. The sound of running water and the smell of rain on the wind lulls you into a trance and you close your eyes, resting for a while. 

Here is where you find peace. Where you dream. 

Awareness creeps up on you and you open your eyes, looking upward as you sense someone approaching. Yoongi stands next to you, onyx eyes gazing at the river. He’s in black clothes like before, his hands tucked into his pockets. You smell clove and cinnamon, making you dizzy. Power radiates off of him but it feels warm and safe. Like the night air itself comes from his existence. 

“Am I dreaming?” you ask him. He looks down at you, an obsidian strand of hair falling in his face. He nods, giving you a gentle smile. “This is often where I go to dream.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer you. He looks back to the rushing river, his face becoming unreadable. He looks like he’s somewhere far away, lost in his thoughts. Absently, he says, “Your dreams are my favorite.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are bright, full of life and color and sound. You dream the way people create art, the way people create worlds. It is rare to see such magnificence among the sleeping.” 

“I just…” you shrug. “Think of places I would rather be.” 

Yoongi looks at you then and his face is shadowed, full of thunder. “You’ll never be forced to live that life again.” 

“Do you promise?” 

He opens and closes his mouth, narrowing his eyes a little before shaking his head. You feel a smile tug at your mouth, endeared by his microexpressions. “Yes, little lamb. I promise.”

-

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed and looking around. The room spins as your brain tries to catch up with your body, your physical and mental awareness completely out of sync as you swivel your head, drinking in the unfamiliar room and the soft sheets that smell like clove and cinnamon. 

For a moment, you forget where you are, and adrenaline surges through you. Your fingers twist in the sheets as you ground yourself, memories from the day before slotting into place. Letting out a long exhale, you relax, flopping backward in the opulent bed, your heart rate slowing down as your panic bleeds out of you. 

You’re in Yoongi’s home. In a place that is somewhere in between - whatever that means. The god has told you on multiple occasions that you’re safe and have nothing to fear from him and for some reason…. You believe him. Maybe it’s naive, but you can’t erase the feeling that Yoongi is being honest with you, that he has good intentions. 

Perhaps it’ll get you into trouble one day. For now, you cast off doubt and peel yourself out of bed, trailing to the windowed doors that lead to the balcony beyond. You try the handle and are delighted to find them unlocked. Slipping through the doors, you’re met with warm, balmy air. It smells like petrichor, the breeze kissing your skin gently.

Like before, the world seems wrapped in permanent twilight. There is no sun in the sky, but a vast stretch of swimming stars and the largest moon you’ve ever seen. In the distance, dark mountains loom over you, their peaks capped in snow and wreathed in mist. 

Forest stretches out toward them in a vibrant shade of green. There’s a settee on the balcony along with a table and chairs. Leaning on the stone railing, you look down to see colorful gardens and a large pond full of vibrant fish.

All of the radiance makes you smile. You’ve never seen colors so rich, and you’re unable to recall if your world was this vibrant. The garden below is bursting with violet and cerulean, the flowers unfamiliar to you. Their fragrant smell wafts up to the balcony, a hint of sweetness in the air. 

A roll of thunder catches your attention. You look to the east, noticing that one of the mountains in the distance is darker than the others. Lightning crackles in the sky around it and the mist is heavier there. You think the trees are darker too, though you can’t tell if they’re gray or if it’s the shade from the swollen thunderheads drifting over them. 

Behind you, the door to the balcony opens and startles you. Whirling around, you find Taehyung leaning against the frame, mouth curved upwards in a sideways grin. “When you didn’t answer the door I got worried.”

“I thought I was safe here? What is there to be worried about?”

He shrugs. “Maybe you took a dive off of the balcony.”

“What is that place?” you point to the thundering, shrouded mountain. Taehyung looks where you point, his smile dropping as he stares at the looming peak. “By the look on your face, somewhere bad.”

“Bad is a relative term.” 

You scrunch your nose. “You sound like Yoongi.”

“Already familiar, are we? Cute.” He pushes off the door frame and beckons you inside. “Ask Yoongi about it on your tour.”

“Are you not coming along?”

“I have things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Not give tours.”

If it weren’t for Taehyung’s playful tone and glint in his eye when he casts you a glance, you’d think you were bothering him. Instead of getting angry, he drapes himself on one of the couches by the fireplace, long legs dangling off the arm as he lounges.

Today, he’s in charcoal colored pants and a red, billowing shirt that shows off the smooth, tan skin of his chest. A dangling earring catches your attention as he leans his head back, silky hair shifting. If Yoongi is made of moonlight, you think that Taehyung might be made of sunlight: golden skin, warm energy. 

“By all means,” you mutter. “Hang out.” 

“This is my home first, human. I shall do as I please.”

You make a sound at the back of your throat and roll your eyes, walking toward a large, polished wardrobe made from dark wood. It smells like fresh cedar when you pull on the brass handle, opening the door to reveal tunics and dresses, all hung neatly. 

Rich silks, velvets and cottons greet you. You run your hand over the materials, amazed at how soft they feel. They are far better quality than your mother ever had access to. Your heart squeezes when you think of her, and you shake your head a little as if to physically dispel thoughts of your family out of your mind.

Facing them seems like an impossible task. You know that you’ll have to eventually. Two weeks with Yoongi in this strange world seems like a long time, but you’re not sure if it’s nearly long enough to mentally prepare to go back and face them after what’s happened. Will they still be angry? What will they say? Will they have been worried about you all this time?

There’s no way to know the answer. So instead, you pretend none of that exists. For once, you have stumbled into a dream and adventure like you’ve always wanted, and you intend on playing the part. 

An emerald shirt catches your eye. It’s made of a silky material, supple when you rub the sleeve between your fingers. It’s plain, save for the laced string at the throat to cinch and tie it off. You grab a pair of black, cotton pants as well, the fabric just as soft as the sheets in your bed. 

With Taehyung humming on the couch, you let yourself into the bathroom to change. You appreciate that the floor is warm wherever you go barefoot, and you quickly slide out of your clothes from the previous day and into the new ones. The measurements are a little off, but more than manageable as you pull the tie closed at your throat. Glancing into the mirror, you can’t help but smile a little.

You look so different. The shirt belongs to someone adventurous, you think. Perhaps a pirate or a huntress riding atop her horse through the woods. You slide your fingers along the material, its softness inviting and magical. 

Two weeks. You’ll be here for two weeks with Yoongi, a god who has been alive for hundreds of years, if your conversation from the night before was anything to go off of. It feels surreal and you’re a little nervous, but more than that, you’re excited.

Suddenly, the world is full of possibilities. No marriage to tie you down, no power held in your parents’ hands. 

 “Gods you’re slow to get dressed,” Taehyung announces when you enter the room. He sits up, appraising your outfit. “Green looks good on you.”

“How many are there?” he cocks his head at your question, peeling himself from the seat. “Gods and goddesses, I mean.”

“Pfft. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds?” 

“Maybe thousands, I don’t really know. There’s basically an infinite amount of universes. All anyone mostly cares about are the Eternals, the gods who remain the same no matter what name or history mortals assign to them.”

“Eternals?”

“Mhmm.” Taehyung leads you into the hallway. His hands are tucked into his pockets as he strolls leisurely. You follow beside him eagerly, looking up as he seems thoughtful. “Gods are hard to define. They are great beings with massive power. Some gods do the same thing, some don’t. They come from the infinite amount of worlds to which they are native, and somehow make it into mortal history. But the Eternals have always been here, always known. They do not change.”

“Who are the Eternals?”

“Life, death, chaos, time, pathos, dream and fate.” He makes a face then. “Fate and chaos are hard. They work in direct opposition to one another. It drives time insane, naturally.”

Seven Eternals. It makes sense, from a logical standpoint. Every world must have life and death and the passing of time. Where there exists a living thing, there exists a vessel of emotion and dreams. In all worlds there is the potential for chaos disrupting fate. 

“Yoongi is an Eternal?”

Taehyung glances sidelong at you, smug. “Yes, Yoongi is an Eternal.”

“Why do you look at me like that when I say his name?” Taehyung doesn’t answer, instead smirking as if he’s enjoying a private joke. Your fists close and open as you swallow down a demand to tell you what he finds so amusing. “Which one is he?”

“Have you no guesses?”

That makes you think. Recalling the night before, you remember the way Yoongi looks: dark eyes swimming with something magical, a soft and raspy voice, the way he appeared in your dreams. 

Though your dreams are mesmerizing and far more colorful than anyone else I know. You recall what he said about your dreams, the way he leveled his gaze at you, full of meaning that you didn’t understand. 

“Dreams,” you say, certain that you're right. “He’s the Eternal of Dreams?”

“He isn’t of dreams. He is Dream.”

You’re unable to clarify Taehyung’s emphasis on Yoongi being a deity of dreams as he opens the door to the same library as before. This time, he doesn’t knock. When you step inside, you realize it’s because the room is empty. Yoongi is nowhere to be seen, though pale light filters in through the windows. It’s still forever twilight outside, yet a little lighter. It feels like morning, even if it does not entirely appear to be morning. 

Behind you, the door shuts. You turn to see Taehyung has left without another word, leaving you entirely alone in the captivating space. 

Without hesitation, you walk to the nearest shelf housing rows and rows of books. The spines range from muted browns and neutrals to bright reds and rich blues. Velvet books, leather books, canvas, silk. There is no shortage of materials making up each one, letters painted, printed or stitched down the back of them to denote what they are. 

Each one breathes a world of possibility as you drag your finger along the shape of them. You wonder how many worlds and histories are scribbled away in the pages of this room, the very idea of it overwhelming. 

Trinkets and objects you’re unfamiliar with line the shelves as well. Your fingers trace their shape and you wonder what they are. One object in particular catches your eye in the corner of the room. It stands on three metal legs and has large, interlocking rings that spin lazily in some unknown pattern. The rings are hammered metal and appear to have markings engraved on them.

The device slowly spins of its own accord. Upon inspection, there seems to be nothing else responsible for its motion except magic or science that is beyond you. You can see that there are seven metal rings and different markings on each of them, but you cannot guess what the engravings read. 

“It represents the balance of the Eternals. Taehyung mentioned you had a vague starting point as to what I am.”

Yoongi’s deep voice makes you leap and screech, spinning on your heels to face him. Your hand flies to your chest and you can feel your heartbeat rattling wildly. Yoongi stands a few feet away from you, hands linked behind his back and eyebrows raised at your reaction. 

He’s dressed similar to the night before, though a little more casual. His black pants are tucked into knee high boots, and his black shirt is loose fitted with silver stitching around the collar. You notice that it’s in patterns of stars and moons, furthering your confirmation that Yoongi is associated with dreams in some manner. 

Yoongi’s long hair is pulled half out of his face today, tied away in a bun. The rest of his hair brushes the tops of his shoulders as his inky eyes regard you patiently. His curiosity makes you feel warm all over and you drop your hands to your sides, fingers twitching. 

“How so?” you ask. You turn back to the device. “What does it run on?”

“Our energy. Each ring represents a member of my family. The speed at which they turn represents the balance among us. When the speed is off, the balance is off.”

“What causes the balance to be off?” 

Yoongi steps closer to you. You hold your breath as he does it, but you can feel his presence like a buzzing vibration at the back of your neck.

His voice is softer when he answers, “A number of things. Sometimes some of us aren’t always performing the way we should be. Other times, we’re overperforming. Or fighting, really, as siblings are wont to do.”

“I don’t know what that’s like.”

“You’re not missing much. Especially when your siblings are as ancient and never ending as you are.” 

“How… old are you?”

You look at Yoongi to see he’s standing next to you now. He looks at you, face impassive as he lifts a shoulder. “How old is the earth? How old is existence? It’s hard to say.” 

“Where do you come from?”

“Chaos was first. Life and Death were next, twins born of the sudden whims of Chaos. I was next, for Life often dreamed. Time was always there, though no one knows if Time or Chaos came first. Pathos and Fate came later.”

You nod, though you don’t fully understand the scope of how old and fathomless the existence of things like chaos and time and dreams are. It makes your head spin, trying to conceptualize the thing next to you who looks very much like an ordinary man being something so ancient and primordial that he precedes human existence entirely. 

“You’re overwhelmed,” he notes, a bit of amusement in his voice. “I don’t blame you. The best way to understand it is that I am a living concept that can never be destroyed, so long as there exists something to dream about.” 

Crossing his arms in front of him, Yoongi clasps his hands and gives you a slight smile. He has a pretty smile, you realize. Delicate and almost shy. It makes your heart flutter and you mentally chastise yourself for thinking that a being of eternal dreams can possibly be shy. 

“How about a tour? Our deal is that you’ll spend two weeks a month here. I’d love for you to feel like this is a place you can be familiar with, if not something akin to a home.”

“Home?”

His smile grows. “If that word ever seems fitting, sure.”

Home. The word makes you think about what home means to you and suddenly you feel a pit form in the bottom of your stomach. Flashes of a flooded forest, lighting lancing across the sky, hands gripping you tight and shoving you under the water. 

“Um,” you clear your throat. “So a tour.”

Yoongi’s eyes glitter as he grins and turns, using a hand to gesture to the wide library. “This is the main library, but we’ll end our tour here. Let’s go through the gardens first, it’s nice weather.”

Yoongi starts without you, leaving you to stand staring after him as he goes. His gait is smooth and confident. He presses on a pane of glass that you realize is a door. A breeze teases the loose pieces of his hair, carrying the familiar scent of clove and cinnamon toward you. 

For a moment, you stare after him. Yoongi being a deity of dreams makes so much sense in this moment, stepping into the twilight, face tilted upward slightly as though he’s soaking up the sun. He looks radiant. Tranquil. When he turns to look at you expectantly, his rose pink mouth quirks sideways. 

“Right,” you say, hurrying to follow him. “Outside is where we start.” 

When you pass him, you get the sense that Yoongi wants to tease you further. Instead, he says nothing and leads you into the gardens. A cobblestone path leads from the door through wisteria trees, their amethyst leaves swooping down and filling the air with sweet fragrance. 

Up above, the sky is a mix of blue and purple, thousands of stars twinkling. There is a stone bench near one of the windows of the library, but Yoongi leads you away from the palace and down the path under the trees. The air is crisp and pleasant, cooling your anxious, sweat-slick skin. 

Yoongi links his hands behind his back. “This is the library garden,” he informs you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s mostly wisteria trees, which are my favorite to walk through when I need to think.”

“They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Much different from the woods outside of your home.”

“You know the woods outside of my home?”

“You called me there, remember?” You blanch at the memory, but if he notices, Yoongi says nothing. “Besides, I’m familiar with the woods that surround your home. Your village pays homage to my brother.”

“Your brother?”

He hums. “Life. Perhaps they don’t know that it’s him they pray to, but they do.”

Taking a left, Yoongi leads you on a looping path through the massive wisteria trees. They’re larger than anything you’ve ever seen, their bows sweeping monoliths of purple, trunks thick as boulders. A strange creature sits on the branches of one of the trees, making you stop and stare. 

A tiny, carnelian creature sits on a bough, bright against the lavender background of the leaves. It has four legs and scaled feet, sharp talons cutting into the bark as it keeps its balance in the tree. Small wings are folded on its back, bony limbs with paper-thin skin between them, a lighter red than the rest of its body. A long tail snakes around the branch, holding the creature in place as its long neck extends, head tilting to look at you curiously.

“Is that a dragon?” you whisper, staring at it.

You’ve only heard them described in stories, but you don’t really know what they look like. It has scales like a lizard and it blinks two large eyes at you, entirely black. There are small horns on its head, and a forked tongue snakes out as it tastes the air. 

“She’s a fey dragon,” Yoongi hums, looking up at the creature with a smile. “And she’s not supposed to be in the trees here, are you?”

A puff of smoke curls from the dragon’s nose as it huffs, making you take a step backward. Yoongi lets out a deep laugh that makes a tingle rattle down your spine and your toes curl. The sound is like smoke and velvet, heady in the air. 

“She won’t hurt you,” Yoongi assures, shaking his head to continue walking under the dragon’s branch. “She’s a pesky little thing, but she is incredibly sweet. Fey dragons are much smaller than their firedrake cousins and less dangerous than their basilisk relatives.”

With your eyes cast upward, you hurry after Yoongi, keeping your gaze on the large lizard as you run under the branch. Her dark eyes follow you, unblinking and fathomless. The hair on your arms stands up and you can’t help but feel that despite the dragon being small and what Yoongi calls harmless, it is incredibly intelligent. 

“There are dragons here?” 

“There is everything here.”

You frown, finally turning away from the dragon as you leave it behind. “That’s confusing. Everything as in…?”

“When you dream, you have limitless potential. You can go anywhere, be anything, see any creature. Dreams even invent things that do not exist in the natural world. Creatures, stories, songs, words, plants. The possibility for creation in a dream is limitless, and this place is the essence of dreams. It is me.”

“So you are this place and the place is you?”

He seems thoughtful before nodding. “More or less. This is a dream realm as much as it is a collection of ideas, thoughts and hopes. Everything that every living creature has ever dreamed about walks these lands.”

“Even nightmares?”

Yoongi pulls up short and whips his head at you. You bite the inside of your cheek, unable to meet his eyes under his severe expression. In the distance, you swear you hear thunder. An apology springs to your lips, but before you can give it, Yoongi nods sharply once and begins walking again.

“Nightmares too. Do not speak of nightmares here, lest they come searching.”

You think about Taehyung telling you that you were safe but being concerned when you didn’t answer the door earlier that morning. A chill seeps into your bones as you rejoin Yoongi on your walk, his pace not as relaxed now. 

“They come searching?” you try, a little curious, a little afraid. 

“Yes. They are different from dreams. Unpredictable in a way I admire and dislike.” He glances sidelong at you. “They have a mind of their own. You are safe with me always, but it’s best practice to not think of them while you’re here. This world has a way of manifesting.”

For a few moments, you walk in silence. You let your questions fall silent as you look around. The two of you exit the wisteria trees to see a large pond. A single, massive wisteria sits on its western edge with a bench underneath it. 

The surface of the pond is dark and smooth, reflecting the swirling stars in the sky. Yoongi leads you around the mirror surface and points out the mountains in the distance that you could see from your windows. 

“Mountains of Sleep,” he tells you. “It is where all beings who are ready for their eternal rest come to dream for the remainder of their existence. They are also called the Mountains of Divinity, for there are hundreds of divine immortals among their peaks.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Not all beings rest here. Some prefer their own planes and resting grounds. But this existed before those places, and has long been used for the tired and the weary who are ready to retire.”

“Are they dead?”

“No. The dead cannot come here.” He hesitates. “When they do, it is because they are not a dream.”

You get the sense that Yoongi is talking about nightmares again and you shiver as he takes you around the pond. “Don’t let anything in that body of water convince you to go swimming. They won’t intentionally hurt you but they don’t understand the concept of human life.”

“They?”

“They don’t have a name. They are water-folk who were dreamt up by someone once. I admire them and they’re beautiful and wicked smart, but they’re a bit cheeky.”

“I’m starting not to feel as safe as you said I was.”

Yoongi stops and frowns. He lifts a hand as though he’s about to touch your arm before he thinks better of it and drops it at his side. You realize you’re disappointed that he did before mentally kicking yourself, feeling a little ashamed to be so affected by a god. You’re sure Yoongi gets it often, but it makes you feel silly nonetheless. 

“You are safe.” He lowers his head a little, catching your gaze. Though his eyes are midnight black, you swear you see the stars above reflected in their dark pools. “But there are rules everywhere. This place has them just the same as your home did. You were relatively safe there, but there were rules.”

“And then I broke them and Nathaniel tried to murder me.”

“Nathaniel was dealt with and will never touch you again.” Thunder rolls in the distance and your heart flutters at the vehemence with which Yoongi says this. “The misdeeds of your family cannot chase you here.”

You don’t press Yoongi on the matter. Instead, you let him proceed with the tour, keeping your questions to a minimum as you wonder what Yoongi meant by Nathaniel being dealt with. You recall the soft, susurrated voice against your ear when Yoongi found you. The gentle brush of something like a kiss to your neck. The rage and power as he stepped in front of you to face Nathaniel when the deal was done.

It does not require much to make an assumption about Yoongi’s meaning. 

The yards of his palace are sprawling and full of color. Gardens with flowers he doesn’t know the name of but said a little girl had dreamed them and he liked them so he made more. Butterflies with colors you didn’t know existed flitting from plant to plant. Fruit orchards with the ripest, reddest apples you’ve ever seen. 

And the palace. It is the only word you have for it. The building is several stories tall, hewn from dark stone with at least five different towers. Starlight glitters in the windows as Yoongi guides you up the stairs toward the massive double doors that lead to the main entrance of the castle. On the door handle are two wrought-iron griffons with proud faces. 

Without a touch, the doors open on Yoongi’s arrival. You wonder if the building responds to his presence as the door swings open for the two of you. Inside, the foyer is as magnificent as the library, a lush purple carpet rolling over stone floors. 

In the center of the room is a massive spiral staircase. Looking up, you see that it goes all the way up the floors of the palace, dizzying circles of floor after floor. Yoongi explains there are other ways to go all the way up to the top throughout the castle but this is the easiest way, though he assures you that by the third floor you’d be out of breath. 

Each room Yoongi shows you is opulent and warm. Rich, deep wooden furniture, paintings with dark splashes of amethyst, scarlet and gold. Rooms for tea, rooms for painting, rooms for music, rooms for dancing. Yoongi has a room for everything, sometimes occupied by strange little creatures that hide when you walk in or curious things that lift their heads when they see him. 

No one else besides Taehyung seems to be there, though. You come across felines, little balls of light that bounce around Yoongi excitedly and light him up like a burst of flame, a little furry thing that you think is a fox but in a shade of shocking sapphire, and a massive wolf with eyes like ice that blink apathetically at you as you walk by. But never once do you see another person. Even Taehyung seems to be amiss. 

“Does no one else live here?” Yoongi takes you through another room empty of people and things. “It’s so empty.” 

He takes his time to answer as you leave the room and move into the hallway. It’s hard to tell which way you’re going, but you think that you’re headed toward the library again. Your legs ache from going up and down the stairs on an endless tour of rooms, and you’re eager to be in the library once more. 

“There used to be,” Yoongi says slowly. “But people don’t tend to do well in places that they don’t belong.”

“So you’re all alone here?”

His smile is sad. “I have Taehyung.” He pauses before he adds, “And now you.”

I’m often very alone. It would be nice to have some company. You think of Yoongi’s words from the night before and suddenly you’re filled with sadness. Sadness for this ancient being, who seems so gentle and quiet. Who lives alone in this giant castle with all of the world’s dreams around him and no one to share them with. 

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “How do you know I belong?”

“Pardon?”

“Do I? Belong, I mean. You wouldn’t… have me here if I wouldn’t do well, right?”

