#wordless ways event

[yyokkki]

The Prefect's Laugh

Dropping this monstrosity i wrote in September 2023 because I feel like I'm never going to leave this fandom.

First Years x gn! Prefect

Warning: I haven't played chapter 7, Prefect has a distinct personality so it doesn't really count as x reader but some people could find them relatable, a jumble of canon and non-canon events, mild cursing?

Divider by @saradika

It wasn’t that the Prefect never smiled. In fact, they may have smiled a little too often. It could be as simple as a wordless greeting or as complex as a way to cope with fear, but there was one particular expression the first years saw only once in a blue moon. The smile that comes alongside a fit of laughter.

The first time Ace saw the infamous Ramshackle Prefect smile like that was not too long after they had first met. It was a day or two after Heartslabyul’s housewarden overblotted and they’d finally gotten the rose garden in order.

While chatting about that day’s happenings, a rather embarrassing detail was brought up (embarrassing to Ace at least).

“Can we, like, NOT talk about this anymore??”

“I mean, the housewarden was really going in on you and you just stood there and took it but as soon as he said those things about the Prefect’s parents you didn’t even hold back. It’s weirdly sweet of him, right?”

Deuce looked towards the Prefect for their input to which they replied by fervently nodding their head.

“Wow, who could’ve guessed that maybe THE Ace Trappola cares about his friends??”

“…Honestly would’ve believed you more if you said you did it just to prove you could.”

“Pfft-“

Ace’s head whipped to the side, and he stared at the blooming smile on the Prefect’s face. Crinkled eyes, a hand in front of their mouth and slightly flushed cheeks as they tried to hold in their chuckles.

He wanted to make a snarky comment, something like, ‘I’ve been trying to make you laugh for the past two weeks and THIS Is what makes you break?’

Instead, what came out of his mouth was… Silence.

Maybe the new expression was too shocking as he just stared, five parts confusion, three parts embarrassment, two parts bashfulness. The most he could get out of them even with the most well-crafted jokes were slight smirks and yet something Deuce said without even intending to be funny made them crack.

He felt wronged.

And flustered.

…Shit, why are they kinda cute.

Going back to before the overblot, a day that Deuce personally considers more traumatising than his own housewarden’s mental breakdown.

Sorrowfully gazing upon the carnage of eggshells, whites and yolks jumbled up in the plastic bag branded with the words, Mr. S’ Mystery Shop, Deuce gave out another wistful sigh.

“I just hope those chicks can rest in peace.”

“…You know those eggs don't hatch into chickens, right?”

Shocked, flabbergasted, gobsmacked, stunned, stupefied, bowled-over; all words that could be used to describe Deuce Spade’s current state of mind.

“Wh- WHAT??? YOU’RE KIDDING.”

While Deuce was having an epiphany about the eggshell-shocking revelation, he noticed the Prefect’s slightly hunched over back and trembling frame. He was about to go comfort them when he saw their face…

And heard their laughter, ringing out like the sound of wind chimes swaying with the summer breeze, despite it being mid-September.

“YOU’RE LAUGHING???”

He looked at them with five parts feelings of betrayal, three parts despair and two parts anger. He was so offended that he immediately stormed off with the grocery bags in hand, huffing and puffing as he went on his unmerry way.

It wasn’t until later that the Prefect started feeling guilty about their reaction to the incident. It kind of felt like telling a little kid Santa wasn’t real…

They apologised, got him a book about the evolution of egg production, hugged it out and all was forgiven.

It wasn’t until much much later that Deuce Spade realised, he had only seen the Prefect laugh a handful of times, that incident taking up one of the spaces.

It had grown to become one of his favourite sounds in the world.

Jack Howl was never one for bad jokes or witty banter. Whenever he and the Prefect stood together, besides looking like a sturdy tree next to a swaying flower, they didn’t look friendly- much less like friends.

Only the two of them understood the solidarity that came with the silence. They were each others go-to when the other first years got too rowdy.

Truly the mom and dad of the group.