“No one dreams the way you do.” He says this firmly. Confident. Fierce. “I believe there is nothing you wouldn’t be able to find here.”

“Do you always know what I dream about?” 

“No. But you dream… loudly. Colorfully. Sometimes it’s hard to ignore. I don’t like to pry, though.” 

“Can you see everyone’s dreams?”

“Mhmm. I even make some.”

This catches your attention and you reach out and grab his wrist, stopping him. He glances down where your fingers touch his skin, your fingers buzzing where you’re connected. You flush with warmth and drop your hand, clearing your throat at how forward grabbing him was. 

Yoongi is smirking when you ask, “Can you show me?”

“One day, yes. For now, the end of the tour and lunch.”

At the mention of lunch, your stomach rumbles. His grin spreads into a full smile and Yoongi leads you back to the library. Again, the doors open without his touch and as you pass them, you study them for any sign of an auto-opening mechanism but find none. 

Yoongi’s magic appears limitless. You remember the food disappearing from dinner, the swell of power as Yoongi agreed to save you, and his sudden appearance as you were drowning. You know nothing about the god of dreams or what he’s capable of, but you’re awed at how easy it comes to him. 

“This is the main library.” Yoongi turns around to face you, sweeping his arms out on either side of him. “There are two others: one in my room and one located in the dream tower.”

“You didn’t show me the dream tower.”

“I’ll show you when you’re ready.” 

Unsure what ready means to Yoongi, you look around the library. Same as the night before, the shelves are crammed full of books and scrolls, so much paper and ink that it makes you lightheaded with excitement. It still smells of lemon and wax, though as you pass Yoongi to go to a shelf, you’re overcome with clove and cinnamon again. 

Trying to ignore the shiver that merely walking by Yoongi gives you, you brush the spines of books once again, feeling their potential under your fingertips. 

“You always have access to this library. You can read what you like.”

A pang goes through you and you drop your hand. Without looking at him, you mumble, “Thank you, but I can’t read.”

No response comes. You stare unseeing at the books before taking a breath to turn your head and steal a glance at Yoongi. You expect some sort of amusement or perhaps pity, but his face is unreadable, jaw working.

“That’s okay,” he finally says. “We will teach you. After lunch we will make a schedule to help fill your time here. Reading and writing lessons will be a part of that.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Do you mean that?”

“Do you want to learn?” You nod your head eagerly. He grins gently. “Then we will teach you.” 

-

Yoongi’s eyes are dark as he presses forward. Your breath catches in your chest as you lay back, looking up at him with your lips parted, heart hammering in your chest. He settles his waist against you, the weight of him pressing you into your bed as you lay back. 

He is so beautiful that it puts you in a daze, staring up into his face as he leans over you. His hair is pulled back, but a few dark strands hang loose. His mouth is stained red with wine, making you want to lean forward and taste his lips and feel their softness. 

Tentatively, you reach a hand up and brush the loose strands of hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. You don’t stop touching him, though, hand cradling his flushed face. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your palm as you cup his cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth. 

“Is this what you dream of?” he whispers, eyes remaining closed. “Being under me, like this?”

Dreaming. You realize you’re dreaming. You jolt and suddenly, you’re alone. 

-

“Your handwriting is terrible,” Taehyung admits, looming over your shoulder. You grip the quill tighter, nearly snapping it in two. “But you learn unbelievably fast. How many of these letters do you think you have consistently memorized?” 

Taehyung is in charge of your writing lessons today and you already want to kill him. It’s been five days of your new residency in the House of Dreams, as Yoongi calls it, and you’ve quickly learned that Taehyung is equally charming and playful as he is outright vexing. 

Instead of turning to give him a very harsh poke in the arm with your quill, you scan the shapes in front of you. There are twenty-six of them, all awkwardly slanted and misshapen where you’ve used too much ink or not enough. Using a quill and ink feels alien to your hand and your fingers struggle to remember the proper way to hold it as you draw your letters. 

“I think most of them,” you answer slowly, mentally sounding out each word on the page in your head as you go. “But there are a few of them that confuse me. The lowercase ‘d’ and ‘b’ I find nearly impossible to recall and ‘v’ and ‘u’ are rather frustrating.” 

“Whenever you see a ‘u’, think of it as having a scoop. Sc-uuup.” Taehyung points to a ‘u’ on the page and mimics the scooping motion. “Might be easier to associate the sound scoop with ‘u’ even though the word itself doesn’t have a ‘u’.” 

The desperate look you give him makes him laugh as you struggle to imagine why a word with a ‘u’ sound doesn’t actually contain the letters. You’re saved from Taehyung’s maddening - but helpful - instruction as Yoongi walks into the library. 

“You’d better not be laughing at her again.” 

Taehyung steps away from you and bows his head toward Yoongi. “I’m laughing with her. We’re just sharing amusement over the hypocrisy of letters.”  

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It’s hilarious.”

Today, Yoongi is in a deep, amethyst colored shirt. It’s laced at the throat with the familiar moon and stars that he has stitched on much of his clothing, and his hair down and long, slicked back and tucked behind his ears. As always, he’s in dark pants and boots today, the sound of them clicking on the stone floor as he nudges Taehyung out of the way to peer over your shoulder. 

You tense. Being around Yoongi for the last five days has been intoxicating. It is bad enough that you get distracted during your lessons by the way his voice rumbles when he speaks and the way he chews his lips when working on his own things while you study. It’s worse that now he invades your dreams, whispering in your ear and hands wandering over your curves, sinful mouth brushing over your skin and leaving you to jolt awake in bed covered in sweat.

The very idea that Yoongi knows what you're dreaming of drives you to the edge of insanity. He’d promised he preferred to avoid your dreams, but you wonder if he knows. Knows that you have developed an insatiable habit of fantasizing about his hands, or about the tone of his voice. 

Gripping your quill tight, you hold your breath when he leans over you. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him and smell him, cinnamon and clove making your eyes flutter. If you didn’t know he was the god of dreams, you’d mistake him for the god of lust, if that was a thing.

“Why aren’t you breathing?” You peer upward to see Yoongi looking down at you. If you tilted your head back just a fraction more, you’d be pressed against his chest. Even from upside down, his moon-pale face and cosmos eyes make you want to scream. “Are you alright?”

“Nervous that I’m not performing well.”

His face softens. “You’re a quick learner. Don’t worry about progress and pace.”

“But what if I lose it when I go h- back.” 

Home. That’s what you were going to say. But the idea of home is terrifying. You don’t know what waits for you when you go back. You don’t know what splitting time between two worlds means. You don’t know what you’ll do when you have to spend two weeks there before coming back to Yoongi. 

Five days in Yoongi’s realm has been enough to make you feel like this has always been your life. You fit into the daily routines of Yoongi and Taehyung better than you imagined, and though you still sometimes get lost in the House of Dreams, you discover that you’re adapting. 

There’s always something new to discover, an adventure around the corner. You like learning your letters and the sounds that they make. You love studying the maps in the library and tracing the distances between countries you can’t name and have no idea where they are. 

Most of all, you love exploring. Rooms upon rooms of objects both normal and magical. Creatures that roam freely around the palace - including a clever little fox that has taken interest in following you around as you take breaks from studying by walking around the grounds. 

While Yoongi’s home doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, you’re more afraid to go back to your mother and father than you are to go near the pond at the edge of the wisteria garden. 

So you avoid thinking of going back.

“You’ll practice while you’re there,” Yoongi says, as though it’s the easiest answer in the world. “You have to practice every day.”

“My father won’t- he doesn’t…” You shake your head, unable to get the words out. That your father would strike you to the ground if he found you with books again. “I can’t bring anything back with me.”

“Sure you can.” You glance at him to find his expression is firm. “I told you, you’re under my protection. Things will be very different for you when you go back.”

“How?”

“It’s… difficult to say.” 

Yoongi offers nothing else. You become hyper aware of how close he’s standing to you again and you look down at your letter practicing. With a shaky hand, you dip the quill into the ink, lifting it from the inkwell and letting the excess drip before bringing it over to the paper. 

When Yoongi makes no move to leave, you inhale deeply to steel your nerves and continue tracing. He’s content to watch you as you work. If he knows how distracted this makes you, he doesn’t let on. Perhaps he has no idea that as you scrawl a shaky letter ‘k’, it’s Yoongi who consumes your thoughts. 

Even in your waking hours it seems you’re not rid of him. 

Most of your study sessions are like this, Yoongi watching you so closely that it makes your quill bleed too much ink. He is a passive teacher, letting you come to him with questions instead of correcting you constantly like Taehyung does. Even now, when you hesitate on the next letter of the alphabet, Yoongi doesn’t offer his help. Lets you figure it out. 

You dip the quill in ink and continue. 

After you finish the last shaky letter, you set the quill down, flexing your fingers open and closed. Yoongi makes a satisfied noise and steps away. You turn to see him walking toward the table by the fireplace, which is where you have started to take all your meals. Already, there are platters of food and drinks. Taehyung sits in a chair, plucking a grape from a plate and popping it in his mouth.

“I didn’t invite you,” Yoongi grumbles as he takes a seat at the head of the table. You push yourself up from your chair, legs aching from sitting so long. “Who said you can eat my grapes?”

“Ugh, I’m tired of eating alone.” 

“Let him stay, Yoongi.” The god looks at you with a glower, bottom lip jutted out slightly. It’s so cute that you can’t help but burst into laughter, hand flying to your mouth. “Sorry, I think you just pouted.” 

“He did.” Taehyung grins and leans back in his chair. “He wants you to himself.”

Yoongi hisses Taehyung’s name, shutting down the teasing immediately. You glance at Yoongi shyly as you sit down but he doesn’t meet your eyes, choosing to laden his plate with food instead. You can’t imagine why Yoongi would want you to himself, especially when all you do is ply him with questions. 

Still, a little bit of a thrill goes through you as you start loading your plate, your gaze drifting toward the deity again as he bites into a strawberry, the juice running down his chin. Your eyes track the movement as his tongue darts out, catching the drip before it escapes too far. 

Yoongi’s mouth is hypnotizing and it takes you a moment too long to realize he’s watching you stare at him. Quickly, you grab a cup and bring water to your lips, gulping the cool water and glancing up at the ceiling, feeling embarrassment bloom like warm liquid through you. 

When you put the cup down, you swear you see Yoongi smiling. 

-

Hungry lips suck at the tender flesh of your neck. You gasp, feeling your toes curl in pleasure, head spinning. Yoongi’s teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, the drag of his rough tongue soothing over the bites driving you mad. You let out a soft moan, eyes squeezing shut as you writhe under him. 

Yoongi’s large hands pin yours above your head, your fingers tangling in the sheets as he continues to ravish your neck with his hot mouth, tongue and teeth. His hips roll over you and you whine, feeling his hard-on pressing against you. 

Your parents would kill you if they knew you were here like this, trapped under a god of the dark as he sucks on your pulse point, mouth moving upward to nip your ear. Your chest is heaving and you can’t get enough breath, overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and clove, by the way his mouth pulls sounds from you so easily. 

Yoongi tears his lips away and looks down at you, eyes so dark and blown out that you think he might devour you, swallow you whole in one bite - 

“You’re dreaming of me again,” he whispers. “I don’t know if you mean to be dreaming of me, like this.” 

You startle, realizing this isn’t real, and the illusion fades. 

-

Twilight skies stretch above you. It’s warm outside, but the night air is cool against your skin, making you shiver as you sit down, folding your legs criss-cross. 

“Are you cold?” Yoongi asks, sitting down on the soft grass next to you. You shake your head, eyes fixed on the low table in front of you that's filled with platters of meats, cheeses and crackers. You eye a glass bottle of red liquid that you think is wine, mouth watering. “Are you sure?”

“Promise, the wind feels nice.” 

He looks doubtful as he sits down next to you, a healthy amount of space between you. 

Tonight, Yoongi has insisted on a late night snack outside under the stars. He seems eager, verging on giddy as he glances up at the sky before reaching for the bottle of red liquid and popping the cork. 

After nearly two weeks in the House of Dreams, you’ve learned that this world is forever twilight, lit up by dreams. Here, day and night don’t exist in their truest forms. There are always millions of people and creatures dreaming at every moment of existence, not limiting Yoongi’s world and power to times of day and night. 

The twilight is beautiful. You’ve grown accustomed to the purple tint to the world, the way that it gets just the barest bit darker outside during certain periods, as though even in a world where night and day don’t exist, there are still two separate halves of time. 

Yoongi passes you a glass. You bring it to your nose and sniff, delighted at the scent of cherries and something else. It’s certainly wine, though you wait for him to pour himself a glass to sip any. 

Earrings dangle in Yoongi’s ears tonight. Each lobe has a small, thin chain with a moon charm on the end that’s studded with sapphires, catching the moonlight as he sets down the bottle and sits back. His hair is pulled half-up, half-down again, leaving his full face in view as he looks at you and gives you a gummy grin that scatters your thoughts. 

“Chaos is moving through the sky tonight,” Yoongi informs you, glancing upward. “When she does, she’s beautiful to see. She doesn’t do it that often, but she’s passing us by on her way to do whatever it is she does somewhere. I wanted you to see.” 

He holds out his drink and you grip yours tight, raising your glass to clink with his like you’ve seen people do at the inn in your village. He turns away from you, bringing his wine to his lips to sip. You follow suit, tentatively tilting your glass.

Sweet cherries bloom on your tongue and you hum in delight. It isn’t just cherries you taste, though. There’s a lush sweetness too, edged with spice, filling your mouth with warmth. You look at Yoongi as you sip and see him watching with a closed-lipped smile, eyes searching your face.

“You like it?” 

You nod and set the glass down. “It’s delicious.” 

“You like sweet things.” 

“And you like salty.” He raises a brow in question. “You’re always going for the salted meats at dinner. And you have salted pork right there,” you point to the meat and cheeseboards. “Do gods get dehydrated?”

“We do not. I didn’t realize you were paying so much attention.” You shrug, picking up your wine to take small sips again. “Anything else you’ve noticed?” 

Everything, you want to say and don’t. You’ve noticed so many things about Yoongi, all of them coming to mind at once. But you don’t want to reveal just how much you’ve watched him over the last two weeks, paying far more attention than is proper. 

You could tell Yoongi how you’ve noticed that he wears seven necklaces exactly, each with a different symbol charm on them that you think corresponds to the seven Eternals. You could tell him that he has the habit of closing his eyes and tilting his face upward, like he’s absorbing moonlight. You know all of his favorite breakfast items, specifically crispy bacon and sugared strawberries. 

And there are other things you could tell him, like in your dreams his lips are soft as sin, his voice low and sultry. You could admit that most nights you feel his grip on your waist and that when you study his hands during your lessons, you can’t help but already know the shape of them. 

Perhaps two weeks back in your village is exactly what you need to get the ridiculous fantasy of this eternal being from your head. You don’t think you could bear the shame of him knowing exactly what living in the in-between realm has done for your imagination in a very unexpected way. 

“You like bacon,” you offer as an answer. “And sugared strawberries. In the evening, whiskey is your favorite. It smells a little bit like honey, but still spicy. And you must work in the dream tower often at night, because the door to the tower smells like clove and cinnamon and you always smell that way.”

Yoongi’s brows shoot up. You hide your expression with your glass of wine, taking a long draught. It hums in your veins, warm and rushing like nothing you’ve ever felt before. When you lower the glass, Yoongi watches you with an intense expression. You meet his gaze, suddenly unable to look away. 

The air feels charged as you stare. His eyes dip down to your mouth a single time, then back up to your eyes. The breeze moves strands of his hair and you smell the hint of clove followed by cinnamon, just as you always do when he’s near. Your heart starts to staccato as the silence presses on. 

A little shriek cuts through the tension like a knife. You flinch and turn around, looking at a red blur of movement burst from the wisteria trees. Tiera lands with a squawk, the fey dragon huffing as grey smoke curls from her lungs. She ignores you entirely as she normally does and skips over to where Yoongi is sitting before she settles next to him, curling like a cat and laying on her tail.

Yoongi laughs. “Hello, Tiera.” The dragon chuffs and lets out another puff of smoke. “Are you not going to say hello to our friend?” 

When the dragon pays no attention to you, you roll your eyes. “She hates me.”

“Dragons are capricious. She’s been with me for over a hundred years.”

“Not very mature then, is she?”

He chuckles again as you pluck cheese from the platter and pop it into your mouth. You’re delighted to find it’s soft and garlicky with a hint of rosemary as well. “She is still a child in dragon years.” 

“And you let her be a glutton.” 

“You could be too.” Your chewing slows and you swallow the cheese hard. You wait to see if he’s teasing you, but Yoongi watches you with a placid expression. “Dreams and desires are intertwined, you know. Desires come from dreams. It is in my nature to be indulgent.” 

“I’ve never really been indulgent in my life.”

“Do you want to be?”

“What?”

His mouth twitches. “Indulgent.”

“I think this is indulgent,” you gesture to the food. “And you’re teaching me to read and write. That is more indulgence than I could ever dream of.”

He hums and it sounds like disapproval. “I think your dreams are far more indulgent than that.” 

He knows. You think he’s going to say something, to ask about the way you dream of him. Instead, he says, “When you return, we’ll work on your indulgence. There is no shame in wanting things, you know?” 

“I don’t know. How could I?”

Light flashes above your head. You break eye contact with him to look up and gasp. The sky is full of shooting stars, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The world lights up as you see rainbows streaking across the sky, bursts of colors and explosions of brilliance shooting through the sky. 

Your mouth hangs open as you watch, mystified into silence. You’re sure this is what Yoongi meant when he said Chaos was passing by, for the sky becomes a cacophony of color and stars and light. You blink your eyes, stunned by the display. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, your heart hammering with excitement as you watch it, legs crossed, head tilted up.

The stars begin to slow and there are less bursts of color, until finally, there is just a shimmering wake of stardust and pink simmering in the sky. You look at Yoongi, utterly speechless, to find him looking at you. His eyes reflect the night sky, full of constellations and stardust, glittering in the dark depths of his irises. 

Yoongi’s eyes are as wonderful as the display above, but you don’t say that. 

“That was beautiful,” you breathe. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His eyes don’t leave you when he hums softly in agreement. “It was.” 

Tiera shuffles next to Yoongi, drawing your attention. She snakes her long neck out, tongue tasting the air as she eyes the meat on the table. Yoongi hisses at her and taps her nose in chastisement, earning an angry croak as the dragon shuffles back to her napping position. 

The rest of your evening is spent snacking in companionable silence. Yoongi doesn’t talk much unless he’s answering your hundreds of questions, but tonight, you have none. You’re comfortable to just look at the world around you, the wisteria branches dancing in the breeze. 

In the distance, you hear thunder. Your eyes follow the sound to the same dark peak with lightning crackling through the mist. You’ve yet to ask Yoongi about that peak in particular, but you think you know what looms there. You remember Yoongi talking about how there are nightmares in this realm too, and you’re not eager to ask what that thunderous mountain holds. 

Yoongi doesn’t divulge, either. He watches you as you regard the peak and says nothing. Perhaps even the Eternal of dreams is hesitant to speak of that place, which is a good enough reason for you not to press him further on it. 

When your stomach is full and you’ve had another glass of wine, you lay back in the grass. Your limbs feel heavy with drink and your world is tilted on a slow-rotating axis. The buzz in your veins feels pleasant, though your thoughts are a little sticky like honey and they run together, untamed. 

Careful to keep his distance, Yoongi lays back in the grass with you. His face looks up at the sky, but you look at him. His features are so delicate and soft, nose and cheeks so round. His face don’t make sense in your head, so severe and terrifying yet gentle and innocent at the same time. 

“You’re staring,” he says eventually. 

“I’m indulging,” you tease back, loosened up by wine. “You said I can indulge, so let me stare.”

“What is there to indulge in?” 

“Your… earrings.” 

That makes him look at you, a brow quirked. “My earrings.”

“Yes. Very shiny. Very dangly.”

“Shiny and dangly?”

“Is there an echo out here?” you demand, frowning at him. “Yes, I am indulging in your jewelry!” 

“Would you like some earrings?”

“My ears aren’t pierced.”

“Well then we’ll pierce them.”

“Well,” you grump. “Don’t you have the answer for everything?”

He smiles then, that rare gummy smile that makes you shut right up. “I told you. I’m indulgent. Anything you want, all you need is to ask.” 

Rolling your eyes, you bite your lip to hide your smile at his words. It is insane to you that this ancient being is laying in the grass next to you telling you to only ask what you want. You don’t know what you want, but you do know that this feels like a dream. That you’re not really here, and that you’re going to wake up tomorrow and be in your bed at home. 

Dread fills you at the thought of going back to your parents. In a way, you want to see them. They’re your parents and there is… unfamiliarity without the sound of your mothers needle stitching through cloth. You could do without your father entirely. The rage inside of you when you picture his face is difficult to quell and is often followed by terror. 

Yoongi has told you that you will be safe when you return. You believe him. There is no reason not to. But more than anything, you’re terrified about what comes next. Living between two worlds is something you remember dreaming about that one day in the forest, looking at the way the world was reflected back on the mirror-calm surface of the water. 

Now that you have access to two worlds, you don’t know what to do with the other that has brought you nothing but suffering. And yet, you still want to see what is there. You’re not ready to leave it entirely without knowing. 

“Are you afraid to go back?” 

Yoongi’s question is soft. You don’t hesitate to answer, “Yes.” 

“You won’t be alone. All you have to do is dream of me, and I will come.”

You hesitate then ask, “Do you know any time someone dreams of you?”

“It’s like hearing someone call my name, but I never answer. My business is in creating dreams, not invading them. People like you are able to spin up dreams on your own without my assistance. I help those who cannot.” 

“That sounds like a lovely job.”

He hums. “It’s not without its stresses. I talk a lot about the nature of dreams, but there is more to me and to my job than that. Perhaps we will leave that for your next visit, yes?”

You nod. “Okay.” 

“Come on,” Yoongi sighs, heaving himself upward. “It is late and in the morning, you must return.” 

-

“Touch me,” you beg him, straddling Yoongi’s lap. His head rests against the back of the couch and he looks up at you as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer than you imagined, sliding like silk between your fingers. “You told me to ask for what I wanted. Touch me.”

“Anything,” Yoongi agrees. His hands skim up your thighs, warm and rough. He squeezes your flesh, making you moan as his hands continue their worship. Yoongi grips your hips tightly, kneading your flesh as he pulls you closer to him. “Anything. Everything. For you.”

-

When you wake up, you’re confused. The roof above your head is wood and thatch. The mattress beneath you is thin and lumpy, sweat sticking the sheets to your legs. Rolling over, your vision blurs until it comes into focus once more, revealing a tiny room with just a bed, a wardrobe and a closed door. 

Your  room. Well, your room in your parents’ house, you realize with a panic. 