They would occasionally engage in conversation. Somehow when they were together, asking about each other’s day would lead to which parts of home they missed most now that they were away or embarrassing childhood memories, they hadn’t told anyone else about.

It was on a day like any other, a long while after the deep sea overblot.

Jack and the Prefect had finally started speaking to each other comfortably, yet most of their time together was spent just existing in the same room, doing their own thing.

It wasn’t awkward, at least not to the Prefect. But they had to ask just in case.

“Hey, do you ever feel like we don’t really talk when we hang out?”

“…Well, we are at the library.”

“I mean at other places too.”

Jack looked up from his notes, glancing at the Prefect with a little apprehension tracing his features.

“Why? You find it weird?”

“No, I like it a lot, just- I’m not used to it you know? Whether it’s the friends I’ve made here or my friends from back home they’ve never been the type to let the room stay quiet for over five seconds.”

They shifted slightly to cast an inquisitive glance over at him, “I can’t tell if you mind or not.”

Against his very own will, Jack’s tail started flowing slightly. So, they like being around him?

“I feel the same as you. I like our time together.”

Realising he sounded a little too soft, he immediately started backpedalling.

“Not that that means anything. I enjoy spending time with many people, doesn’t make you special.”

After finishing his piece, Jack looked back down at his notes, playing it cool. His tail, however, betrayed his feelings.

"Pfhaha, so cute, it’s like a helicopter-“

“…”

Not knowing how to defend himself, Jack got up to sit across the Ramshackle Prefect, blocking their view of his tail but giving him the perfect angle to catch all their expressions.

…It may be a little too late for him.

It all started with a godforsaken game of PG rated chicken.

Epel Felmier didn’t know whose dumb idea it was to hold a competition like this among all the first years but damn was he killin’ it.

It was almost too easy. It made him feel conflicted. Should he be happy that he’d somehow reached the finals? Or mad that it’s all cause of his face and build?? Either way, the prize was too good to pass up so he was gonna win.

So far he’d been flyin’ through with direct eye contact and a smile or two if his opponents were tougher but the final round had been filling him with a weird sense of dread, so he decided to prepare a little somethin’ special this time.

He doubted he’d have to use it though; he didn’t think very highly of the kids at NRC in this specific department…

That being until he got a text from the organiser telling him who his opponent was, that being: the Ramshackle Prefect.

Well shit.

He knew they never judged anybody, including him, for their appearance, and he’d always appreciated them for that. But in this context, it would make ‘em a tough nut to crack.

Not even mentioning, they knew his weakness when he didn’t have theirs.

He immediately pulled down their chat and started typing ferociously.

‘you. me. ramshackle lounge. after school. please?’ And send.

Might as well get a practise round in to scope the waters.

Luckily, the Prefect considered him a friend and wasn’t overly cautious, so not long after the text was sent an ‘ok’ was promptly sent back.

As soon as school let out, Epel ran into the Prefect in the mirror chamber, and they embarked towards Ramshackle dorm together.

He’d informed them of his intentions while on the way, so they got started after arriving.

First, he tried his usual techniques despite knowing they wouldn’t work. As expected, the Prefect didn’t so much as flinch.

Then they smiled warmly at him.

“Your training has been working out really well, I can see a little more definition on your arms. How do you even do it? What you lack in a natural constitution is already being made up for by your will and perseverence! It's really rare to find people like you out there.”

Shit, a genuine compliment about his mental and physical growth! That’s critical damage, how could they be so dirty, using his weakness against him?

Well, if that’s how they’re gonna play it.

Epel held up his two hands in front of him, forming a heart with his fingers.

The Prefect looked unfazed. They just smiled at him, mockingly (Epel’s perception).

Fine. He’s been left with no choice but to pull out his secret weapon.

“I-If you were a fruit, you’d be a FINEAPPLE!” Absolutely humiliating.

But also absolutely effective.

The Prefect’s mask started cracking at its seams.