You shoot up in bed as terror claws at you. Did you dream it all? Was it not real? Nothing in your room has changed and the windows are open to the cool air. Grey clouds drift in the sky and you can smell the petrichor of oncoming rain in the distance. 

Rushing to your bedroom door, you rip it open, your heart threatening to burst with how hard it’s beating. You don’t know what you’re looking for or what you expect to find, but the idea that you have just woken up from the most vivid, wonderful dream is so maddening that you need anything to tell you it was real. That it wasn’t in your head.

Your mother is sitting at the kitchen table stitching. She looks up when she hears you. She looks different, leaner and narrower than you ever remember, her greasy hair tied low at her neck. Her hands pause their stitching as she stares at you, stricken. 

“What day is it?” you ask her. The day you had been attacked had been a seventh day. You remember that clearly. “Tell me what day it is!”

Instead, your mother screams in sheer terror. 

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[keepingsecretstokeepyoutk]

This is going to be very long and sound a little crazy at first, and maybe a little mean but please hear me out…

I’m convinced that Taylor sometimes purposefully includes one line or multiple lines of poorly written or clunky lyrics in specific songs to make a point.

We all have seen some version of this with bearding songs like London Boy, a simple bop whose lyrics were immediately detected as sounding disingenuous, even with the general population (the locations she was signing about were the most touristy and too far away from each other to visit on the same day, etc, basically implying that she doesn’t actually have a long term local bf there that she spends a bunch of time with exploring the city with, etc).

But just like everything else on the album, I think she’s doing maybe a more in your face version of that. No holds barred.

So High School is an obvious example of this, with all of the early 2000’s hs imagery, she seems pretty blatantly to be mocking the idea the public has of her “living out every American girl’s high school fantasy” of dating the tall popular football player. With lyrics like “touch me while your friends play grand theft auto” (barf), etc, shes being clear enough that this is not a serious song.

This is the possibly controversial part, but I’m so curious to see what others think about this - I think another iteration of this on this album is the title track, The Tortured Poets Department. Hear me out.

(First, I want to reassure you that there are lines in this song that I really like and think are well written, like: “you’re in self-sabotage mode/throwing spikes down on the road” and “but you awaken with dread/pounding nails in your head/but I’ve read this one/where you come undone/I chose this cyclone with you”. And I fully agree with the idea that these sentiments are from Karlie’s perspective. Basically, when you take out the chunks I’m about to talk about this song makes way more sense and has a beautiful sentiment of undying love behind it - which makes the following parts stick out that much more!)

The first time I listened through the album, and this was the second song, I got terrified because I didn’t understand its place in the whole narrative and when I heard the first clunky line “scratch your head like a tattooed golden retriever” I got the ick. Then the bridge with no structure and no wit and no clever turns of phrase, no metaphor, just “you put my ring on the finger people put wedding rings on” and “that was the closest I’ve ever been to my heart exploding”. So over simplified and cheesy, and doesn’t sound anything like her writing, especially the caliber of her recent lyrics

I know art is largely subjective, but I insist there is no way that the same person who wrote Cowboy Like Me wrote these lines into her title track if she didn’t have a reason and a point to make. To make it clear that this isn’t a matter of genre personal taste, because I know CLM is a very specific sound and a style that music snobs often take more seriously - I love SO many of her candy pop bangers, they are infinitely more clever, articulate, and overall works of art by a true wordsmith than this. Karma, The Very First Night, etc are all a master classes in clever words and tight writing being tucked into an “unserious” pop song.

The lyrics I cited above to me sound like what haters believe her writing sounds like, even fans who make little jokey TikTok’s about her and make up a spoofy something to sing while in character - that’s what these lyrics sound like.

Im worried im being too harsh, but please stay with me because the more I think about the more genius I think it actually is.

In the context of the themes of rest of the album, (her being trapped, miserable, manipulated, ready to burn it all down, screaming to be seen) this theory became clear to me. I think she’s leaning into her public persona (in more ways than one, we’ve already seen it with the stunting), in a way setting a “trap” for her fans and the public, that will essentially call them all out on how they ignored the real her in favor of her pr narrative, making the album about paternity tests, etc, all of which I’m guessing will become very clear in retrospect, possibly after she comes out? (Of course it’s already clear to us now, which is another purpose of the beard songs including clunky writing - to signal to us that these are not serious and that she knows that we know that she knows (like Phoebe on friends lol))

Ultimately, this is (along with So Highschool) a classic beard song. When she writes in this voice, she embodies the most extreme versions of her public persona, not just the one she has cultivated on purpose, but also the one that people have of her that don’t know her (as she did in Blank Space), including those that don’t take her seriously - because her identity as a boy crazy psycho ex girlfriend is directly tied to people dismissing her art as vapid because, they’ve only ever heard her singles, they don’t know the full her.

That voice is the straightest, the most boy crazy, the most one note, and sometimes the most unsophisticated writer version of her that people have in their minds, including her fans - the fans that refuse to see her as a whole person, the real, that believe she is head over heals for big football boy, that believe “he knows how to ball, I know Aristotle” is a romantic line about how opposites attract, the fans that say they don’t “get” some of her most beautiful and well-written songs, the fans that don’t see her and haven’t been seeing her.

They didn’t see giant Taylor on the eras tour, they refuse to see all of her queer signaling, etc, and I think she’s making the bearding songs obvious to underscore the difference between her Taylor(TM) and Taylor(person) personas.

She knows that despite the fact that the lyrics don’t even come close to measuring up to the rest of the album, the public, and many of her fans, will make this song one of the most listened to simply because they are looking for evidence of her relationships from the past year. We’ve all commented on how insane it is that this layered, complex, devastating album is being reduced to the usual paternity tests. This is currently one of the top songs precisely because it is “about Matty”. And of course, So High School is one of the tops songs along with it because it’s “about Travis”.

The juxtaposition of the bearding songs alongside her beautifully written poetry of Prophecy, Peter, Whose Afraid of Little Old Me, Cassandra, How did it end, The Albatross, etc mirrors the juxtaposition of her two selves during the Midnights era.

She has proven the point that if they think she wrote every line of this song completely in earnest, then they see her largely no differently than her haters do, as a subpar writer who writes absurdly cheesy love songs praising trashy to mediocre, problematic men. By eating it up they tell her that’s what she’s good for, for being the subject of tabloids and warring fans who make this entire album about two (purposefully) mediocre songs and the men who “inspired” them.

She has proven her point - that a subset of her fans will be distracted by a lesser song simply because they think it’s about one of the greasy men that’s she been seen holding hands with. That they will ignore once again all of her pleas to be seen, that she’s in pain and caged, and has been driven insane by their willful ignorance. That they don’t appreciate her full potential and talent, that they don’t even see it, and just want to be confirmed in their ideation of her.

This song is essentially the “forget him(her)” pill at the beginning of the fortnight mv, but it’s a sedative for the fans, who are addicted to her straight narrative. Similar to Willow’s 13 chants of “that’s my man” that started off evermore, casting a spell of heteronormativity over everyone who wanted it, so that they could choose to just completely ignore the following 14 gayest songs ever written. Don’t pay no mind to her singing directly about women with zero male perspective - she said “that’s my man!” We’re good! She’s still straight!

Taylor in the fortnight mv had to a take a sedative to be able to go into the next room and write her bearding songs - ie she self medicates to deal with keeping up the straight persona and to get through having to release dumbed down songs to feed the masses. (I also see the pill as something forced on her, I think it represents both layers)

From the first time I watched the music video I thought the writing Taylor looked so miserable and the bearding songs are why.

In this room she’s trapped, churning out the songs that her fans expect of her, the songs that make her team money, the songs that make her money, but that she has to compromise her truth to create.

But when she frees herself she’ll burn the stories that weren’t true, the filler that doesn’t represent her.

I’m curious to hear other’s thoughts on this - have you ever felt like Taylor purposefully inserts off-sounding lyrics that are written in a different voice to make a point?

I want to reiterate that it’s not the entirety of either song that I think is terrible, I genuinely love bopping along to both So High School and TTPD (track). Like I said above, when you remove the clunky lines from ttpd (track), the song has another layer and likely gives voice to some Karlie insight that is beautiful and tragically profound. It’s the red herrings, the pieces specifically meant to tie this song to a bearding narrative, that I’m dissing, and the only reason they are suspicious in the first place is because I know how gifted Taylor is with the written word.

Taylor is such a skilled writer that she can embody the voice of the bad writer that dismissive ignorant idiots believe her to be, just to make a point!

I even wonder if maybe there is a second version of this song locked away in one of those drawers in the fortnight writing room that leaves out the red herrings and is a thousand times better than the bearding version we got.

I hope one day we get to hear it.

[cuddlytogas]

there was some Twitter madness recently where someone left a comment on someone's art to the effect of, "Ed shouldn't wear a dress, he's a man!" which I do disagree with on principle, but unfortunately, it brought out one of my least favourite trends in the fandom

so, naturally, I had to write a twitter essay about it. and I already largely argued this in a post here, but the thread is clearer and better structured, so I thought I'd cross-post for those not on the Hellsite (derogatory). edited for formatting/structure's sake, since I no longer have to keep to tweet lengths, and incorporating a couple of points other people brought up in the replies

so

I want to point out that the wedding cake toppers in OFMD s2 aren't evidence that Ed wants to wear dresses. Gender is fake, men can wear skirts, play with these dolls how you like, but it's not canon, and that scene especially Doesn't Mean That.

People cite it often: 'He put himself in a dress by painting the bride as himself! It's what he wants!' But that fundamentally misunderstands the scene, and the series' framing of weddings as a whole. I'd argue that Ed paints the figure not from desire, but from self-hatred; it's not what he wants, but what he thinks he should, and has failed to, be.

(Yes, I am slightly biased by my rampant anti-marriage opinions, but bear with me here, because it is relevant to the interpretation of the scene, and season two as a whole.)

The show is not subtle. It keeps telling us that the institution of marriage is a prison that suffocates everyone involved. Ed's parents' cycle of abuse is passed to their son in both the violence he witnesses then enacts on his father, and the self-repression his mother teaches, despite her good intentions ("It's not up to us, is it? It's up to God. ... We're just not those kind of people. We never will be."). Stede and Mary are both oppressed by their arranged marriage, with 1x04 blunty titled Discomfort in a Married State. The Barbados widows revel in their freedom ("We're alive. They're dead. Now is your time").

But even without this context, the particular wedding crashed in 2x01 is COMICALLY evil. The scene is introduced with this speech from the priest:

"The natural condition of humanity is base and vile. It is the obligation of people of standing ... to elevate the common human rabble through the sacred transaction of matrimony."

It's upper class, all-white, and religiously sanctioned. "Vile natural conditions" include queerness, sexual freedom, and family structures outside the cisheteropatriarchal capitalist unit. "The obligation of people of standing" invokes ideas like the white man's burden, innate class hierarchy, religious missions, and conversion therapy. Matrimony is presented as both "sacred" (endorsed by the ruling religious body), and a "transaction" (business performed to transfer property and people-as-property, regardless of their desires), a tool of the oppressive society that pirates escape and destroy. That is where the figurines come from.

When Ed, in a drunk, depressive spiral, paints himself onto the bride, he's not yearning for a pretty dress. He's sort of yearning for a wedding, but that's not framed as positive. What he's doing is projecting himself into an 'ideal' image of marriage because he believes that: a) that's what Stede (and everyone) wants; b) he can never live up to that ideal because he's unlovable and broken (brown, queer, lower-class, violent, abused, etc); c) that's why Stede left. He tries to make himself fit into the social ideal by painting himself onto the closest match - long-haired, partner to Stede/groom, but a demure, white woman, a frozen, porcelain miniature - because, if he could just shrink himself down and squeeze into that box, maybe Stede would love him and he'd live happily ever after. But he can't. So he won't.

The fantasy fails: Ed is morose, turns away from the figurines, then tips them into the sea, a lost cause. He knows he won't ever fulfil that bride's role, but he sees that as a failure in himself, not the role. It's not just that "Stede left, so Ed will never have a dream wedding and might as well die." Stede left when Ed was honest and vulnerable, "proving" what his trauma and depression tell him: there's one image of love (of personhood), and he'll never live up to it because he's fundamentally deficient. So he might as well die.

This hit me from my very first viewing. The scene is devastating, because Ed is wrong, and we know it! He doesn't need to change or reduce himself to fit an image and be accepted (as, eg, Izzy demanded). Stede knows and loves him exactly as he is; it's the main thread and theme of season two!

(@/everyonegetcake suggested that Ed's yearning in these scenes includes his broader desire for the vulnerability and safety Stede offered, literalised through unattainable "fine" things like the status of gentleman in s1, or the figurine's blue dress. I'd argue, though, that these scenes don't incorporate this beyond a general knowledge of Ed's character. Ed is always pining for both literal and emotional softness, but the significance of the figurines specifically, to both Ed and the audience, is poisoned by their origin and context: there is no positive fantasy in the bride figure, only Ed's perceived deficiency.

Further, assuming that a desire for vulnerability necessarily corresponds with an explicit desire for femininity, dresses, etc, kind of contradicts the major themes of the show. OFMD asserts that there is nothing wrong with men assuming femininity (through drag, self-care, nurturing, emotional vulnerability, etc), but also that many of these traits are, in fact, genderless, and should be available to men without affecting their perceived or actual masculinity. It thematically invokes the potential for cross-gender expression in Ed's desires, especially through the transgender echoes in his relieved disposal, then comfortable reincorporation, of the Blackbeard leathers/identity. It's a rich, valuable area of analysis and exploration. But it remains a suggestion, not a canon or on-screen trait.)

Importantly, the groom figure doesn't fit Stede, either. Not just in dress: it's stiff and formal, and marriage nearly killed him. He's shabbier now, yes, but also shedding his privilege and property, embracing his queerness, and trying to take responsibility for his community. In a s1 flashback, Stede hesitantly says, "I thought that, when I did marry, it could be for love," but he would never find love in marriage. Not just because he's gay, but because marriage in OFMD is an oppressive, transactional institution that precludes love altogether. All formal marriages in OFMD are loveless.

So, he becomes a pirate, where they reject society altogether and have matelotages instead. Lucius and Pete's "mateys" ceremony is shot and framed not like a wedding, but as an honest, personal bond, willingly conducted in community (in a circle; no presiding authority, procession, or transaction).

That is how Stede and Ed can find love, companionship, and happiness: by rejecting those figurines and their oppressive exchange of property, overseen by a church that enables colonialism and abuse. Ed is loved, and deserves happiness, as he is, no paint or projection required.

ALL OF THIS IS TO SAY: draw Ed in dresses! Write him getting gender euphoria in skirts! Write trans/nb Ed, draw men being feminine! Gender is fake, the show invites exploration, that's what 'transformative works' means! But please, stop citing the cake toppers as evidence it's canon. Stop citing a scene where a depressed Māori man gets drunk and projects himself onto a rich, white, silent bride because he thinks he's innately unlovable and only people like her can find happiness, shortly before deciding to kill himself, as canon evidence it's what he wants.

(Also, please don't come in here with "lmao we're just having fun," I know, I get it. Unfortunately, I'm an academiapilled researchmaxxer, and some of youse need to remember that the word "canon" has meaning. NOW GO HAVE FUN PUTTING THAT MAN IN A PRETTY DRESS!! 💖💖)

[dreaming-in-prose]

be still my foolish heart

Summary: Penelope needs an answer to a burning question, so she goes to her betrothed's home the day before their wedding.

Read on AO3

The hem of her chemise felt heavy with dew as she walked across the cobblestone street to Bridgerton House. The unseasonably warm spring day had brought on an unseasonably warm spring night, and the cloak she had thrown on to conceal her identity, the very same one she would wear to the dressmakers to deliver the latest Whistedown in the dead of night, felt stifling. But she had to see him.

Penelope Featherington weaved behind their grand estate as she had so many times before, previously to meet her long-time best friend Eloise, but tonight she was meeting someone different.

My betrothed, she thought to herself with a mix of joy and disbelief. The very thought sent a swarm of butterflies through her stomach. She was engaged to Colin Bridgerton, the man her heart had yearned for all her life. She had spent years convincing herself that a life that included a romantic marriage was beyond her reach, that she would be content with a pragmatic match. But now, the reality of her engagement was a dream come true, a reality that was a stark contrast to the nights she had spent in bed, after a failed ball, after another season out, trying to convince herself that she would be okay with good enough. That she could accept pragmatism. A marriage where there may not be love, but there would be security. And maybe that could be enough. Perhaps we could even learn to love each other, she would say, unconvinced by her own acting.

For three seasons now, she had hidden in the shadows, her dance card empty and her prospects minimal, holding out hope that she might get the fairytale ending she had read about countless times, sitting at that window overlooking the Bridgerton house, by all accounts containing a happier family than her own. Idealistic in every way. The Bridgertons had no money troubles and did not struggle to find their place in polite society. In fact, after spending so much time with them, Penelope had even begun to believe a family could enjoy spending time with each other in earnest. So different was her own experience, with a social-climbing mother and two sisters who had the wits of half a woman shared between them, she had all but resigned to a life of partial happiness that always felt like it could be more. If she hadn't seen a family like the Bridgertons laughing and enjoying each other with her own two eyes, she may have convinced herself that partial happiness was all that there was.

And then there was him. Colin. Sweet Colin. He was curious and kind and clever. On his travels, he wrote to her, and in his script, he gave himself away as far more observant, far more clever than his family seemed to know. As he wrote to her about his travels, Colin painted a picture of a world outside London. One of a romantic life full of art, meeting strangers, and becoming worldly. She had caught herself sighing blissfully while reading his recounts of the days. Paris, Rome, Milan. Colin may not have intended it, but as she read his words, she got a glimpse into him: a romantic who could find beauty in every moment. She hardly ever allowed herself to dream that those romantic sentiments would be allowed to be directed towards her.

But in the dead of night, when she was truly truly alone with her thoughts, then Penelope would dream of him. Of his dark hair and light eyes looking at her full of love. Asking her for commitment. Craving her the way she had craved him for so long: completely, and in every way and every moment. But she never believed the fantasies that kept her company through the lonesome nights would ever make their way into reality.

Tomorrow, they were to be wed. She and Colin would say their vows and then be off to live together in bliss. Free to express their love both verbally and physically. The only problem was Penelope still could not fully grasp what would be expected of them on their wedding night. She could recall discussing the processes of conception, that when two people were wed, they could perform a particular act that would not only help to bring them closer together mentally but also create an heir. But what was that specific act?

Penelope found herself under Colin's window. Now, here, she realized how she had failed to consider this plan thoroughly. How could she get the attention of her betrothed without warning the entire house of her presence? With only the love stories she read to back her thinking, she began to search the garden for stones that she might throw at his window. How else was one to get their lover’s attention? As romantic as the act had been in all of the novels she had read that featured it, she found the actual act of throwing stones to be a strenuous task. She had never thrown very much at all in her life and never when precision mattered as much as it did now. To throw a stone amiss would mean exposing her.

Her first throw landed accurately enough, just to the right of his window on the wood siding. The stone made a satisfying "thump" before returning back down to the ground. Penelope leaned down again to find another stone, this one slightly smaller, thinking she would rather not press her luck with a broken window, and she pulled her arm back to throw it again. She released it, and it landed slightly lower, hopefully still audible but much closer to the siding of the home than to his window.

And again she began the process anew: finding a stone, preparing to throw and - Just as she set to release it, Colin's face appeared in the window, searching the yard for the cause of the interruption. The shock of seeing him threw off her aim, she noted, as the pebble left her hand, and a grimace passed over her face as she realized the stone was set to land directly at the window.

With a high-pitched thunk, the pebble made contact with the glass. Colin recoiled at the sound. Pulling from the diligent searching of the yard, he caught a glimpse of her. She pulled the hood of her cloak down, exposing her blushing face. She now felt herself become sheepish. It was foolish of her to come here and even more foolish to throw rocks at Colin Bridgerton's window like some romance heroine she knew she was not.

His eyes lit up as he saw her, and a grin graced his beautiful face. Her betrothed. She could not believe it.

Penelope wondered, in the moments after he had signaled to her that he would come down to her, whether it was truly real that she felt the way she did. Did his heart stutter just thinking about her? And threaten to stop in her presence entirely? Did she inhabit his dreams the way he did hers? Where they talked for hours, enjoyed each other’s company? And on occasion, shared a passionate kiss that always seemed to want to go somewhere further, to become more? Did he know what more there was to explore with each other?

She only stood there in the garden for a few moments, waiting for the door to unlatch. But in that time, she had enough room to think to let herself spiral, losing her grip on the shameless confidence and recklessness that had brought her here. To the Bridgerton estate. In the dead of night.

Colin's shock was the first thing she saw on his face. His eyes met hers in disbelief, seemingly prepared for the worst but optimistic that perhaps this was exactly what he thought it was: a late night call. With all the reckless abandon that entailed.

"Pen? Is everything alright? What's the matter?" His voice was low and gravelly as he kept it slightly above a whisper. And her eyes drifted down, seeing him in his sleep clothes. The thin fabric of the shirt and pants intended exclusively for the comfort of sleep displayed his sturdiness, indeed. His chest hair poked out the top of the low-cut shirt, and his breeches showed off his sturdy, well-formed thighs. Evidence of an athletic capacity she had never seen him display. She feared that if she did, she would be unable to hide her appreciation for his form and dexterity.

"All is well; I just can't sleep," she said through the sand in her mouth.

"Looking for something to occupy your mind from wandering? I can understand that. I am feeling anxious, too. But we must not be caught." He said, pulling her deeper into the yard

They walked together in the moonlight, the garden bathed in a silvery glow. The familiar surroundings of the Bridgerton house backyard provided a comforting backdrop to their conversation. Colin led the way to a set of swings hanging from an old, sturdy tree. Penelope followed, her heart beating faster with each step.

Taking a seat on one of the swings, Colin looked up at the sky, his expression thoughtful. Penelope sat beside him, the gentle sway of the swing soothing her nerves. After a moment of silence, she could not wait any longer. The anticipation of future embarrassment was eating away at her as she sat. She turned to him, her eyes searching for answers in his.

“I have not been entirely candid, actually. I need to know something. Before tomorrow.”

He looked back at her, curiosity flickering over his eyes. “Yes, Pen, anything. What would you like to know?”

"I ask not as your lover, but as your friend Colin," she says, her eyes searching for answers in his. Perhaps in those expressive, familiar blue eyes, she would find a hint of his feelings. “What is the marital act we will be expected to perform tomorrow?”

Colin's mouth fell agape. Indeed, he knew the answer to her question. His time abroad had been clarifying in many ways, including matters of the flesh, she suspected, but in his eyes, she could see his question: was she genuinely ignorant of it? And if so, how does one begin to explain something so impolite with any grace or poise?

The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed deeply to free them. "Well, Pen, your question is a rather valuable one. However, is it not customary for one's mama to address such matters? Thus, sparing one's future husband the potential embarrassment of the discussion?”

Confusion transformed into curiosity on Penelope's face. A smirk pulled at her lips as she took in his frazzled state. She stood from where she sat on the swing next to him. "Do I see confoundedness on your face, Colin Bridgerton? Do you also not know the details of the very act you and I will be expected to perform tomorrow?"

Her smirk transformed into a smile: he was frazzled and completely adorable.

Colin finally closed his mouth to set his jaw, clenching his teeth as he analyzed his betrothed before him. His eyes searched.

"Pen, I know well the answer to your question, but the presentation of the answer is what I am grappling with."

He seemed almost frustrated as he said it; Pen noticed, as children do when they are pretending to be more knowledgeable than they indeed are, perhaps. She let this idea carry into a gentle laugh.

"I would let you have more time to prepare, but I believe we have very little until the act must be done, Lord Birdgerton, and I would very well like to be informed."

Dismounting from the swing, Colin placed his feet on the ground and closed the distance between them. With his movement, she stood to meet him, him towering over her small stature. Every fiber of her body swelled in response to his proximity, to his scent. His mouth opened to speak, but again, no words came out. Penelope stepped forward, allowing her instincts to guide her as she putt her hands against his belly, feeling the warmth of his skin under his nightshirt.

"If it helps in your framing, how does it relate to what we did in the carriage together?" She whispered, carefully scanning the garden to ensure none of his many siblings had made their way out to spy. Just the contact of her hands on his stomach was enough to make it hard for her to breathe, and her acting was put to the test as she tried to hide her breathlessness as she scanned.

"Uh, yes, the carriage, right," his breath shuddered as her hands began tracing down as if to trail under his shirt. "Well, in the carriage..."

Her hand breached his shirt slowly, fingers touching warmly against his abdomen, eliciting a hitch from him.

"I quite liked what you did in the carriage. When I am alone in my chambers, I find it rewarding to recreate your techniques on myself while reminiscing. Does that relate?" She whispered mischievously, willing her heart to slow as she said it. His abdomen tensed under her touch as she spoke, and his tense jaw shifted into a smirk, his eyes glazed over in some hungry kind of admiration. Like he would devour her if he could.

Suddenly, she began to feel her heart beating in her ears, and the once familiar and comforting feeling of dew-kissed grass beneath her feet faded around her. No longer could she hear the chirping of the crickets, but instead, her thoughts were raptured by the memory of their time together that night and what her confession had elicited from him tonight.

Colin licked his lips, bringing one hand to cradle her face gently. Without thought, she found herself leaning into his touch.

Under his breath, he said, "Yes, that does relate, very closely, hopefully, to the act. I It is my earnest hope, um, that in such intimate moments, I shall always endeavor to bring you to, uh, satisfaction. Though it may not be traditionally taught as an essential aspect of the experience…" She let her hands wander downward as he spoke, a thumb grazing under the waistband of his trousers, feeling coarse hair there and a shudder from him. "Pen, I cannot think while you're touching me like that," he sighed.

"Like this?" She goaded, pressing her body to his, feeling an unfamiliar hardness pressing into her belly from his trousers.

"Pen, I-"

Her eyes gazed up at him deviously, her original interrogation gone from her mind in favor of discovering the rules of whatever the game was they were currently playing with each other. Colin let out a sigh, part frustration, part enjoyment. With a free hand, Penelope undid the bind on her cloak, releasing the stifling garment to the ground and letting her night rail be exposed. The cool breeze of the evening welcomed on her too-hot skin.

"I am beginning to believe you never cared to learn the answer to your question in the first place, Pen." He goaded, "In fact, I believe you came here not to ask an innocent question of me but to seduce me.”

Penelope opened her mouth to retort, to deny the accusation, but before she could, he continued, “But if you are allowed your fun, then I suppose it is only fair that I indulge in mine.”

Grabbing her by the waist, Colin gently and carefully spun Penelope a quarter turn, landing with her back against the tree from which the swings hung. With barely time for a breath, he pressed her body into the thick body of the tree with a kiss to her neck. The sound that escaped her lips shocked even her, as the warm pleasure of his lips on her spread through her body.

His lips felt hungry against her, with a tongue flicking out to taste her soft skin, where her neck met her shoulder, and she contained a moan. The feeling, the contact, with him, it threatened to turn her brain off entirely.

Caught in the bliss of their joining, Penelope reached her hand out to once again touch him. Her fingers craved to card through the hair on his chest and stomach, to explore the wanting she discovered even lower than his abdomen. She needed to have her hands on him as he put his lips to her pulse point, inspiring her to groan and tense against his touch.

As her fingers slipped again under the thin cotton of his shirt, finding a familiar purchase. Her hands trembled slightly at the contact, at the dizziness that came with the rush of lust she was feeling. Through the fog, she could hear a tsk from him, almost invisible.

The hands that had previously taken her waist, Colin's large, broad hands, so quickly found and enveloped both her wrists; pulling her hands away from his body, further from the satisfying heat of him, he pinned her hands gently but firmly against the bark of the tree they were leaned against.

But her body craved him. Deep in her stomach, a coil of heat had formed, a knot that formed from the same heat that gathered when he kissed her neck, when his hands brushed her waist, when his mouth was on her chest. Between her legs pooled a longing that was difficult to satisfy. She needed to touch him.

Penelope pushed against his grasp, her hips moving of their volition in search of contact, of satisfaction like what she had in the carriage, like what she experienced in her bed chambers, with a hand under the covers trying to quell the same drive that motivated her now. His hand stayed firm against her wrists, holding her still against the bark of the tree, keeping her from satisfying her needs. She could see the idea enter his mind before he acted:

Colin's smile was devious as he extended his knee out, slotting it gently between her legs, allowing her to press against him. Immediately, Penelope could feel her eyes fall to half-lids as the decadent electricity of the impact fed that fire inside her.

A rumble came from him as her eyes fell. Low and gruff, Colin leaned to her ear and, under his breath, whispered, "The act you and I are to perform tomorrow - It will feel like this, but so much closer. And as you reach your peak, I will be there with you, wringing it out of you. Once you're done, I will begin the process anew, bringing you to the edge again and again until you are spent. That is how I look forward to spending the rest of my years with you: making you so satisfied you cannot even dream of teasing me with your countless, persistent queries."

His words constricted her heart so much she felt she could burst. Her hands above her head, grinding against his leg, being whispered promises of a life of love and diligent pleasure, it threatened to cause her undoing. And when she looked up to him to see the glisten of arousal in his blue eyes, the smirk of mutual attraction as he watched her use him to seek her end, something grew in her. A need to both hold tighter and let go, that dichotomy of breathless need that threatened to push her over an invisible ledge.

Her hips quickened against him, her breath short and needy. She was nearly there, one step from walking over that edge. She just needed more. “Colin, please, I need you to touch me.”

As if he had been waiting for her to say it, he lowered his face to hers, and in one fluid motion, he locked his lips around hers hungrily. Their kiss was fierce and demanding. His soft lips against hers were the kind she had dreamed about.

His free hand lowered to take one of her breasts into his hand, with fewer layers between them than ever before. She could feel the heat radiating from his touch and imagined it was similar to the very same heat that was radiating through her body. The one driving her to press her hips into his thigh in pursuit of the release she imagined was nearly hers. She could feel it, just out in front of her.

His thumb began tracing over the sensitive peak of her breast; her breath quivered at the contact. His hand on her like this felt so good, almost too good. A moan managed to escape her lips as his thumb continued its circle, his index finger joining to gently pinch her nipple. The increase in sensation was delicious, combined with the feeling of his mouth on hers, his soft lips pressed to hers in a frenzy of excitement and pursuit; The liquid heat in her belly seemed to grow warmer, and her hips began to stutter in their motion as pleasure ripped through her.

"Colin," she moaned against his mouth, trying to keep her voice down.

“That’s it, Pen. Keep going." He mumbled against her skin.

She reclaimed his lips with hers, kissing him with the same urgency she felt between her legs. The world faded away in that moment, as the sensation kept building and building, until finally, the knot of attraction and lust and connection that had been steadily forming in her abdomen uncoiled in one abrupt motion, causing her body to tremble and a moan to escape her lips.

Penelope let her eyes flutter back open, connecting with Colin's stare. Blue, like the ocean, stared at her, luminous and shameless and hers.

His smile curved wickedly. Sudden awareness of their location, of her appearance, flooded into her. Colin's grip had loosened, and Penelope used her free hand to smooth her hair, clawing her fingers through her fiery mane in an effort to hide any evidence of their debauchery. "I'm a mess," she muttered, more to herself than Colin. A reminder of who and where she was before she had let herself be lost to the pleasure she had found in the wonderful friction between herself and Colin's muscular thigh.

"I could get quite used to seeing you this way, Pen." He said, her heart skipping at the raw lust behind his eyes as he said it, "If this is a mess, then I prefer you messy and reeling. When I see you amongst the ton, in polite society, I will cherish in the knowing that I have seen you undone, with words failing you, and so, so beautiful."

The way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, the feeling of his leg still pressed between hers, it fueled an idea in her. A demand from her body. One to share the completely mindless, overpowering, demanding pleasure she had felt. Before she could think twice, she slipped her hand between them, finding the evidence of his pleasure straining against the material of his sleep pants. Thick and hard under her hand, she could suddenly vividly imagine where she wanted to feel that part of him. Suddenly, she ached, feeling the emptiness of not having him inside of her.

Colin's body flinched against the touch, in a combination of pleasure and a knowing that this was too far, even for two betrothed people.

"Pen, I cannot threaten anyone finding us this way. If you continue to touch me like that, I do not know if I will be able to restrain myself from this becoming more than stolen moments before our wedding night." His voice sounded velvety, luscious. It made her dizzy to merely consider it.

"I do suppose I have the answer to my question, and though you were no help in telling me, you have done well to show me, Colin." Unsteady, her hand applied pressure to the hardness she felt there, and he groaned.

Lowering his head, Colin brushed his lips against hers. Penelope tried to savor the places where they connected, the taste of him, the feel of his warmth, but mostly, her mind was preoccupied with talking herself down from the impulsive, reckless thoughts that begged for her attention. She wasn't ready for this moment to end yet.

"I will make it up to you tomorrow. And then again and again and again for the remainder of our lives."

They connected once more, lips meeting and expressing wordlessly the need they were both resisting.

When he pulled away from her, her mind was a haze. Before her body had time to chime in, her mind spoke, "I did not expect to linger this long, Colin. I should go."

"Yes, one should be well rested for their wedding day."

Neither made to move, their eyes connected, lips hovering not far from each other.

"Thank you for tonight."

"Of course. It was my pleasure."

She scanned his face, committing the details to memory of the curve of his chin, the dark lashes of his eyes, the color of his lips. And she could feel his stare on her, scanning her nose, seemingly counting the freckles that smattered across her face, memorizing the curve of her lip.

"It was nice... speaking with you." She said, pulling herself from the magnetic stare and finding herself moving away from him quickly, looking over her shoulder to steal one final glance.

And as she did, she noticed once again the chirping of crickets and the sound the breeze made through the leaves of the trees, all things that had faded from her as she was caught in the moment with him, suspended in time.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow.

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (10-16 Mar 2024)

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

🥰 Art Thief, Heart Thief (odetteandodile) - 58K, stucky white collar inspired AU - enjoyed how author took the WC set up (fbi art agent, criminal consultant) and made it theirs & perfect for stucky

💖💖 +195K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

Midlife Crisis (profoundalpacakitten) - MCU: stucky, 7K - reread, forever fave - the quiet, piercing, understated tenderness in this fic is unmatched

Progredi (justanotherStonyfan) - MCU: shrunkyclunks, 37K - the next installment in the fabulous Honey Honey series

Pistachios and Rose Water (goldsaffron) - The Old Guard: kaysanova, 15K - J&N spend 10 years putting down roots, building a home & collecting a found family as Nicky learns to express his love through food

Consensual Catfishing (foresthearts) - Stranger Things: steddie, 32K - modern AU, told via social media - delightful story! adored these characters & their voices and using all different sorts of SM to tell it. brilliant idea, adeptly executed. the art is also pretty great

they're going to send us to prison for jerks (greatunironic) - Stranger Things: steddie, 16K - another really fun modern steddie with a strong social media AU premise

Os Impurum (the_deep_magic) - The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth: Marcus Flavius Aquila/Esca Mac CunovalMarcus/Esca, 18K - solidly good fic about marcus/esca post canon, esp marcus discovering some new things about himself 😉

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Ghosts (US) - s3, e5

Game Changer - s6, e3

D20: The Unsleeping City: Chapter II - "For the Hoard!" (s7, e15)

D20: The Unsleeping City: Chapter II - "Treachery at Gramercy" (s7, e16)

D20: The Unsleeping City: Chapter II - "Two Sides of the Same Coin (Part 1)" (s7, e17)

D20: The Unsleeping City: Chapter II - "Two Sides of the Same Coin (Part 2)" (s7, e18)

D20: Adventuring Party - s3, e12-16

Um, Actually - s9, e2

D20: Fantasy High: Junior Year - "Cursed Out" (s21, e10)

D20: Adventuring Party - "Cool Ranch Communion" (s16, e10)

D20: Tiny Heist - "Big Little Crimes" (s4, e1)

D20: Tiny Heist - "Chicanery at Shoeby's Casino" (s4, e2)

D20: Tiny Heist - "Scheming and Scoring Fairy Dust" (s4, e3)

Agatha Christie's Marple - "The Secret of Chimneys" (s5, e2) [shout out to @leupagus for this rec; they were not wrong about the acting choices made here 🤩]

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

Worlds Beyond Number: Fireside - Fireside Chat for WWW ep001 The Open Door

What Next: TBD - Instagram’s Pedophile Problem

Desert Island Discs - Cillian Murphy, actor

WikiHole - Lenny Kravitz (with Paul F. Tompkins, Drew Tarver, and Heléne Yorke)

This Cultural Life - Andrew Scott

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Our 2024 Oscars Recap

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Grave of XYZ

Vibe Check - Hey, Sis: featuring Morgan Parker

WikiHole with D'Arcy Carden - Fear of Dolphins (with Kumail Nanjiani, Emily Gordon, and Jonah Ray)

The Allusionist - 190. Craters

WikiHole with D'Arcy Carden - Tetris (with Adam Pally, Jon Gabrus and Blair Socci)

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Lighthouse Keeper

⭐ Vibe Check - A Special Conversation with Afeef Nessouli

Short Wave - What We Know About Long COVID, From Brain Fog to Fatigue

⭐ Decoder Ring - Why Stylists Rule the Red Carpet

⭐ 99% Invisible #573 - Toyetic

You Are Good - My Best Friend's Wedding w. Sam Sanders

If Books Could Kill - Lean In

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Law of the Tongue

Imaginary Worlds - The Nine Lives of Red Dwarf

Today, Explained - Lip gloss, gum, and the Pill

Dear Prudence - My Ex Had Sex With My Brother. Help!

What Next: TBD - Is TikTok Cooked This Time?

Short Wave - Are We On The Brink Of A Nuclear Fusion Breakthrough?

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Love Lies Bleeding And What's Making Us Happy

Endless Thread - The Music Man, Part 1

Welcome to Night Vale #244 - A Multiplicity of Kevin

Today, Explained - Hollywood’s still not back

99% Invisible - The Power Broker #03: David Sims

Off Menu - Ep 233: Frankie Boyle (Live in Glasgow)

⭐ Hit Parade - Gotcha Covered Edition

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

The Donnas

Smooth Rockabilly

Respect: '60s Iconic Women

[cartograffiti]

February '24 reading diary

I finished 19 books in February, which sounded like a mistake until I realized I read most of them as audiobooks while doing manual tasks. It's always nice when my ears are on my side (says someone with a hearing disorder).

I like poetry, but I don't read enough to feel knowledgeable about it. I've been trying to read a bit from various countries, and after I enjoyed the Pablo Neruda collection so much in January, I went on to read three other poetry books.

Khalil Gibran's The Prophet is one of those works that I've seen quoted out of context so much that I was shocked to discover I didn't actually know what it's about. It's a series of prose poetry fables with a linking plot in which the titular prophet converses with the people of a city he is departing about different aspects of life. A lot of it is really beautiful and thought-provoking, and I thought it was great. It's become a popular source of quotes for weddings and inspirational goods, but I was surprised and moved to find it's also a text about multi-faith unity; Gibran was Lebanese, and Lebanon had and has striking diversity of religions.

I also really enjoyed The Poetess Counts to 100 and Bows Out, a collection by the important Venezuelan poet Ana Enriqueta Terán. I find her wordplay unusual and her subjects interesting, and even in translation, I found her work to give a powerful sense of humor and hopefulness, and a gift for creating a scene.

I did not enjoy Rupi Kaur's Milk and Honey. Kaur is one of the most famous living poets, and I had read so much praise and disdain for her work that I wanted to form my own opinion. There are turns of phrase I really liked, and it is laid out in an interesting way that means some related poems could be read either distinctly or as sections of a longer thought, which I found neat. But I found myself so grumpy the more I read of it that I ended up also reading a lot about Kaur and other people's analysis of her work, trying to contextualize why I bounced so hard off it. Many critics wrote about trying to separate her style from her content, and chose to praise just one or the other, but I am critical of both. Her style lacks personality that would tell me it was her work as opposed to any other poet's, and her content is full of basic, played-out sentiments of popular feminism and bathetic viral posts. Being reminded of "take me to a museum and then make out with me," "but they said not to touch the masterpieces," is not what I'd hoped for out of this. I do think it's a good thing and a strength of Kaur's that she is able to speak to so many people's common experiences through her clarity and intimate tone; it's a shame it didn't click with me. And unlike several professional opinions I read, I think she's completely entitled to write poetry that is not all self-revealing confessional pieces; that should not be something we demand of any art form. But it's a shame some of her verses suggest that certain kinds of shame and violence are a collective and integral part of womanhood and South Asian identity. She's only a little older than I am, and we were both students when she wrote these. I wonder whether her recent work is more sophisticated. I'm not motivated to find out.

The title of the Kaur book reminded me of some enthusiastic praise I'd read for Mary Robinette Kowal's Regency fantasy romance Shades of Milk and Honey, and I found that disappointing, too. I almost liked it; there's some great bits about making art with magic, and it's a good little world. The most interesting character doesn't get enough page time, a lot of secondary characters feel like flat loans from Austen, and the late-book resolution was forced and rushed.

In the Emelan group read, we finished! We read Melting Stones, an Evvy-centered book that I really enjoyed until it became repetitive in the second half, and feel pretty mild about, and The Will of the Empress, reuniting all the original kids as older teens, which I thought was just great. Pierce in top form, and one of the best of this setting.

Lois McMaster Bujold has a new Penric & Desdemona novella out that I haven't been able to borrow yet, but in the meantime I discovered there was one I missed. Penric is a physician mage devoted to an unusual god, which means he's benignly possessed by his demon friend Desdemona, and they have adventures and solve mysteries. This one was Knot of Shadows, about a puzzling corpse and curses. Great fun. Don't start here.

In the land of romance, I've been really enjoying Mimi Matthews's Belles of London series, about a friend group of interesting Victorian horse girls, so I read The Lily of Ludgate Hill as soon as I could. These are no-sex but sexy books with a lot of skill. I've been easily invested in each couple so far, the friends are well integrated into each other's lives even after resolving their own storylines, and their new beaus are introduced smoothly. More than that, there is a lot of consideration for the social issues and new ideas of the period. My favorite is still the first, but Anne and Felix have a strong second chance romance backstory and they're fun to see squabble and cooperate.

More romance: I finished another Gail Carriger novella, this time Defy or Defend. Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott in the Finishing School series was only learning to be a spy because her evil genius parents wanted it. Her actual dream was to marry a nice politician of not too much importance and be a domestic goddess and social power. Now an adult working for the government, her professional partner is also her perfect man, and she hopes he'll admit to mutual feelings while they're on a mission to rescue a vampire hive from dangerous disintegration. It's very much a Cold Comfort Farm or The Grand Sophy plot of a cheerful girl solving everyone's problems, which is perfect for Dimity: I love her and I love this premise. Felix's internal conflict is a bit of a nonentity, but I don't care, he's too busy adoring Dimity and taking the trans vampire to buy new clothes.

And the last romance for the month, The Companion by E.E. Ottoman. An extraordinarily efficient novella about Madeline, a writer whose spirit has been crushed by trying to break into the industry in NYC in the 1940s. A friend arranges for her to go stay with Victor, a successful author lonely in a too-big inherited house upstate. She is quickly attracted to both him and his artist neighbor Audrey, and they adore her. All three are trans, and the core of the plot is Madeline navigating these new relationships while settling into the unfamiliar safety and encouragement offered to her. In Madeline's POV, Ottoman very much treats the poly triangle as two distinct romances and a third observed at a close distance, which means doing about 2.5 times the work of most. I went wild for the execution, which felt like magic. You do have to like reading about people trying to write and cooking, which fortunately I do. Highly recommended.

A very different book about a writer that I was impressed with this month is Malice by Higashino Keigo. In translation, this is the "first" of a longer detective series that I can't remember where I heard about. That was to my advantage, because I wasn't primed for the premise, alternating between the deductions of Detective Kaga and witness statements. It quickly becomes apparent who did it, fitting best into the why-dunnit class, and using my expectations as a mystery fan against me. Higashino does not idly use an author as one of the POV characters; his profession creates a surprise that taught me something about how writing works mechanically. Very cool.

Also a book about books: Sunyi Dean's The Book Eaters. My oldest friend and I both listened to this as the audiobook wonderfully read by Katie Erich, and we both complained that the interview in the bonus material killed a little of the mystery for us. Despite that, we loved the main character, Devon, and it's full of interesting ideas. It's about a group of families who eat information instead of food. It's about...fairy tales and it has a unique form of dragon and vampire myths and a slow-burn escape from Christian cults. It's about figuring out you're gay when you're already a parent. It's weird and fascinating and upsetting. I think Dean made very smart choices about when to reveal information through flashbacks, and I think Dean sometimes over-explains things to the reader in the narration that would have been stronger if I was left to interpret them myself. L and I both think we'd be interested in another Sunyi Dean book, but not a sequel to this one. It is a complete concept.

I feel that way about Shigidi and the Brass Head of Obalufon by Wole Talabi, too. This one is a fantasy heist with lots of backstory starring Shigidi, who is a kind of minor nightmare god, and Nnemoa, who is a kind of succubus. They have gone freelance, breaking from the corporation of Orisha and taking their own jobs through the living and spirit worlds. I particularly like Nnemoa's backstory chapters and the heist, but Aleister Crowley is involved for some reason and much less repulsive than in real life, and I was disappointed the heist is a pretty brief element. I'd like to read another Talabi book, though, and this was the first adult book I've read that features the orishas of the Yoruba religion which have been a welcome part of several recent YA fantasy books.

The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water is not the Zen Cho book I thought it was when I checked it out, but I'm glad to have read it. It's a wuxia novella about a nun and some bandits involved in rebellion, told with a lot of humor and thoughtfulness about the role of holy objects through the POV of a trans bandit with his own history with the nun's order. I love Cho's style!

That was a one-sitting project audiobook, as was a full-cast play recording of The Importance of Being Earnest. This is a sensational play that I had put off reading because I thought it had probably been overhyped. It hadn't. This is the source of a lot of Oscar Wilde's best quotes, and it's a jewel of drawing-room comedy and dialogue that operates on multiple levels of significance. I'm glad I happened to listen to actors doing it, which I wasn't expecting when I tapped on the first audiobook that came up.

More old books: I found an Agatha Christie mystery I didn't like! How sad! This was The Big Four, a series of spy short stories starring Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings, compiled together into a loose novel. The effect is somewhat disjointed, and not every story shows her ingenuity. It's full of 20th century political paranoia of conspiracies and spies, with anti-Asian racism and antisemitic tropes I can often count on Christie to avoid or subvert.

And Steppenwolf, by Herman Hesse, which is a very strange and influential work of literary fiction about a man who believes--not to minimize it by putting it this way--that he has a secret wolf-self inside him, much like certain middle schoolers of my acquaintance. The edition I listened to opens with a letter from Hesse in which he remarks that this book is frequently misunderstood, which I will admit put my back up. Maybe there's stuff in your book you didn't intend, Herman! I enjoyed its vagueness, I adored the complexity embodied by Harry Haller's friend/alter-ego/mother/girlfriend/boyfriend Hermine, and I got a lot out of reading literary analysis that gave me better context for the transmigration of souls and Jungian theory. It also suffers from didactic passages, racism and antisemitism, and dogmatism about artistic quality. Very worth reading, difficult to say whether I "liked" the book.

Carrying on with Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond books, I went straight from GK into Queens' Play, which I loved every moment of. It's easier to read than the first book, as she pulled back on stylized spellings and puzzling quotations, without losing any sparkle or punch. It's sooo fun. It's sooo distressing. Spies! Plots! Assassins! Disguises! Escapes! Messy bisexuals! I told my Lymond friends this book was funnier, but that feels like the wrong word for some of the things that happen in it. Giggling and kicking my feet and crying.

And a book I am very solidly neutral on: The City Beautiful by Aden Polydoros, full of vibrant personality and a great premise, but the plot gets in its own way in complexity and the pacing was a real struggle for my taste. The core cast is really strongly varied Jewish immigrant characters in Chicago in the 1890s, some teens have been murdered, there's a dybbuk, and gay kissing. I think I would have enjoyed it more when I was a teen; some YA takes me that way.

[loverontheleft]

Like You Want (revised)

Warnings: language, dirty talk, playful degradation (slut), sex, oral, mildly rough sex, spanking, arguable edging, etc.

Word count: 4.1k➡️5.8k

-||-

You can hear the sound effects of his video game the moment you step into the kitchen from the garage, and you smile. You’ve missed him today, and, if all the texts he’s sent are any indication, he’s missed you too. You drop your purse on the counter and head into the living room.

“Hi, Sugar!” Brendon’s eyes light up and he sets the controller aside, patting his lap. You crawl onto him and you kiss his forehead as you stroke his hair.

“Someone’s in trouble,” you murmur, and he makes an intrigued noise, laughing. “No, really. You were supposed to tell me what you wanted as a wedding gift last week.”

Brendon’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, love. I guess it slipped my mind, because I don’t want anything—other than to marry you, of course.”

“B, it’s a tradition.” You pout now, running your hands down his chest. “You said you wanted all of the traditional stuff, right? The bride and groom exchange gifts.” You give him your biggest, saddest eyes and shove his shoulder lightly, playfully. “Tell me what you want. Let me get you a gift.”

His hands move up the back of your shirt and he gives you a soft smile. “I do want all of the traditions, yes. But I don’t need a gi—no wait, I’ve got it. Take some sexy photos for me. That’ll work.” His smile slides from gentle to seductive, and his fingers caress the clasp of your bra. “Don’t get me wrong, every photo of you is sexy, but—”

You grin, cupping his face in both hands. “You asking me for boudoir photos, Urie?”

“Depends. Are those the ones where you’d be sprawled in our bed, stripped down to next to nothing, looking like a fucking fantasy? Except, you know, not explicit. I wouldn’t mind explicit photos, but I don’t want someone else taking them. I’ll take those myself.” You laugh and kiss him, and he caresses your cheek. “I’m talking about ones that highlight the absolute work of art that you are. Tastefully suggestive. Artfully erotic. Are those boudoir photos?” His eyes are dark, and his voice is husky.

You nod, and his lips attack your neck while he works on unfastening your bra. “If you’re comfortable with it, those are what I want. So what do you want?”

There’s a beat of silence, and he nips lightly at your neck before lifting your shirt off over your head. You wriggle free of it, tossing your unfastened bra to the side, and tug at his shirt, giving him a desperate look. Brendon groans under his breath, and you can feel how hard he is. He pulls his shirt off, flinging it in the same direction as your clothes. “Sweetness, if you say ‘nothing’ or ‘I don’t need anything,’ I will wage a tickle war the likes of which this house has never seen,” Brendon warns, making you laugh and shake your head.

“Oh no,” you tell him, “I definitely want something.”

“Go on.” His voice is a low purr now; he cups your breasts in both hands, stroking them reverently and paying extra attention to your nipples. “Take all the time you need to think, sweetness; I’ll just be right here, playing with your incredible tits. Goddamn, you are perfect.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Gladly,” Brendon says quickly, and he shifts you from his lap to lay you out on the couch next to him. He moves on top of you; you can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants. You wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips up to grind against him longingly.

“Well no, not right n—I mean, I do want you now, but that’s what I want for my wedding gift. You to fuck me.”

He sputters out a laugh. “Okay, surely that can’t count as a gift. We fuck all the time!”

“No,” you argue, “we don’t. We have sex all the time; we make love all the time. But I want you to really fuck me. Hard, rough, whatever you want to call it—I don’t care. I want to fuck.”

Brendon’s eyes are dark; you suspect he’s about to say something, so you rush to keep talking. “Don’t get me wrong, I love our sex life. Still, I can’t stop thinking about that night on tour last month, when you—and we…it was so—we were just all over each other, and it was unlike any other time. The way you held my—and how you grabbed—B, we both came so hard. But then you apologized the next morning for being so rough with me, and I don’t want you to do that. Don’t want you to feel like you have to apologize, because I want you that way too. Urgent and desperate and wild. I want you that way too, and I want you to fuck me, really fuck me.”

His hands cup your face, and he kisses you softly. “Sweet baby,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to do this for me. I’m more than satisfied with our—”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Urie,” you say with a grin, pressing two fingers to his lips to cut him off. “I love you and want you to be happy, but this is my wedding present. Mine. As in, a gift for me from you. This is not some gesture on my part, like ‘oh, I’ll let my husband fuck me because he wants to be rough,’ or whatever. No. I want it. Me. You’ve been holding back, and I don’t want you to. I can take it, Bren; I promise.”

He studies you and moves a hand from your face to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. “You want it rough?” His voice is velvety smooth, his eyes locked on yours, and you nod. He tugs your hair lightly, and you can’t stop the moan that bubbles up. “Use your words, Sugar.”

“Y-yes,” you manage, and he grins, going back to your neck with renewed vigor.

“You want me pushing you up against the wall, pulling your hair, grinding my hard cock into you?”

“Yes,” you moan, rubbing against his erection with greater urgency. Your body is on fire, your mind is racing, and it feels like electricity is coursing through your blood. Every inch of you is craving him and his touch.

“You want that? You want us frantically pulling our clothes off until I’m lifting you up and fucking you against the wall, or pushing you onto our bed and taking you from behind, my hips slamming into your perfect ass while I pull your hair and rub your clit? You wanna feel it the next morning? That ache between your gorgeous thighs because of how good you took my cock?”

“Yeah, want all that, want to be sore from how you fuck me—god, Brendon, please,” you whimper, your head rolling back against the armrest of the couch. You’re luxuriating in his words, getting lost in the fantasy he’s building for you both.

“Dirty girl,” he sighs, grinning and tugging your hair again. “Begging for it. Love that.” He presses his erection firmly against your clit, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “You feel me? You do that to me. You make me fucking crazy. I have been holding back—not because I think you can’t handle it, but just because I want to worship you like you deserve. I love you so much, and I want to treat you like an absolute fucking queen, my perfect girl.”

You whine, kissing him fiercely, and his tongue fights yours for dominance. When you part, he tugs your hair again, smiling when you moan his name. “But if my sweet girl is actually a bit of a dirty girl, if she wants to get fucked hard, if she wants me to bend her over a bed and take her, fill her wet cunt from behind while I pull her hair and spank her,” you moan and his hand that’s not in your hair goes to your ass and squeezes firmly, “and just really fuck her,”—he’s breathing hard; you both are—“then I’ll really fuck her. God, I’ll fuck you so good.”

“Shit, that’s what I want, Brendon,” you whimper, grinding up against him. “You’re so fucking hard.”

“Of course I am,” he says in a rough voice, suckling a path up your neck before biting softly. “My gorgeous, perfect fiancée is practically begging for my dick; she just told me she wants to have wild, rough sex. Who wouldn’t be rock hard right now?”

“Can I ask for something else that will probably keep you hard?” You stroke his chest, nuzzling his neck the way he loves.

“Ask me for anything, sweetness.”

“How would you feel about not using condoms anymore?”

Brendon’s eyes go wide, and his lips part slightly; you can tell he’s trying to fully process this. You also know from the way his cock is throbbing against you that he’s very interested in what you’re suggesting. “Keep talking,” he finally manages.

“After the wedding, I think we should stop using condoms. I’ve got my IUD, so there still would be a low risk of a pregnancy.”

“Okay—but then why—”

“I want to feel you come in me, want to feel all that hot cum I normally swallow for you fill my pussy instead.”

“Sweet fuck,” Brendon groans, clutching you. “God, yeah. We can stop—fuck, you’re so—shit, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, B,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “No one has ever come in me—I want this with you. Only you.”

“Only me,” Brendon agrees, stroking your hair. “And I’ve never come in anyone. I’ve always used a condom. But I want this with you, and only you.”

You tangle a hand in his hair, kissing him more fervently now, while your other hand works its way down between your bodies to grasp his cock through his sweatpants. “Any chance of getting a preview now?”

He chuckles and shakes his head; you moan when he gets your hands pinned to the couch above you. He sucks on your lower lip and grinds into you desperately before pulling away. You take a moment to catch your breath, and you stare up at him longingly.

“Nope. You want this as your wedding present, so you’ve gotta wait for our wedding night to get it.”

“Brendon,” you pout, and he taps your nose.

“Don’t sulk, sweet baby; it’s a good way to earn yourself a spanking,” Brendon says with a wicked smile.

“What if that’s exactly what I want?”

“Then you’re well on your way to getting exactly what you want,” he tells you. “God, I fucking love you. I’ll make love to you now, because we both need it, but I’m going to force myself to be slow and tender. I’m not going to fuck you until our wedding night.” He attacks your mouth with new vigor and, breathing hard, murmurs, “Oh, and by the way—for the photos, I prefer black lace.”

-||-

“Not much longer,” Brendon whispers in your ear, and you grin, squeezing his thigh under the table at your reception. “Not much longer until I’ve got you bent over and on my cock, so I can take your sweet, wet cunt hard and fast like you want.”

You have to stifle a moan as you try desperately to not look aroused. You’ve been aiming for a ‘blissful newlywed’ expression all night, but your husband is making it hard to maintain with his explicit whispers and filthy promises. You fucking love it.

“First, it’s gonna be soft and slow and gentle. I’m gonna make love to my sweet girl, my bride, my, and—fucking finally I can say this—my wife. But after our first time as a married couple, I’m gonna take you hard.” His voice catches in his throat, and he looks at you longingly. “I love you so much, Sugar.”

-||-

“Patience, baby,” Brendon soothes, kissing down your neck as you tug frantically at his jacket and shirt. “Patience.” He’s one to talk, you tell him; he’s just crossed the threshold of the honeymoon suite with you in his arms, and he’s already trying to get you out of your dress, fingers working at the tiny pearlized buttons that start at the nape of your neck and run the length of your spine. He laughs, acknowledging your point. “How many—”

“One hundred and fifty.”

He lets out a groan, and you push his suit jacket down. He pauses on your dress buttons long enough to let the jacket fall, and you start on his shirt. “Want you naked at least,” you murmur, shoving his shirt off, watching hungrily as he wriggles out of it and pulls his undershirt off over his head. “God I want you,” you whisper, taking in his chest and the hard planes of his stomach leading down to the defined V above his pants.

“Want you,” you repeat helplessly, sinking to your knees and mouthing over the swell of his cock through his pants. You look up at him longingly, and he groans; the sight of you on your knees in your wedding dress is too much for him.

“You are so gorgeous,” he mumbles, stroking your hair. “You are so goddamn gorgeous. Your eyes, they fucking kill me. Gotta get you naked, gotta show you how much I love you. And gotta get you off your knees. The first sexual act in our marriage is not going to be you sucking my cock.” He gives you a small grin, reaching down to offer you a hand. “Personally, I think our first sexual act as a married couple should set the precedent for what we want our married sex life to be. So, I think it should be my head between your thighs, eating your sweet pussy until you come all over my face. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” you agree in a shaky voice. “Yeah that sounds good. Do want to suck your dick at some point, but yeah, you can—yes, please.” You stand again, and his hands move to your back. He pulls you close so he can work faster, and you can feel the bulge in his suit pants. “God, I want your cock.”

“You’ll get it, sweetness. Maybe you should lay down,” Brendon suggests in a low voice, leading you over to the bed. “Maybe it’ll be easier for me that way.” You nod, lay down on the bed, and bury your face in your arms, ready for his hands on your body again. He straddles you, and you can feel his erection pressing into you needily. He’s moving faster with the buttons, hips grinding slowly into you and leaning over to kiss each new part of your back that’s exposed as he frees a button. You’re gasping and trying not to squirm under him, and he chuckles. “Feels good, baby?” His breath is hot on your back.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “yeah, feels good. Love your hands and mouth on me. And,” you pause, blushing even though he can’t see you and you know you’ve got no reason to be embarrassed. “Your hard cock pressing against my ass.” He groans, and his hips buck helplessly. “Grinding into me, making me think how good it’s gonna feel when you’re fucking me like this.” He frees another few buttons and his lips trace over your back. He’s gotten low enough and made enough progress that he can’t keep pushing against you and teasing the new skin, so he sits up and tightens his thighs around yours, holding you still for him to really rub his cock against you while his fingers keep working. “You will fuck me like this, won’t you?” You’re breathless, needy, begging. “I need you to fuck me like this.”

“Of course I will.” He makes a small noise of triumph when he frees the last few buttons. He slips off of you and runs his hand down your exposed back. “Stand up, sweetness.”

You obey and he shifts to sit on the edge of the bed and you stand between his legs. His hands ghost up your sides and he tugs gently at the delicate straps; his breath catches when your dress slides off and pools at your feet. “You’re—my god, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and you’re mine,” he whispers, his arms encircling your waist and bringing you forward to straddle him as you sit in his lap. “You’re my wife,” he murmurs, kissing your neck and rubbing circles over your hips before moving up to cup the swell of your breasts in the white lace lingerie you picked out specifically for this night.

It has the effect you hoped for; he’s touching you reverently. “You are so—” Brendon stops to catch his breath, eyes locked on yours. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you reply softly. “You’re my husband, and I love you so much. Gonna get me out of this lace and into our bed?” He groans, urging you to stand again, chest heaving with his labored breaths. His thumbs hook into your panties, and he slides them down your thighs for you to step out of before moving back up to your breasts and reaching behind you. “It opens in the front,” you whisper; he swears, reaching for the tiny, almost imperceptible clasp between your breasts. He unhooks it, the lace parts, and you’re entirely open to him.

“Baby,” he groans, pulling you close so he can lick at your nipples and kiss down your stomach and move lower, breathing hard. “Gotta get these pants off,” he mutters, unbuckling his belt and shoving them down. His boxers go too, and you’re biting your lip, desperate to get your mouth, hands, and pussy on his cock. He kicks the pants off and looks up at you, lust burning in his eyes. “Come here, my love.”

You settle in his lap, your slick heat sliding over his erection, and he grunts when you move forward with purpose. “Love you,” he repeats, shifting slightly and cradling your head in one hand as he turns on the bed to stretch you out under him. “Love you so much.” Brendon kisses you softly, fingers moving down your sides and curling under your thighs.

He works his way down your body, kissing a warm path and when he’s low enough, he looks up at you tenderly. “My beautiful bride. My sweet wife. My forever love. Can I taste my best girl?”

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Please.”

Brendon’s fingers are warm on your hips, and he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Spread for me, love.” You spread your legs eagerly, reaching for his hair and guiding his mouth exactly where you want it. “Goddamn,” Brendon moans, resting his head on your hip for a moment. “I know our week of self-imposed abstinence was for this exact reason, to make our tonight even more intense, but my god, I’m about to lose my mind over your cunt, baby.”

“Do it, then,” you groan, making both of you laugh at your desperation. Brendon’s mouth closes over you, tongue rolling gently while his thumbs work between your thighs to keep you spread wide for him. “Oh my god, I have missed your mouth.” You’re breathless, gripping his head and rubbing back against his eager tongue. “Shit, you’re the fucking best, Bren—yes, fuck, curl—oh!”

Brendon’s worked two fingers deep into you, and he’s curling them back to press against your G-spot while he sucks at your clit; this is one of his go-to moves that always leaves you squealing and squirming against his face. It makes you come hard, and you’re always a little self-conscious, but Brendon’s consistently said that the moment when he’s worried he might actually drown in your cunt is when he’s happiest. He teases that he’d die without any regrets, doing what he loves most—getting his best girl off.

Now, you shriek his name as your back arches; you’re rigid as your orgasm rushes through you, and all you can do is tremble under his touch and praise him for the way his tongue is urgently lapping at you.

When you’re both sure you’re done, Brendon rolls onto his back between your legs, breathing hard and gripping his cock. “Fuck, your cunt is to die for. I’m fucking addicted to the taste of your pussy, my love.”

“I think I lost consciousness for a moment,” you say with a soft laugh. “Shit, that was intense. Come up here, B.”

Obligingly, Brendon rolls back over and works his way up your body. He’s pressing soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, and you can feel how hard he is. You reach down between your tangled legs and squeeze his cock, making a small, desperate sound. “I know, sweetness, I know. I need you too, so damn badly. Let me just—” he hesitates as you’re cradling him between your legs, and he reaches for the bedside table before remembering you’re not at home, which means there’s no box of condoms in the drawer. He pauses. “Wait—you said we didn’t have to use—”

“No,” you say softly, locking your legs around his waist and keeping him in place. “We don’t have to. I want you to come in me, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, kissing your neck as his hands roam, groping and caressing. “It is so okay with me.”

-||-

“I love you,” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he rocks into you over and over again, his thrusts deep and slow. “I’m, oh god, gonna—”

“Come for me,” Brendon murmurs, kissing the pulse point behind your ear that makes you fall apart. “Come on my cock; let me feel you.” You let out a breathy sigh and whisper his name when you feel your orgasm hit; he moans low in your ear. “God, that’s incredible; feeling you directly on—shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna come,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna come in you; is that still okay?” You nod, legs tightening around him, moaning that he’d better not even think of pulling out.

“Fuck,” he gasps, groaning your name, and you feel him: hard, hot, throbbing; the sensation of pulsing heat filling you makes your eyes roll back.

“Oh god,” you whimper, “you feel so good. Your cum feels so good in me, filling me; fuck, Brendon, yes.”

“Fuck,” Brendon gasps, breathing hard as he collapses beside you. “That was insanely good. God, your pussy…with nothing in between us. Just the two of us, feeling your slick cunt squeeze my cock, and then coming deep in you…I need just a minute, but then I’ll be good to go. Gonna fuck you hard and fast like you want, I promise.”

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes closed, trying to catch your breath. “Yes, please.” It’s been maybe ten, fifteen seconds before he’s rolling onto his stomach and crawling between your legs. “Brendon?” You sound surprised, and he looks up at you. “I thought you needed—”

“I know. I thought I needed a minute too, but this is what I really need. Your hot pussy on my face.”

“Oh shit,” you whimper, clutching the sheets when his tongue licks over you swiftly. “But you just—oh fuck, you just came in—”

He pulls back, kissing your inner thighs while his hands stroke your hips. “Don’t even care. I’ve just always loved the idea of tasting us together. Before now, it would’ve been the taste of your sweet cunt mixed with latex. But now, I can—if you don’t mind. Is that—is this okay?”

You take a shaky breath and nod. “Of course. I just didn’t know—I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

He grins, curling his hands under your thighs and spreading you for him. “I will always want to eat your pussy, Sugar. Don’t ever worry about that.” And with those words, his mouth is on you, and his tongue is working deep inside you, moaning and gasping as he eats you out.

You tangle your hands in his hair and grind slightly against his face; after a moment, he pulls back, licking his lips. “You’re so damn hot. Want to make this incredible for you. Wanna sit on my face?” You blink at him, and he grins. “Let you really be in control while I fuck you with my tongue. You can ride it, baby.”

You can’t stop the moan that bubbles up from you, and his smile widens. He crawls up over you and rolls onto his back.

“Come here, love. On your knees.” You shift as instructed, and he gestures for you to straddle him. “Let me guide you,” he murmurs, both hands on your hips with his fingers curling back and pressing into you. “Just—yeah, just like that,” he says as you settle down over him with one hand in his hair and the other clutching the headboard. “Feels so fucking good; just move how you want, and I’ll keep up,” he groans, slightly muffled, and you sigh happily when his tongue flicks out to taste you. “Gonna get you coming on my face,” he promises, hands tightening around your thighs.

“Oh shit, yeah you are,” you whimper when he goes back to licking and sucking eagerly. He’s eaten you out before, obviously; your man loves pussy, but he’s never had you like this, never on top of him like this. It’s driving you fucking crazy, and you start to move in small circles.

“Brendon,” you sigh, the hand in his hair tightening. “You make me feel so good.” He moans against you and you settle in a little lower, gasping when his entire tongue rolls over you before going deep, fucking you roughly only to pull back and suckle at your clit.

“Oh god,” you hiss, head tipping back. “My pussy, my fucking pussy—you’re gonna make me—oh god, oh god, Brendon please—fuck! Brendon, I need something in me right now, your tongue, your fingers, something, god baby, ple—oh shit!” He’s managed to get two fingers deep in you, curling to hit your G-spot and rubbing urgently as his tongue rolls in circles against your clit.

You’re shrieking your climax, and his tongue is working hard, lapping up everything you’re giving him. Your fingers curl around the headboard and you’re bucking against his face hard, squealing and shrieking and gasping as you come. When it subsides, you try to catch your breath and end up slipping off of him, curling into his side.

“It was good?” He asks quietly, the smile audible in his voice. “You enjoying yourself?” He’s got a fist wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly, eyes glazed over, clearly still lost in the feel of your pussy on his lips and tongue, and how you trembled when you came for him.

“Fuck yeah,” you breathe, eyes closed as he pulls you in close. “Damn, that was—I can’t even—it was just so…”

“I know,” he agrees, his voice low. “I know.”

“You gonna keep being rough with me?” You open your eyes and look up at him longingly. “You gonna fuck me hard?”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, kissing your forehead. “I will fuck you however you want.” You smile and reach down to curl your hand around his dick. “God,” he sighs a little helplessly, “your hand feels so good. All of you. So soft and smooth and warm and—fuck, mine.”

“Yours,” you agree, sitting up to gather your hair into a ponytail. “All yours.” You take a shaky breath.

“You okay, honey?” He sounds concerned and sits up next to you, hands moving up your back and his lips pressing to your shoulder. “You need anything?”

“Water,” you admit with a smile, and you stand. Brendon protests, saying he’ll get it for you, but you wave him off, stretching and stumbling towards the kitchen in the suite. When you get back, you have another glass in your hands for him. “Thought we should both hydrate,” you murmur, passing him the glass.

“I’m reluctant to do anything that will wash away the taste of your sweet cunt,” Brendon tells you with a soft laugh. “But I suppose you’re right; hydration is key. Can’t drive you wild all night long if I’m dehydrated.” He sips at the water slowly, eyes tracing over your body. “And,” he adds, “I do plan to drive you wild.”

“I can’t wait,” you say with a little sigh. “God, I can’t wait for you to fuck me and call me your slut, pull my hair and slap my ass, tell me spread my legs and take your cock. Did you bring handcuffs by any chance?”

Brendon blinks at you in surprise. “What? No—I don’t think we even own—hold on, do you want to be cuffed?”

“Kind of,” you admit, grinning at him. “I want to do all kinds of dirty things with you. And getting restrained before you just lose all control and start fucking me senseless sounds pretty dirty.”

“You’re such a bad girl,” Brendon groans, laughing under his breath. “How did I not know my wife is such a bad girl?”

“Well, to be fair, I don’t think I knew until we really fucked on tour; even then, I didn’t fully know,” you concede, taking another long sip of your water. “I’ve just been thinking about this a lot.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Brendon murmurs. “So tell me, what are you thinking about right now?”

“I’m thinking about how you tangled a hand in my hair while I pulled you down on top of me on the couch of your dressing room, how you got my legs spread wide with one up on the back of the couch, the way I scratched at your back, begging for you, while you started thrusting like crazy—can’t get the sound of your hips meeting mine out of my head; it was so hot. We were both so loud, and you held out for so long; you made me come twice before you finally let yourself come. Thinking about how good it felt to have you moving over me like that, grunting against my neck and shoulder, grabbing my ass and telling me you needed me to come on your cock.”

Brendon’s breathing hard now; even if you ignore the way his dick throbs in his hand, you can still tell how turned on he is.

“So,” you continue, “I was sort of hoping you’d fuck me like that again. But I think I want to try being on my hands and knees.”

“Sweetheart, are you sure? I don’t want you to feel—”

You cut him off with a soft kiss; you know exactly what he’s going to say. “I’m not going to feel degraded if you fuck me from behind,” you reassure him. “You’ve done it before.”

“Yeah,” Brendon acknowledges, “but we were on our sides then; I was spooning you, remember? And it was slow and gentle. I could get my hands all over you, hold you close while making love to you. You promise you’ll tell me if you don’t like this?”

“I promise,” you murmur, kissing him again. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” Brendon replies, holding you close. He sighs your name and then kisses your forehead. “Okay, sweetness. Hands and knees.” You obey and he groans at the sight, running a hand from the back of your thighs up over your ass and across your back. So pretty, baby,” he whispers, settling on the bed behind you. “My sweet girl, begging for me to fuck her hard.”

“Please,” you moan, burying your face in the pillow. “Please, Brendon, I need you to fuck me like this.” You’re rocking back, whimpering, gasping his name when you feel him shift behind you again. “Please,” you whisper, turning slightly to look at him. “Give it to me. Let me take your cock like this. Fuck me.”

“You’re the best,” Brendon tells you, gathering your hair in his hand, tugging gently. “Don’t come until I tell you that you can.” And with that, he’s thrusting into you, and you’re immediately clenching around him.

“Shit,” you whine, arching and pushing back for more. “God, you’re—can you feel how you’re pressing right against my—fuck, Brendon, I could come right now; you feel fucking huge like this, oh god!”

“Thanks,” Brendon laughs breathlessly, thrusting hard.

“No, you’re always—you always fill me perfectly, but this—I can feel every inch of your cock stretching me and going deep, and it’s—god, how does it feel for you?”

“Fucking phenomenal,” he admits, pausing to catch his breath. “Hot, wet, tight—shit, your cunt is incredible. Don’t come though,” he warns, hips rocking. “Don’t you do it, not yet. Have some patience; do not come.”

“But I—” and you’re aware of how high and needy your voice is. “B, I need to—”

“You don’t,” he counters, teeth sinking briefly into your neck as he curls his body over yours. “You’ve come plenty; you’ve come on my cock and on my face; you don’t need to come. You want to come. There’s a difference.”

“I want to come,” you agree breathlessly. “I want to come so badly.”

“And I said no.” He spanks you firmly, making you squeal. “Don’t be a greedy slut; take what I give you.”

“Oh god,” you groan, biting your arm to temper your want. “Oh fuck, I love that so much—if you keep calling me your slut, I swear I’m gonna come—”

“If you come before I tell you to, if you come on my cock,” Brendon warns, fingers tightening in your hair, “I will punish you.” His voice is teasing though, and you can tell he won’t do anything too bad. You almost want to see what he’d do. “Don’t tempt me. Do not fucking tempt me, my sweet, slutty baby.”

“Oh fuck,” you hiss, your head falling forward to the pillow and your body tensing as you give in. “Brendon, you’re too good—I can’t st— can’t—oh god yes, fuck, all over your cock, fuck, fuck!”

It’s as if a bomb has gone off inside you; you’re shaking and squealing, biting at your pillow as you feel yourself come with a wet rush of heat. Your eyes roll back in your head, and you can’t stop the sounds coming from you—you’re not sure if you’ve ever come this hard before.

His hand comes down fast, and you cry out, pushing back for more, begging him to make you come again, to keep spanking you, to keep fucking you. “I said no,” Brendon repeats, rubbing soft circles over where his hand just landed. “I told you no, and you did it anyway.” He spanks you over and over again, making you shriek in ecstasy. It’s a blur of pleasurable pain and soothing touches, and you’re pretty sure you’re still coming. You can’t quite tell; everything is blinding pleasure, and your entire body is tense and trembling as he fucks you mercilessly.

In between now, desperate groans, you’re begging him to punish you, and his tone has shifted to taut amusement. “That’s it, baby, come for me. Come from how I spank your perfect ass while I fuck you—you’re gonna be a bad girl, gonna be my slut and do it anyway, so come for me.” You’re moaning and cursing, and you’re pretty sure it’s all nonsense, the shit coming from your mouth as he grips you tightly and tells you to come.

“Need you to come too,” you gasp, scratching at the sheets. “Come in me, fill me with your cum!”

“Such a slut, begging for my cum. Say please,” Brendon manages, pulling your hair and sucking hard at your neck.

“Fuck, please!”

“God, sweetheart, now,” he grunts, slamming his hips against you and gasping in relief as his body tenses over you. You gasp too, feeling him come deep in you, and you reach behind you, groping for him. He grips your hand in his, still thrusting into you.

After a moment, you can feel him start to relax, and he slips from you, still murmuring soft praise and gathering you in his arms so you’re face to face. “Brendon,” you whisper, and his lips press to your forehead while his arms tighten, grounding you.

“I’m here, honey.” His voice is soft and his hands are moving in slow circles over your body. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, my love. I’m here. You did so well, my good girl.” He presses his lips firmly to your forehead, then guides your head back so he can capture your lips. “My best girl, my sweet girl, my wife. I love you, sweetheart.” Once his lips are on yours, his hands move down to cup your ass and he scoots you higher, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him. “I love you so much,” he murmurs, nuzzling your ear. “So much. Always.”

“I love you,” you manage, clinging to him. “Always. Holy fuck, B, that was—” and you break off in a short moan, clutching him and kissing him fiercely. “So good. So hot.”

“I know,” he whispers against your lips. “You okay?” You nod, assuring him you’re better than okay, and he makes a soft sound, holding you close. “My sweet girl,” he repeats, reaching to grab the blanket with one hand. “Get some sleep, baby; we’ll shower in the morning.”

“Okay,” you agree with a small yawn. “God, that was—you are so—Bren, you’re fantastic.” He chuckles and pulls the blanket up higher, making sure you’re covered.

“You are too,” he tells you. “Some people are just built to fuck hard, and you, my love, can fuck hard. Or get fucked hard, as the case may be.” He grins and kisses you again. “Goodnight, Mrs. Urie.”

“Oh shit,” you whimper. “You calling me that makes me want to start all over again; fuck, that’s so hot.”

“Yeah?” He nudges your earlobe with his nose. “You like being reminded that you’re my wife?” You nod desperately, and Brendon kisses your forehead. “Love that. You think you can take more?”

“…no,” you admit with a laugh. “Not right now. But,” you say with another yawn, “wake me up like that and see what happens. Want to climb on top and ride you, and I still want to get fucked against a wall. Want you to push me up against it, tell me to beg for your cock. Want it hard and fast; don’t care if we’re face to face and you’re holding me on your cock, or if I’ve got my whole body pressed to the wall while you fuck me from behind.”

“God, tell me what else you want,” Brendon groans.

“Gladly. Want you to bend me over the bed; want to feel your hands on my hips as you fuck me and call me your needy slut. Make me scream into a pillow while you take me with deep thrusts. And I still want to suck your cock clean after you come in me. Fill my cunt with your cum, then push me to my knees and tell me to suck.”

He swears under his breath and closes his eyes as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Fuck, my wife is a bit of a slut and a tease, isn’t she? Feel free to remind me of all that tomorrow, though I doubt I’ll forget. If anything, I’m gonna dream about your hot, slutty mouth all over my dick after I’ve had you bent over our bed, begging.”

You whine, clinging to him. “Your wife is a slut and a tease,” you whisper. “But don’t worry. She’ll deliver in the morning. Goodnight, Mr. Urie.” He groans, and you grin as you succumb to sleep. “Told you it was hot.”

[guess-my-next-obsession]

‘Tis The Damn Season: Chapter One

pairing: marcus pike x f!ofc (nathalie moss)

chapter rating: M (this contains no explicit content yet, but this series will be full of smut so 18+ ONLY, feelings of insecurity, sadness, broken engagements, alcohol consumption [drink responsibly pls], mentions of arousal, and lots and lots of yearning)

word count: 4k

series masterlist | series playlist

It had been a long, hard year for Nathalie Moss. In January, she was engaged to her college sweetheart, living in Chicago, and working her dream job as the Field Museum’s junior art history coordinator. In June, her world crumbled when she discovered her fiancé in bed with another woman—the museum’s senior art history coordinator, to be exact. In July, she moved back home on a panicked whim, her nurturing and only sometimes overbearing parents elated to have their child home ten years after she’d left for college.

Since the summer, Nathalie kept busy working days in her mother’s craft store and nights at her father’s bar—her hometown’s only true pub. She worked and worked until she had no time left in the day to dwell on her circumstance, knowing that if she got stuck on it for too long, she’d turn into some pitiful recluse that the town whispered about when she wasn’t around and pitied when she was.

The holidays had been harder than she anticipated, all of her old high school friends (and enemies) rolling back into town to show off their success in both love and life. She’d already been invited to three weddings next summer, met at least six newborns, and was forced into scrolling through countless pictures of first homes and new cars. Every picture and every story reminded her that just last year she was like all of them—happy about starting her own life, and certainly not caring whether or not anyone else wanted to hear about it.

Nathalie made it a point to not turn too bitter, always offering congratulations and a smile whenever it was asked of her, but to say that she was truly happy for them would be a lie. It was hard to be happy for other people when she wasn’t even happy with her own lot.

Tonight she had been wearing her fake smile a bit too long, her neighbor’s—the Cho family—annual holiday party forced her to socialize and mingle far longer than she was used to. Sensing her mask shattering under the weight of societal pressure to be a ball of holiday glee, Nathalie made her way over to the kitchen and stood at the island, picking away at the spread of appetizers.

“Hey, do you remember Marcus Pike? My brother’s friend from high school?” Angela, Nathalie’s only true friend in town walked in with her two-year old on her hip. Nathalie turned pink in the cheeks at the sound of his name, having spent so many years drawing hearts around it in all of her journals.

“Yeah, I think so,” she responded casually as she bit into a carrot.

“Guess he’s coming back home for the holidays. Everybody’s out there talking about it.” Nathalie hummed in acknowledgment, hiding her inner giddiness at the idea of running into him again after so many years.

Last she heard he was using his love and knowledge of art with the government, though his parents kept pretty mum about the specifics of his job.

She knew he hadn’t been back home for the last three Christmases, his parents that lived across the street from her house having gone off to wherever he was instead of the other way around. She quickly assumed that he could only be coming home for one reason—to show off a new engagement or perhaps even a child, either way, he was off limits.

“Did everybody talk about me like this when I came back home?” She asked, switching subjects to keep her girlish fantasies from getting too delusional.

“Yeah,” Angela responded straight, earning a chuckle from her friend. “There’s not much else to talk about besides everyone who’s gone off and made something of themselves. It’s like when a celebrity visits their hometown after finding fame. We all just get to watch and gossip.”

“Well, not me.” Nathalie sassed as she popped a grape into her mouth, her mother walking in with none other than Marcus’s mom, Mrs. Pike.

“Hey, girls,” Mrs. Moss greeted her daughter and Angela with a tipsy smile, a 1st Place badge pinned to her homemade ugly Christmas sweater. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, mom.” Nathalie groaned as her mother walked over and hugged her into her side, kissing her temple. “God, you smell like the bar.”

“Yeah, well you smell like a party pooper,” she countered.

“Do one of you girls have a phone charger I could borrow? My phone died and Marcus is supposed to be calling me when he gets into town.” Mrs. Pike asked in her soft, whispery voice. Nathalie squirmed out of her mother’s embrace to walk over to her purse sitting on the counter, tugging out her charger.

“Here you go, Mrs. P.” The older woman gave Nathalie a thankful smile, placing her hand over her heart.

“Thank you, dear. You’re always so considerate. Wish my Marcus would find a girl like you to settle down with instead of these cruel women he’s been going after.” The 50-something year old was clearly a bit tipsy, her sober self rarely ever indulging in gossip, let alone about her own family. “He went and got engaged on a whim, but thankfully that’s all over with now. Poor boy, got his heart absolutely shattered by it all.”

“Now who does that remind me of?” Angela teased from across the room as she fixed her toddler a plate of food. Nathalie gave her a narrowed glare, mockingly laughing along with her. “Just saying.”

“That’s right!” Mrs. Pike turned to you enthusiastically. “Maybe the two of you could get some coffee and talk about it!”

“I’m not sure recounting the stories of our failed engagements would make for very good conversation,” Nathalie chuckled awkwardly, reaching for the nearest item of food to busy her mouth and hands with.

“Right, right.” She nodded, her eyes flickering to Nathalie’s mother’s. “But…”

“But maybe it would be nice to make a friend that sort of knows what you’re going through,” her mother persisted, earning a groan from her daughter. “Not like you have anything else to do.”

“If I see Marcus, I’ll say hi. If I don’t, I don’t.”

“Well, you won’t have to look very far to find me.” His voice shot through Nathalie like a bullet, her mind instantly flipping back to when she was fifteen and in love with the twenty-year old across the street who had no idea she existed.

When she turned around to greet him, she felt her knees physically grow weak at the sight of him fully grown, a beard now covering his previously clean shaven jaw. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a navy blue cable knit sweater, and a pair of khaki chinos, his broad shoulders making him look like a wall of coziness and warmth as he stood in front of her, smiling down at her like he had no idea it made her sick with yearning.

“Nat, it’s nice seeing you after so long.” She stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips, a pink blush on her tan skin. She half-expected him to not recognize her or remember her name, after all, it had been at least three years since she’d last bumped into him and even that was only in passing.

“Marcus,” she responded abruptly, holding her hand out for him to shake in a moment of flustered panic. Marcus chuckled as he looked down at her hand, sliding his own into it and giving it a shake. She tried not to think too hard about how warm and soft it was, or how it was big enough to wrap around her entire hand with ease.

“Marcus, honey, we need to make our rounds with you. Everyone is so excited that you’re home again.” Mrs. Pike walked over and stole her son’s attention, but Nathalie didn’t fail to notice the way Marcus’ eyes lingered on her as he was pulled out of the room.

“Did you see the way he looked at you?” Nathalie’s mother teased, squeezing her daughter’s shoulders.

“Mom, relax. He was just saying hi.”

“No,” Angela interjected with a wag of her finger, gesturing between Nathalie and the spot that Marcus was just standing at. “That was chemistry.”

“That was a greeting.” Nathalie countered, her heart secretly pounding in her chest as her hand still tingled from his touch. “You guys are ridiculous. I’m going home.”

“You want us to have Marcus walk you back? Make sure you get there safe?” Her mother called out teasingly as Nathalie grabbed her coat and purse and headed towards the back door.

“I’m good, thanks!” Nathalie couldn’t help but laugh at their lack of subtlety as she walked through the now snowy grass connecting the Cho’s lawn to her own.

“Psst!” Nathalie jumped at the sound of a whisper, her father sitting on their front porch in his rocking chair, sipping on a tea.

“Jesus, dad. Trying to give me a heart attack at twenty-eight.”

“As opposed to forty? This is the youngest you’re ever gonna get, kid.” She chuckled at his teasing, walking across the dark lawn and up the front steps to join him. She sat down in her mother’s matching rocking chair beside his, accepting the blanket he had draped over his lap when he offered it to her. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the party?”

“Shouldn’t you? Mom’s tipsy.”

“Ah, leave her alone. This is the only night a year that woman lets loose. She works so hard all year, god knows she deserves it.” Nathalie smiled, her parent’s relationship setting an almost unachievable standard. “Hey, I heard the Pike boy is back.”

“God, you’re not going to tease me for my old crush on him too, are you?” She groaned, slumping back into the chair.

“No, I was just gonna make fun of his new beard.”

“I like his new beard.” The mere memory of his face brought a smile to hers, his effect on her more powerful than she’d ever openly admit.

“Alright, now I’m gonna make fun of you for your crush.” Nathalie let out a rumble of chuckles followed by a sigh, shaking her head at her father as she stood up.

“Well, that’s my cue to go to bed.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder before dropping the blanket back in his lap. The near-sixty year old stood up with his daughter, following her as she moved to head inside. “You’re not gonna wait up for mom?”

“I’ll wait up for her in our bedroom where it’s nice and warm…and there are pillows…and my TV…and a lock on the door in case she comes home and tries to get frisky.”

“Oh, dear god, I’m begging you to stop.” Nathalie gagged, covering her mouth as her body physically reacted to the thought of her parents having an active sex life at their age.

“How do you think you were born?” He asked as he walked into the kitchen to put his cup of tea in the sink.

“I just figured it was a one-time thing!” She called back with a smile, her fuzzy-sock-covered feet padding up the staircase.

When Nathalie got to her room, she let out a soft sigh, rolling her neck as she walked over to her window nook and looked out at the party next door, Marcus standing outside talking with one of her old classmates from high school, Emily, a very pretty blonde who somehow remained single all these years. The sight of them laughing and exchanging phone numbers was enough to make her feel sick so she closed her curtains and wished him a goodnight from afar.

At least one of them was moving on.

Nathalie was still awake at 1 a.m., a bowl of popcorn in her lap as she laid in bed rewatching Atonement just for the library scene. She had a mud mask on and was wearing her coziest—and most worn in—sleeping clothes, a 3XL shirt from her alma mater that had small tears and stains all over it from years of good use and a pair of Family Guy pajama pants she stole from her ex-fiancé.

Hearing a knock at the front door, she paused her movie, brows furrowing as she waited for her father to wake up and handle it but his snores continued without interruption. With a pained sigh, she tossed her blankets back and carried her bowl of popcorn with her downstairs to the front door.

On her tiptoes, Nathalie peeked through the peephole in the door to check out who was on the other side, panicking when she saw her drunken mother accompanied by none other than Marcus Pike. With no time to fix her appearance, she willed herself to not care about the fact that she was in tattered PJ’s and a mud mask, her breath no doubt smelling like a vat of butter from the popcorn she’d been pecking at. Opening the door, she was greeted with a grateful exhale from Marcus and a drunken cheer from her mother.

“Nattie! Look what chivalrous hunk offered to walk me home!” She hugged Marcus into her side and he looked to you with pleading eyes, a chuckle escaping your lips at the sight.

“Mom, there’s another chivalrous hunk snoring and waiting for you upstairs.” Nathalie guided her inside and watched as she jogged up to her bedroom without injuring herself, muttering something about needing to leave a sock on her door tonight. “Ew, god. Sorry about that, Marcus. And sorry about her. And also the fact that I look like this right now.”

“I kinda like it,” he smiled down at her as she finally willed her eyes to meet his. “Your fiancé is a lucky guy to get to come home to you like this all the time.”

His tone was light, preventing her from reading too far into the compliment, especially when it was paired with the mention of her ex.

“We, uh, we actually split up this summer. So…I guess my natural beauty didn’t do it for him after all,” she joked, Marcus looking offended for a moment before settling on a look of concern.

“I’m so sorry, I hadn’t heard. You two were always so happy whenever I ran into you.” His voice was tender but still light, giving her the space to either make a joke of things or pour her heart out to him—either way, he wanted to hear more from her.

“Yeah, we were. But then someone else came along and made him happier.” She shrugged, her lips pursed into a flat line. “I, uh, I heard you’re in the same boat.”

“Oh…yeah,” he chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck. “I think that was just me trying to settle down too fast. Not true love or anything like that. But…the, uh, the hurt is definitely…there.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” She gave him an empathetic curl of her lips, the two locking eyes long enough for a fire to start to burn in her belly, her eyes darting away once she began to burn too hot for him. “Anyways, I should get back upstairs. Got a hot date with James McAvoy and Kiera Knightley.”

“Atonement?” He asked with enthusiasm, his eyes brightening.

Nathalie chuckled and shook her head in disbelief. Was he fucking for real?

“Yeah,” she smiled widely at him, his eyes flickering to her lips. “I’d invite you to join me but I think I’d need to ask my parents first.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want your mom to think poorly of me after the night we’ve shared together.” Nathalie laughed at that, feeling for the first time in a very long time like she didn’t need to pretend to be enjoying conversation. No, quite the opposite—she didn’t want it to ever end. “I’ll let you get back to your movie, Nat. It was really nice catching up with you.”

“I’ll see you around, Marcus,” she gave him a soft smile. Marcus chuckled and nodded as he turned to leave her porch, stopping to say one last thing with the most pretty smile she’d ever witnessed in her life. He was the kind of handsome that made even the smartest of women fuzzy in the head—the most dangerous kind of man, she reckoned.

“I really hope so.”

And with that, Nathalie shut the door and pressed her back to it, taking slow and careful breaths as she tried to cool off her arousal and mounting crush. It was silly to get swept away by love like this again, this soon after having seen first hand that it was all a charade anyways.

“He’s so clearly into you, honey.” Nathalie jumped at the sound of her mother calling out from the top of the staircase, apparently having witnessed everything.

“Jesus,” she shook her head, trying hard not to buy into her mother’s encouragement. “Go to bed.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“Clever.”

The next night, Nathalie stood behind the bar at her father’s pub with her coworker, MJ, a woman in her late fifties with lots of experience dealing with drunk and rowdy patrons. Her hair was raven black except for at the roots, her natural grey peeking out giving her age away. She always wore a thick layer of makeup, dark eyeliner smudged around her doe shaped eyes and dark red lipstick that complimented her milk chocolate skin. Nathalie looked up to MJ as a cool aunt of sorts, the woman having never settled down or had any children and yet never seemed to be lacking in fulfillment.

“Did I tell you about my newest painting I just sold?” She asked as both women dried off some newly washed cups with dish towels, the bar full of people but all their drinks and orders were caught up on.

“No! Oh my god, MJ! Look at you go!” She congratulated with a genuine smile. “Tell me about it.”

“It was just an abstract piece I was messing around with, but this guy saw it earlier today at the farmers market…oh, what was his name?”

“Marcus!” Nathalie gasped at the sight of her crush walking into the bar—the crush she couldn’t squash no matter how hard she tried to will it to disappear.

“Oh, yeah! That’s him. You know him?” MJ asked, turning to Nathalie.

“Yeah, we’re…neighbors.” She responded in a more muted tone, having caught a glimpse of her old classmate, Emily, walking in with him, the two looking like they’d just come from a nice dinner date. “Hey, uh, I gotta go use the restroom.”

“That’s alright, I can handle it up here for a little.” MJ nodded, not failing to notice how pale Nathalie had gotten in the last minute.

Running into the back, she was met with the line cook, a man old enough to be her father but who insisted on flirting with her at every given opportunity, and her father who was sat in his office going over the books for this month. She passed both of them without giving them a second glance, her ears ringing and cheeks burning.

How was it possible that one human’s presence could send someone into such a panic that it felt as though she was dying? Her stomach flipped and turned sour, her heartbeat accelerated to the point of concern, her ears drowned out all sound while her eyes blurred her surroundings, though that might have just been the tears forming in her waterline.

Closing herself in the bathroom, she sunk to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She was used to these king of panic attacks by now, though they’d become less frequent now that her relationship had ended. All she needed was time alone to breathe, to remind herself that Marcus wasn’t cheating on her—he was single and so was she. It didn’t matter that she’d adored him since they met as kids. It didn’t matter that he was being so charming and flirty with her last night. He wasn’t her boyfriend and had every right in the world to date other people.

But why on earth did it hurt this bad to see him actually doing it?

One minute turned to ten, and soon the line cook was knocking on the door to the restroom. Nathalie washed her hands and splashed her face with the ice cold water, hoping that it would be enough to force her into reality. Opening the door, the older cook gave her a quirked eyebrow, looking at her as though she was some sort of creature rather than the beauty he usually deemed her as.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she walked past him, unsure of whether or not she was apologizing about occupying the bathroom for so long or for her swollen-eyed appearance.

Walking back into the front, Nathalie’s eyes scanned the room for Marcus and Emily, finding them sitting together at the bar, giggling and sharing a bowl of peanuts while they sipped their beers.

What a cool girl.

“Ugh,” she groaned out loud for her mind’s unspoken bullying, knowing that just because Emily was with Marcus didn’t mean that she was some sort of enemy or competition, nor was she deserving of Nathalie’s jealous insults.

“You’re back!” MJ greeted, waving Nathalie closer to where Marcus sat. “My friend Marcus here was asking about you.”

“Great,” she whispered underneath her breath as she hesitantly approached the couple. Her eyes met Emily’s first, the blue-green irises stunning and far more visually striking than Nathalie’s plain brown ones. Next came Marcus’, his brown eyes warm enough to melt her and deep enough to drown her. That was a death she’d gladly die. Putting on a brave face and the fakest smile, hardly even wide enough to bring those smile lines her ex always used to tease her about to her face. “Marcus, Emily. How are you guys doing tonight?”

“Doing amazing,” Emily responded in a sickeningly sweet voice. Nathalie had forgotten how bubbly she was.

“I’m alright,” Marcus added, his joy a bit more subdued than his date’s. “I, uh, forgot your dad owned this place. And then MJ mentioned you were working here and I had to see it for myself.”

“Yep,” Nathalie nodded, her lips in a flattened smile as she tucked her hands into the back pocket of her jeans. “Days at the craft store and nights here at the bar.”

“I thought you went on to work at some big museum in Chicago?” Emily asked, pulling Nathalie’s eyes away from Marcus.

“I did.” She spoke matter-of-factory. “And now I’m here.”

“Oh,” the blonde nodded, finally gathering that it was a sore subject.

“Yeah.” Nathalie turned her eyes back to Marcus. “I, uh, I heard you bought MJ’s latest masterpiece.”

“Oh, yeah! It was stunning, I had to.” He chuckled and gave MJ a smile. “I’m serious about commissioning you for another, MJ. I’ll give you my number before I go so that we can talk details.”

Seems like everyone got offered his phone number except for Nathalie.

“My god,” the old woman beamed, placing her hand over her heart. “That would be amazing.”

“You, too.” Marcus turned his focus back to Nathalie, his half-smile reaching one of his eyes. “In case you need me to babysit your mom again.”

Nathalie hesitated, noticing the way Emily looked down at her drink with a solemn expression. She knew that if she was the one on a date with Marcus fucking Pike and he was going around offering his number up to another woman her age, not half bad in the looks department, she wouldn’t feel great, so…

“I think that was a one off, but I appreciate the gesture, Marcus.” She could see his face fall in disappointment, his smile fading into a look of resignation. “Anyways, it was nice seeing you both. I gotta go get those guys some refills before I lose my tip.”

Marcus’ eyes didn’t follow where Nathalie was pointing to, a group of regulars practically whistling for her attention. Instead, he turned away completely, focusing on his date again. Nathalie accepted the blow of his cold shoulder as she left the group to walk to the other end of the bar counter to do her job.

After all, it was probably for the best.

She wasn’t a mathematician but it was easily guessed that two failed engagements wouldn’t add up to one successful, new romance. Marcus was better off with bubbly, no baggage Emily, and Nathalie was better off alone.

Or at least that’s what she’d tell herself tonight when sleep struggled to come to her.

general taglist: @joelmillerscoffee @ajeff855 @wildemaven @axshadows @sherala007 @browneyes-issac @tooflef @mariasabana @tae27 @kimm4710 @stxrrylunatic @sara-alonso @paulalikestuff @jbh-castaway @oceandolores @mandomover @chxpsi @auberosier @mashomasho @vanemando15 @wickedmunson @marvel-sw-lover @jediknight122 @harriedandharassed @star-wars-fan-2005 @alwaysdjarin @jalobro @trickstersp8 @mccn-bcys @manuymesut @trinkets01 @tanzthompson @jlmaddinson @hopeamarsu @fanofverymanythings @lovesbiggerthanpride @pinkything @fireproofmarta @littlenosoul @tryonmyworld @berriesarepunk @laureliciousdefinition @camishadjarin @rav3n-pascal22 @fishingforpike @rocketrhap3000 @amneris21 @lexloon @alwayslurkinginthebackground @myrealmofchaos (please let me know if you’d like to be removed/added to my general taglist!)

[blysse-and-blunder]

in lieu of a bachelorette party

10pm, sunday, aug 6, 2023

we're officially in the period of the summer that has been planned out since months and months ago, in the lead up to some dear friends' wedding; time is telescoping in a very odd way! after traveling the past two weeks, my re-entry was good but hard; i came back from my trip thinking i'd be all revitalized and looking around me with new eyes, which in a way i did, but then i was also pretty wiped. i didn't really want to spend all week hibernating, but i guess it was good to recharge my batteries since i also had five different party/gathering-type things (three this weekend, including the aforementioned bachelorette).

reading can't forget to mention finishing carmen maria machado's in the dreamhouse, which was gripping and devastating and still beautiful somehow. the experience of reading it was so...i couldn't stop once i got started, you know? short fragmented chapters, some funny, some incredibly sad. every once in a while there would be a detail or an allusion to something i could relate to, punctuating the intense surreality / unreality used to talk about the abuse with a sudden concrete reality that was. striking. loved the device of the footnotes, pointing out where certain things are matching up with folklore tropes? as a form of foreshadowing and ironic, devastating commentary? inspired. that's just one detail, but it's one i can sum up.

abrupt tonal shift and getting back to fantasy / adventure, a.k. larkwood's the unspoken name has been very engaging this week too. part one was...fresh but in a comforting sort of vein, with a young protag escaping a bad fate under the protection of a new mysterious mentor, who then helps her get an education, martial arts training, before he sends her out on a mission--reminded me of half a dozen beloved fantasy novels, with the addition of some fun details! for example, neither is actually described in much detail, but our main character and her mentor are clearly not Human; she has grey skin and tusks (my mind went right to a dnd-style orc?) and he has mobile, elongated ears, which seem to telegraph his emotions much like those in the goblin emperor and was an *immediate* delight to envision. just about a third of the way through this one now; it feels like a locked tomb book with a slightly different magic system, and i'm really enjoying it.

watching plane movies while returning home:

the battle of the sexes (2017) -- entertaining more because i didn't know the history and always enjoy the depiction of historical women's sports and sports teams; emma stone is great but has virtually no chemistry with either of her romantic counterparts, painfully straight energy overall. i was too entertained by watching steve carell and sarah silverman in their respective period hair and makeup . kudos to whoever was the tennis stunt doubles, it was legitimately fun to try and follow the games.

banshees of inisherin (2022) -- people who talk about the overdone stereotyped blarney-filled hollywood depiction of ireland in this one are missing the fact that it's an intentional (ironic?) depiction; see, the imprecision when it comes to year/time passing / calendars and whatnot. sort of waiting for godot-y in its heightened reality / absurdity. my lukewarm take is that it was definitely meant to be a play, and would have worked a lot better that way. not sure i'll watch it again, not sure i *got* it, but it will certainly live in my brain rent-free.

finished strange world (2022) as a palate cleanser-- i wanted to support it, the box office and overall reception to this was pretty disappointing but it's fine! like it's a cute kids' movie! you know, disney's first gay character, thinly veiled climate analogy lesson, absolutely gorgeous animation and colors, what's not to love.

the first three episodes of season 1 of the white lotus . hypnotizing like a train wreck, but i'll wait until i've seen more of it to give a real write-up.

listening you ever watch a viral video and then realize you're captivated by both the cute videos of people dancing and the soundtrack? (and recognizing the background scenery, and it turns out i was right!!) anyway i went and found these two tracks courtesy of just this experience, so thanks to youtuber thoraya i guess?

UPDATE: saw hadestown live today!!! the original broadway recording didn't prepare me for how much i would love it, how dynamic and captivating the live band and incredible ensemble would be-- and of course i was crying almost immediately, and was clutching my chest during 'wait for me' both times. but then again, the performance i saw didn't include this one instrumental track i love and had on my semester playlist all spring, so here:

playing finally got the cut-scene celebrating my community center completion in stardew, hell yeah. had two great dnd sessions; one campaign successfully defeated a monstrously-oversized jaguar and decided which faction we're going to attempt to win over first, while the other group went shopping and spent some downtime at base and gathering info on some individual plots! napoleon did exist in this world and was a gnome, and our organization assassinated him apparently??, also this just feels like a good time to mention that their resume also includes '1841 – Controlled controversy riots when “Dinosaurs” suggested as a creature alongside and separate from “Dragons” ', which sent us into absolute hysterics when the DM shared that.

making it's summer, so i crowdsourced a ratatouille recipe and could not have been happier with the outcome. saving it here for posterity!

working on i was very diligent with RA work this week, since it feels like i always neglect it over the summer for absolutely no reason, especially since it like. pays me. but i also have been using it as productive procrastination since i'm actively dragging my heels in sending the last few students their essay feedback and grade breakdowns from the summer course. it means confronting my judgments and math and possible mistakes from earlier in july, and trying to either defend or amend them as necessary, and i just have been. napping rather than actually do it. which is silly, and also stupid since i have actual work to be doing! just get this over with, and you can be free!

[taking-shots]

born to love you | n. mackinnon | part one

warning(s): nothing too major that i know of! mentions of childbirth, pregnancy, like one mention of the word "traumatic"

word count: 1,951

a note from the author: it's finally here!!!!!! part one of my long-awaited natemac series. a couple of things i do want to mention - this is PURELY fantasy and pretty much an au fic. for example, covid and the pandemic will not exist in this story. one more thing - if you want to be tagged when i post part two, let me know! also, feedback is so appreciated. without further ado, here is part one of "born to love you"!

The sun rays of an early Colorado morning peak through the blinds as the dreaded alarm sound rings from Ivy’s phone. As much as she despised waking up early, today was not as awful as usual; it was her wedding day. Today, Ivy Camille Pierce was finally going to marry the man of her dreams.

Nathan had appeared in Ivy’s life one random day in pre-school in Mrs. Sutton’s class. He clung to his mother’s leg as Mrs. Sutton peeled him off by enticing him with dinosaur figurines. Four-year-old Ivy saw him sitting at the table all alone, just staring at the T-Rex.

“You don’t have to play with dinosaurs.” She told him softly. “There are lots more toys over here.”

The blonde boy said nothing still but instead looked at her with bright blue eyes filled with fear.

“Don’t be scared!” Ivy assured him. “Mrs. Sutton is the nicest teacher ever. She always helps us make things out of our snacks after lunch. Yesterday, we made snowmen out of marshmallows and pretzel sticks.”

Mrs. Sutton took notice of Ivy trying to soothe the new student. “Ivy,” the teacher said gently. “This is Nathan. He’s really nervous about starting school. Do you remember how frightened you were the first time your mommy dropped you off?”

Ivy nodded her head quickly, her dark pigtails bouncing as she did so. “My mommy came back though. Your mommy won’t leave you here, Nathan.” she explained to him, though Ivy did struggle with her ‘H’ sounds, so his name sounded more like “Nay-ten.”

“That’s right.” Mrs. Sutton smiled happily. “Everyone’s grown-ups will be here before we know it, so we need to have all the fun we can now. Ivy, do you want to show Nathan where we put our things away in the cubbies and then head to the arts and crafts table?”

The little girl smiled proudly before offering her hand to Nathan, who cautiously took it. As the pair placed Nathan’s Superman backpack into his wooden cubby, Mrs. Sutton looked on in admiration. “If only she could see us now.” Ivy thought to herself as she prepped the coffee pot for a fresh brew.

While waiting for the coffee to be ready, Ivy thought it would be a good idea to go and do a wake-up call for the few members of the bridal party who stayed the night. Morgan, Ivy’s first cousin - though she felt more like a sister, was coming out of the ensuite bathroom as Ivy interred the guest room, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth.

“Today’s the day!” She squealed with excitement. “How are you feeling, Mrs. MacKinnon?”

“I’m not Mrs. MacKinnon yet.” Ivy shook her head, yet grinning from ear to ear. “But I am excited.”

“Oh, please. All this is legalities.” Morgan playfully rolled her eyes. “You two have basically been married since you moved to Denver.”

Morgan was not the only one who felt this way; in fact, almost all of Ivy and Nathan’s close friends and family shared that same mindset. The couple had lived together since they were 18 years old. The first apartment they had was located a couple of blocks from downtown Denver, which meant plenty of drunken nights at the bar with Gabe, Erik, and whatever blonde had decided to hang off their arm that night - even if she nor Nate were legally old enough to drink in the states. (Thank God for bouncers and club owners who were Avalanche fans.)

Ivy left her cousin alone to finish getting ready before the remainder of the bridal party started arriving for brunch. Moving swiftly across the hallway, Ivy tightened her robe around her frame, shivering from the cold air of the house. Her body temperature was never constant, especially if she was indoors. Normally, Nate would be waiting for her back in their king-sized bed, offering his body heat willingly. However, he was awaking at Gabe’s house instead; Ivy was really starting to regret following traditions.

Opening the bedroom door tenderly, a sleeping teenager lay curled under the floral print comforter. Ivy took a moment to admire her baby sister who had just turned thirteen a few weeks ago. She still remembered when Stella was born along with Stella’s twin brother Brody. Ivy was thirteen herself and more than thrilled to finally have not one but two babies to show off as her siblings. She also recalled how much flack her mother caught for having the twins; her family made comments on how traumatizing that it would be for Ivy and how the babies would suffer due to the large age gap between them and their big sister. Those doubters were proved wrong rather quietly as everyone observed and commented on how attentive and protective Ivy was of Brody and Stella. Besides, having new twins sibling was the least traumatic thing to come.

Sitting down on the side of the bed, Ivy reached up and stroked Stella’s long, soft hair; it was the same honey color and soft texture as their mother’s. Immediately feeling a presence, Stella began to stir but not panicked because she knew it was only Ivy.

“Good morning, beautiful.” The older sister greeted lovingly. “It’s time to get up. The other girls will be here soon, and then it’ll be time for hair and makeup.”

“Is Kathy coming?” Stella asks groggily, sitting up to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “Nana Kathy? Yeah, she’s going to meet us-”

“No.” Stella cuts her off. “Sid’s Kathy.”

Breaking out into a smile, Ivy nods her head. “Yeah, Kathy will be here soon too.”

Walking back into the kitchen, the smell of the exotic Columbian filled the room. The special blend was an engagement gift from Sidney and Kathy themselves who were more than thrilled at the news of Ivy and Nate finally tying the knot. Sid’s partner was even more ecstatic when she was asked to be a part of the bridal party. The front door opened, and there Kathy appeared, punctual as usual.

“Good morning!” she chirped happily, squeezing Ivy’s shoulder from behind. “How are you feeling? Any nerves?”

“Morning, Kath.” Ivy smiles. “I’m good! No cold feet here; he’s stuck with me for life after this.”

The blonde lets out her contagious laugh before placing the bottles of champagne she brought into the fridge. Grabbing two coffee mugs from the cabinet, Ivy pours the piping hot beverage into each one. As much as she wants to start the day off with a mimosa, the bride knows how nauseous she will become if she ingests the alcoholic drink before having breakfast.

“You know the drill; make yourself at home,” Ivy tells Kathy as she hands her the mug. “A certain someone is looking forward to seeing you, though. You just might be her perfect motivation to get out of bed and join the festivities. I’m going to go shower.”

Padding back to the master bedroom, Ivy could hear her phone start to ring, signaling an incoming call. Unplugging it from the charger, she saw it was the one and only, Nathan MacKinnon.

“Hello?” Ivy answers, a smile already plastered across her lips.

“Yeah, can I speak to Mrs. Ivy MacKinnon?” His familiar voice asks on the other end of the phone. She can picture exactly what his facial feature look like right now.

“Hm, I don’t think she’s available at the moment.” Ivy teases her fiance. “She should be able to connect with you in a few hours. Did you want to keep your appointment with her at the altar?”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great! Is there any way I can move the meeting to an earlier time?” “I’m sorry, sir, but she will be booked until the allotted time. We do hope you understand.”

Nate let his boisterous laugh flow through the speaker, unable to keep up the banter anymore. “I hated not waking up to you this morning,” he admitted.

“Same here, Mac.” Ivy pouted, using one of her many pet names for him. “I bet Izzy doesn’t too much mind it, though. She always enjoys her sleepovers with Nana and Papa.”

She just knew Nate’s entire face lit up at the mere mention of their precious little girl.

Izzy Katherine MacKinnon made her grand entrance into the world on February 9, 2020. Her first name, which everyone thought was a little odd at first, came to be randomly, and also to everyone’s surprise was not short for Isabelle. On a particularly chilly November evening, Ivy settled down with Stella in the master bedroom for a girl’s night - which consisted of takeout food, the best bakery cupcakes, and all the romcoms the two could handle - while Nate and Brody headed out to Top Golf with Gabe and Cale. It was Ivy’s turn to pick a movie, and she decided to choose a classic favorite of hers: Legally Blondes. The spin-off of the cult classic that featured Reese Witherspoon was not winning any Oscars by any means, but Ivy was thirteen when she saw the movie, and it quickly became a core memory ingrained into her brain forever.

As the introductory credits came into frame, Ivy truly wasn’t paying the movie too much attention, but neither was Stella; both of them were mindlessly scrolling on their respective screens, though doing two different things. The younger female was chatting with her friends and laughing out loud at the silly TikToks they shared in their group chat, but Ivy was doing something far more important. Her due date was quickly approaching, and baby girl MacKinnon still did not have a set name yet. Both Ivy and Nate had names they each liked, but they just couldn’t agree on one. All of a sudden, a name overheard on the television piqued the woman’s attention.

And then, she heard it again. Izzy.

“That’s it!” Ivy realized, excitedly, turning to look at Stella.

“What?” Stella asked, dumbfounded. “What’s it? What are you talking about?”

“The baby! That’s her name! Izzy.”

“How do you know? Don’t you kinda need to talk about it with Nate first?”

As soon as the words left Stella’s lips, Ivy felt the baby move around in her rounded belly. She placed her hands on her stomach out of instinct to feel the shifting of her daughter.

“I think she likes it.” Ivy beamed.

The family was thrilled Ivy was expecting a baby and even more so when the gender was confirmed to be a little girl. Ivy thought Nate would be slightly disappointed that he wasn’t getting a son for his firstborn but that couldn’t have been further from the truth; the star athlete had always (secretly) hoped his first child would be a tiny baby girl who his world revolved around. Sure enough, Izzy had the 6’0” center wrapped around her teeny finger since the day she was born.

Soon enough, all six members of Ivy’s crew had arrived and gathered in the dining room to quickly eat a beautifully prepared brunch and sip mimosas before the makeup artists and hair stylists started arriving to begin the beautifying. Morgan was the maid-of-honor, and Stella had her role as the junior bridesmaid; her four bridesmaids were Gabe’s wife, Mel, Sid’s long-term partner, Kathy, Nate’s older sister, Sarah, and finally, Ashley - the wife of former Avalance center, Nazem Kadri.

Of course, there would be several other friends and family members in attendance from both Nate’s and Ivy’s respective parties, some of which neither of them had seen recently. Ivy couldn’t help but feel a sharp emotional blow in her chest, though, as there would be one person missing from today’s lovely celebrations.

One very important person.

Ivy’s mom.

-

TAG LIST: @thetravii @ghostly--photography @eightmakar @fallinallincurls @boqvistsbabe @landeguin @je-ne-regrette-rien

[themournwatcher]

Mahanon Tabris Meta Post

This is going to be a long one, boys. Read more under the cut. tw: brief discussion of SA

Gender and Gendered Violence

For Mahanon Tabris, the journey he undertakes in Dragon Age: Origins is one that is centered around his gender, and gendered violence. Despite the Andrastian faith being the prevailing religion across Ferelden (and Thedas as a whole), we’re still treated to the typical misogyny in-world as we can come to expect from any pseudo-medieval fantasy game released in 2009. Ranging from snide comments made about the capabilities of a fem Warden or what can be extrapolated as parallels from real-world allegory as headcanons (click here to read my headcanons about Ghilan’nain), the world of Thedas is not so different from our own in regards to subtle if enforced ideas about gender roles and norms.

Enter the City Elf origin. Regardless of whether you first played it with a masc or fem Tabris, it leaves a sick feeling in your stomach about the underbelly of nobility of Thedas and their treatment of their lessers–elves, servants, and, well, women. 

Mahanon Tabris lived most of his life in Denerim performing as a gender-conforming woman because that is what was asked of him. Although his mother Adaia indulged him in many things; the art of weaponry, whispers of a life beyond the Alienage walls, and the gift of a new name for her son once he asked for it, the narrative demands that Adaia dies. The wife dies, the mother dies, the woman dies to further the story. That is the very first thing that Mahanon Tabris learns; the woman will die. 

His father, Cyrion, asks him to put aside the notions of masculinity that his mother had humored. Not for a lack of love; in fact, it is an outpouring of Cyrion’s love, concern, and fear that drives him to make that request. Mahanon, who has learned that deviation from the norm equals death, acquiesced to the request. From there he continued to stifle everything that made him “Mahanon”--that which is now intrinsically tied to his mother, and by virtue, her death. (These themes relate to how Mahanon interacts with his Andrastian faith. I’ll discuss that in another post).

I decided not to start Mahanon’s story (Born Again in Blood) with the wedding day, and the horror that it was. Instead I started his story in the immediate wake of it; being led out of Denerim by Duncan, after he had silently witnessed his life trade hands three times. From his own, to Valendrian, to the Arl’s men, and then finally to Duncan and the Grey Wardens. Truthfully, it was hearing that Duncan had once wanted to recruit Adaia that fostered trust once they were far enough away from Denerim that he was willing to speak.

Duncan gave him that chance; let him announce his new name. On the way to Ostagar, Mahanon cut his hair. There is also an instance in which he speaks with the armorer and it appears this stranger recognizes his plight.

His lips twitched downward at the thought, but his chest bloomed with new breath. He could give any name that he wanted. He could weave any lie, any tale, any story to make it palatable on the tongue. If he was a Grey Warden now–at the least, a recruit–his life would never be the same. He remembered the name his mother gave him when his father wasn’t listening, her hands soft and warm on his cheeks. The name they shared in whispers together as she taught him how to wield a sword to defend himself. The same name Shianni muttered as he lifted her up off of the floor. “Mahanon,” he said. “My name is Mahanon Tabris.”

Fingers closed around the cold hilt and he brought it up to his neck without much of a second thought. He cut through the wet tresses just where they brushed against his collar; it would have been easier, he realized, were his hair dry, but he had already begun to cut it away now. He braced his feet in the mud and stood there, cutting, until he felt a weight fall free from his head and he could breathe freely. Left in his hands were the twenty years of his life. He would let the river take them, too.

 “I think I have something that will fit you,” he said. “Put this on underneath. Those bandages don’t do shit beneath the plate.” Mahanon looked down to see something reminiscent of a corset in his hands, though the leather strands could be more tightly bound, and it did not go as far down the torso. Confused, he looked back up at Gareth.

The smith didn’t bluster as he collected pieces of a plate set. “My daughter went off to become one of them Templars. I still see her at the Chantry sometimes. But she has a similar issue. Things can’t get in the way; I get it.” (paraphrased).

These are three experiences on the way to Ostagar alone that Mahanon is allowed to express himself the way he would prefer. There is an acknowledgment from Duncan that everything in Denerim is dead and left behind, and so he gives Mahanon that space to let it go and embrace a new life, which he eagerly grabs onto. That being said, Mahanon has just walked away from the most horrifying instance of gendered violence that one can articulate within the Dragon Age series. Reeling from that trauma, it changes how he interacts with the world.

Behind his gleaming amber eyes, Mahanon’s mind went blank. He wasn’t sure where Kallian ended and he began anymore, but all he knew is that he was a liar again; a liar wearing a beaded wedding gown. It was green once, he remembered that. Then it was red. Red, red red, and dripping with the lifesblood of men who had tried to take his own. Her own. Took Shianni’s. Took Nelaros’s. So he took theirs. Everyone whose hands had touched and stolen and dirtied. All of them. Like dogs. “I killed an arl’s son for raping my friend,” Mahanon snapped, and he took a step forward.

Finding the first of the recruits, Daveth, was a simple but stupid affair. Mahanon had stumbled upon the man harassing one of the women in King Cailan’s army. It took Mahanon planting himself firmly between them and introducing himself to give the woman a chance to run off. Not that he blamed her. Daveth introduced himself as a thief from Denerim. Not that Mahanon couldn’t tell. The accent gave away where he was from. His attitude gave away the fact that he thought he was entitled to take what he wanted even if it didn’t belong to him.

Mahanon did not sleep soundly that night. In his tent, which he erected far from the others, he remained tense. Rest did not come for him, and he did not close his eyes. Instead he curled his body around his sheathed sword, his bleary gaze locked upon the flap of his tent. A camp full of strangers. Stronger than him, faster than him, deadlier with a blade. He would be a fool to think that he could rest soundly and safely when surrounded by them.

“Come on,” the man said, forcing a smile to his face. He clapped a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder. Alistair withdrew his touch when Mahanon flinched away from the wall and his hand, scowling. Alistair’s smile turned apologetic as the pale light of the sun began to rise.

 “I am sorry,” he said to Mahanon. “I was told what occurred in Denerim. It should not have happened to your friend.” There was pity in Loghain’s gaze. Mahanon loathed pity. With that, he swept away into the tent, and Mahanon was left breathless. Reeling, he felt like the only eyes left to pull him apart were his own, as if he could step out of his own body and watched as he forgot how to breathe. He watched himself stand there as the world drowned out with the roar of blood in his ears. He didn’t need pity. Apologies. He needed them to understand. He had been the one to cradle Nelaros’s bloody corpse to his chest. He had been the one to carry Shianni out of the arl’s home as she sobbed silently into his torn sleeve. 

 Duncan found him later in the kennel with the ailing Mabari. It took him a while. The sun was up. He could only assume that he was tough to find, or maybe Duncan wanted to give him space enough to collect his composure. The dog had begun to perk up, the kennel master had told him when he had come by. Food and water had been partaken of, and so Mahanon had plopped down inside and let the dog rest her slobbery head on his lap. He wasn’t sure what brought him here of all places. Maybe it was the fact that the Mabari brought a rare feminine touch to a place where he had only been pitted against men who, unfortunately, were surpassed by dogs where tact was concerned. 

“Do you know who removed them?” Mahanon asked. He put a hand out towards Alistair’s chest to deter him from saying anything else. Jory was quaking at the sight of the woman, but Daveth’s face had smoothed into a steely regard, and there was a dark glint in his eyes that sat ill with Mahanon. Like a knife that caught moonlight through a dirty window.

That’s a lot of examples, but I wanted to lend significant insight into how Mahanon views the world around him  in the wake of his trauma. He may be a man, but he does not trust other men. He has spent too long and too wary to make the mistake of doing so, even if they do not treat him with the same regard as they would if he were still presenting as a woman. At the core of Mahanon’s masculinity, he carries with him his own violence that comes with existing as a woman–and the inherited gendered violence that he carries from his mother, and his grandmother, and so on and so forth all the way back. (Andraste ties into this as well. We will readdress this in the religious meta post).

Mahanon’s masculinity is centered around his femininity, and his outward masculine expression is another way to protect that part of him. Yes, he is trans, and has been a man from the very first breath, but he will not abandon that girlhood of his, he will not sell it out and lie abed with the men who tug and tear at women like his mother until there is nothing of them left. 

Mahanon saw the Grey Wardens as such: 

Death to his old life.

A chance to live his new life.

But the Joining was a baptism of blood, and inherently feminine. You must consume tainted blood, let it pass through you, to become Greater? It is baptism, it is birth, and it is life. It is everything that a mother does,and  it is his mother who remains the straight arrow in his mind that guides him. Mahanon’s themes and the way he grapples with his own gender is the idea of death, life, and rebirth, and everything that he has to live with. He cannot any longer deny any part of himself.

He looked down at the chalice in his hands; blood, tainted. He looked up at the statue of Andraste that peered down upon them all. He thought of her when she died a martyr. He thought of his mother, lifesblood, the breath she gave for him at birth. He thought of himself, a child, blood-red and slick from between his thighs. He parted his lips and drank deeply.

[bourbon-ontherocks]

Don’t really know anyone else that watches this show lol but I fell like I need to rant. Honestly “The Art of Crime” is a good show, I like how well they incorporate the art and the artist and they have an array of suspects to choose from. My only gripe is how they’re writing Antoine and Florence relationship, especially Florence.

I got that she’s quirky and she’s got issues she’s working through and I like how often she goes to therapy for that. But I have no idea why they portray her as a child when it comes to Antoine. It was bad enough when they introduced Juliette and he’s already hooking up with her at the end of the episode. But she’s still pining after him, even going so far as to wear the wedding ring, pretending she’s in a relationship with Pardo, and then twice kissing Antoine even though she knows he’s with Juliette and she saw it! I mean, it’s just so childish!

I’m sure you see it differently, how do you explain her behavior?

... Well, those season 6 links escalated quickly! 😂

Look, anon, I'm gonna be honest here and say that I don't really see your point. You're mentioning wildly different things that, even if they connect to each other on some level, have radically different causes, and I see no childishness in any.

Pining after someone isn't a childish thing to do, unless adults can control their heart and feelings now and nobody thought to inform me.

The first kiss was an undercover one. Also Juliette did the exact same thing with her target two episodes before. I don't see the issue here.

Wearing the ring was the consequence of an impulsive decision to live a fantasy just for a minute, and pretending to date Pardo the only way out of the unintended catastrophe that ensued (which, incidentally, remains one of the most hilarious trainwreck I've ever seen on TV)

And so on.

And of course, the bigger picture depicts someone with HUGE issues to address, and a chronic walking disaster, but to me it doesn't mean that Florence is a child, in fact she's a grown woman with a very adult approach to many of her relationships. It's just that in her case, her inner child (we all have one by the way) takes over a little more often than average. That she loves living in a fantasy. That she's impulsive. That she's a dreamer.

And sure, she's completely neurotic and I love that she's seeing a therapist but it's mostly because for me the only thing that's superior to the "walking disaster who should see a therapist" kind of character is the "actually sees a therapist and manages to STILL be a walking disaster" type.

Obviously you are totally entitled to your opinion on her actions, but pardon my bluntness here, I genuinely don't think The art of crime is a show for you if you're seeing it that way. And that's fine, not everything is for everyone! But the whole show is about the way reality and imagination interlace in our lives, it's about how art bleeds through real life, it's about fantasy, hell why do you think there are so many dreams/hallucinations/imaginary conversations/magical realism sequences?? The entire show is about Florence and the way she sees the world, actually, and stating "I like the show but I dislike Antoine and Florence's relationship and/or Florence's actions" sounds like a total oxymoron to me, because that's the point of the show.

Besides, it looks like you're assessing her actions according to a "real life" moral compass which sure, why not (although it's never proven itself to be a good idea), but I think this is missing the point entirely. The show is supposed to be goofy!! This is not something that should be taken seriously.

Also, this might be unintentional, but the way you phrased your ask suggests that you're asking me to justify myself for enjoying Florence's character, which is something I do not appreciate. I do not owe you anything, and frankly I have better things to do than trying to "convince" you or whatever. I'm glad that you got to rant if you needed to, but I'm not gonna write a full-length essay defending Florence's behaviour and explaining the essence of her character as I see it (in case you were wondering this was not an essay, we barely grazed the surface of the beginning here 😂).

I'm sorry that this reply probably won't meet your expectations, and I apologize if I misinterpreted some of the stuff you said in your ask, but I sincerely don't know what else to say, and I'm not interested in getting into an argument over whether Florence is childish or not.

That being said, feel free to come back anytime, and maybe I'll have more interesting insights then... 🥺

[madscientist008]

Why I Love Critical Role and You Should Too

If you’re a fan of fantasy, adventure, comedy, drama, and role-playing games, then you should definitely check out Critical Role. It’s a web series that features a group of talented voice actors playing Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), a tabletop game where you create your own characters and stories. The show is hosted by Matthew Mercer, who acts as the Dungeon Master (DM) and guides the players through various quests and challenges in a rich and immersive world.

Critical Role has two main campaigns so far: Vox Machina and The Mighty Nein. Each campaign follows a different group of characters with their own backgrounds, personalities, goals, and relationships. The show is streamed live every Thursday on Twitch and YouTube, and each episode lasts for about three to four hours. You can also watch the episodes later on YouTube or listen to them as podcasts.

One of the best things about Critical Role is the amazing chemistry and friendship between the cast members. They are not only professional voice actors who have worked on many video games and animated shows, but also genuine fans of D&D who enjoy playing the game together. They improvise, joke, cry, laugh, and create memorable moments that make you feel like you’re part of their adventure. They also interact with their fans through social media, fan art, fan fiction, cosplay, etc.

Another great thing about Critical Role is the quality and diversity of the storytelling. The show features a mix of genres and themes, from epic battles and political intrigue to romance and comedy. The show also explores complex issues such as identity, morality, trauma, redemption, etc. The show is not scripted or planned in advance, so anything can happen and the stakes are real. The DM and the players collaborate to create a compelling and immersive narrative that keeps you hooked and invested.

Some of my favorite moments from Critical Role are:

The first time Vox Machina met Scanlan Shorthalt (Sam Riegel), a charismatic gnome bard who sang hilarious songs and flirted with everyone.

The battle against K’Varn (Matthew Mercer), an evil beholder who controlled an ancient city under a lake.

The confrontation between Vax’ildan (Liam O’Brien), a half-elf rogue who made a deal with the Raven Queen (Laura Bailey), a goddess of death.

The wedding of Percy (Taliesin Jaffe), a human gunslinger who sought revenge for his family’s murder, and Vex’ahlia (Laura Bailey), a half-elf ranger who loved nature and money.

The introduction of The Mighty Nein, a group of misfits and outcasts who met in a prison transport.

The encounter with Mollymauk Tealeaf (Taliesin Jaffe), a tiefling blood hunter who had a mysterious past and a colorful personality.

The rescue of Jester (Laura Bailey), a tiefling cleric who worshiped the Traveler (Matthew Mercer), a trickster god.

The infiltration of Nicodranas, a coastal city ruled by an oppressive lord.

The reunion of Caleb (Liam O’Brien), a human wizard who suffered from trauma and guilt, and Astrid (Matthew Mercer), his former friend and lover who became an agent of the Cerberus Assembly.

The showdown with Lucien (Matthew Mercer), a cult leader who sought to unleash an ancient evil.

These are just some examples of the many amazing moments that Critical Role has to offer. If you’re interested in watching or listening to the show, you can find all the episodes on their website or YouTube channel. You can also join their fan community on Tumblr, Twitter, Reddit, Discord, etc. You won’t regret it!

[arwenkenobi48]

The grand hall of the castle looked like something out of an 80s dark fantasy movie. The ceiling was decorated with golden lights, fancy dragon ornaments adorned the tables and the overa atmosphere was pure magic.

I entered the room, dressed in my black gothic suit, drinking in the wonderful sight. Sauron, Mephistopheles and Ulysses were already there, as were the rest of the Brotherhood and their loved ones. Micah and Kaine, two of Amsel’s brothers, were present with their families, as was his father, Mathias. I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn’t believe this was happening. In a few minutes from now, Amsel would be my husband.

I could see him standing at the other end of the room, all dressed up in his black and red suit, his hair tied back into a neat ponytail tied with a scarlet ribbon. The way the room was set up, there were two aisles. Mephistopheles had agreed to walk me down mine and Mathias would walk Amsel down his. “You ready for this, Ezra?” Mephistopheles asked telepathically. “I sure am.” I replied, my heart fluttering with excitement.

We walked down the respective aisles, meeting at the altar in the middle. As I saw my husband to be getting closer and closer, I felt like I was floating. This felt like a dream, only it was real and that made it so much better. The man officiating the wedding, as requested by both Amsel and I beforehand, did an impression of the Impressive Clergyman from The Princess Bride, speech and all.

“Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togevah today. Mawwiage, vat bwessed awangement, vat dweam wivin a dweam.” Mathias was clearly bewildered by this and why everyone else was amused, but Micah quickly explained it to him and he smiled as well. I locked arms with Amsel and stood beside him, both of us beaming with joy. “Ven wuv, twue wuv, will fowwow you fowevah…” the speech continued. “So tweasure your wuv…” After this homage to our favourite film, we each read our vows.

“Amsel, from the moment I first saw you, heard your melodious voice and felt your loving hands on mine, I knew you were the one for me. Fate seemed to draw us closer and closer together and the more I time I spent with you, the stronger my love for you became.

You are the most beautiful man I know. I could gaze into your eyes forever. My heart melts when you smile. Your laughter is music to my ears. Your gentle touch is as soft as silk. I always feel happiest when I’m in your arms, your lips gently pressed against mine.

I always feel so safe with you, in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m safe enough to let my guard down, safe enough to be intimate on a deeper level than ever before. I can fully, truly be myself with you and I know you’ll always love, cherish and care for me, as I promise to do for you. No frogs will come within an inch of you while I’m around.

You make me feel so brave, so special, so loved. You make me feel like a real man. I’m so deeply grateful for all you’ve done for me. From this day forward, I hope that we’ll continue to build our love and our lives together. I love you, Amsel, with all my heart and soul.”

Soft murmurs of “Awww…” reverberated around the room as I finished reading. Friedrich dabbed his eyes with a silk handkerchief. Amsel was deeply moved. Then, he read his vows as well.

“Ezra, before we met, I would have never believed in love at first sight, but now I certainly do. I felt a connection between us from the very beginning. You make my heart soar with joy in everything you do. Your love for life, for the world, for your art, for me, it seems to know no bounds.

Since you entered my life, the darkness has been banished. I finally feel like I can emerge into the light and face each day with a brave heart and a kind smile. You find beauty in the most unlikely places and you helped me find the beauty within myself. You’ve been there for me through thick and thin, you’ve seen so many sides of me and you’ve loved me more and more throughout. Words cannot express how thankful I am for you, my love.

I would do anything to see that cute smile, that bright sparkle in your eyes, to hear that sweet giggle and run my fingers through your hair. Holding you in my arms and whispering sweet words of love, knowing that I’ve made you the happiest you’ve ever been, that brings me such joy. You are my light in the dark, the man of my dreams, the angel who put a song in my heart.

But most importantly, you are the best friend I’ve ever had. The closest, most sincere friend I could have ever hoped for. I value that friendship more than I can say and I hope that with our marriage, that will continue to grow. I love you, my sweet Ezra. My dearest, you will always be the love of my life.”

“Awwww…” everyone murmured again. I couldn’t suppress a soft squee of happiness. Then the moment came, when we both said “I do.” and were pronounced partners for life. “You may kiss the-“ The officiant began to say, but we already had, quite passionately. “Hooray!” Mephistopheles cheered and everyone clapped and cheered as well. Then, the dancing began.

The golden lights on the ceiling changed colours, slowly shifting through a wide range of blues, purples and greens, as if the northern lights were shining overhead. As The World Falls Down by David Bowie began playing as we all waltzed together. It was then followed by When I Look Into Your Eyes by Firehouse, I Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore and other classic 80s love ballads. I’d never got the hang of dancing before, but somehow I managed it. With my Amsel by my side, I felt like I could do anything.

The party went on into the night, as Amsel and I fed each other cake and everyone chatted and took photos. Micah was honoured to be Amsel’s best man, just as Feral was for me. Toasts were given, happy tears shed and both cake and the banquet were devoured.

In quite a few of the wedding photos, either Ulysses or Cortex could be seen popping up at the corner of the frame. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Amsel smiled, gently cupping my cheeks in his hands. “Aww, so do you, songbird.” I giggled, blushing. “Red looks really good on you.” We kissed again and heard the camera click, accompanied by another “Hooray!” from everyone.

Eventually, at around midnight, after the last song had played (a rather relaxing track by Enya), we all agreed to retire for the night. We shook hands with everyone and were all very happy. The other members of the Brotherhood all gave us hugs. Amsel and I admired our wedding rings. They were a stunning silver, each fitted with a small ruby. “Wow…” I murmured, leaning on Amsel’s shoulder. “Are you alright, my love?” He asked gently. “Never better, babe.” I smiled dreamily. “Just…so happy…”

Later on, once we had retired to our room, I hugged Amsel tight and we made out in the moonlight. “Happy birthday, Amsel,” I whispered in between kisses. “Ah, that was the best day ever,” he chuckled, nuzzling me gently. “And tomorrow, we shall embark on our honeymoon. Finland awaits!” “Yayyy!” I squealed happily.

If we hadn’t been worn out from the festivities, we would have probably danced around the room. But for now, we only had enough energy for soft kisses and cuddles. “I love you so much, baby boy,” Amsel whispered, kissing my cheek. Blushing, I laid my head on his chest and murmured: “I love you too, my sweet songbird.”

(PS: regarding the line about frogs: Amsel has a phobia of them. I’m basically promising to keep him safe from everything he fears.)