“F-fineapple? I never thought I'd ever hear you say anything like that- Pfft hehe-“

He'd won, but his face was as red as his namesake as the visage of his Prefect’s tinted cheeks and choked back giggles entered his heart.

On the day of the competition, he lost miserably. The Prefect ended up passing the prize onto him, claiming they were only participating for fun, but he wasn’t really upset.

It’s for the best that no one else sees that face anyways.

Sebek Zigvolt’s sole purpose for living is to serve his young master as a reliable retainer.

In order to be reliable, he must excel in both academics and athletics. Athletics weren’t worth mentioning and he found all academic subjects easy enough.

All except for art, that is.

Making use of a medium to place your creative vision onto a surface sounded simple, yet the product had never lived up to his expectations, creating a habit of casting fire spells to burn the causes of his shame.

After yet another round of sweeping up the ashes of a canvas, he’d decided enough was enough. As unbecoming as it was, a good retainer would ask for help when he really needed it.

And he really really needed it.

His next course of action was to head over to the staff room and inquire with the Art professor for private lessons, only to be told that she had no empty slots in her schedule.

“If you don’t mind learning from another student, I recommend asking the Ramshackle Prefect to tutor you. They’re one of the best among their peers and I’ve seen them offering help to other students during my classes so I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

That magicless human? He’d only ever spoken two or three sentences to them, and he couldn’t stand the uncouth beast following them around every hour of the day, but if they truly were one of the best…

Thus started a deal he would come to regret in the future.

The Prefect wasn’t a bad teacher. They’d gotten him to start on the basics before even thinking of the elaborate portraits he’d always been hellbent on doing.

Once he’d finally grasped the techniques needed, he immediately jumped onto the opportunity to paint his young master, using one of his sacred wallet sized photos as reference. The Prefect stood beside him the whole time, pointing out mistakes and fixing any parts he deemed unsatisfactory.

The only qualm he had was that they’d protested to his idea to paint a wall sized mural, stating that it was too advanced.

With a beautiful portrait in tow, he returned and hung it up near his shrine. It couldn’t compare to his young master’s radiance but it had been the best thing he’d ever painted and he was felling pleased with himself.

An idea came over him. He wouldn’t have been able to do this without their help after all…

And that was what led to him showing up at Ramshackle outside of lesson hours with a small canvas nervously clenched in his hands.

“Human. It didn’t turn out as well without your guidance, but this is a little token of appreciation for your help these past few weeks.” He pushed the portrait into the Prefects hands, ready to accept criticism.

“…”

“Human..?”

“…Pffhehe-, I never expected you to do something so heartfelt for a ‘dumb human’. Heh, I guess I really grew on you!”

“Why are you laughing?! ARE YOU MAKING FUN OF ME??”

If he had his sword on him he would be unsheathing it right now.

“No, no, thanks man, I love it.”

The brightest and most genuine smile he’d ever seen from them blossomed.

He felt his face burn and his heartbeat rise to an abnormal degree as the Prefect’s warm gaze felt as though it were boring into him.

…I must inquire with Master Lilia what hex this human has placed upon me. Right this instant!

[suguru-getos]

୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 23﹕✦﹕┈・୧

event masterlist

-> neuvillette x f! reader -> aftercare

"please, please neuv- agh!" you exclaimed as neuvillette pulled out another orgasm out of you, with his skillful fingers rubbing at your sensitive clit and his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. He's not a normal human being, he's the dragon soverign and the very fact that he's build different, makes it harder for you to handle him. His cock has ridges, the way they give your cunt the most friction It could possibly take, the way the girth almost tears your pretty pussy apart. Neuv loves it, the blacked out expression on your beautiful face when you get accustomed to him fucking you in his shape.

"there there, that's alright." neu's thrusts halted for a moment, watching you cream over him and letting him fill you up all over again. The left over cum dribbling down through your plugged pussy, strained from his cock. There was only so much you could take after all.

"it's okay, I got you now." neuvillette cooed, kissing your forehead deeply to ground you from the haze, he's not been gentle tonight and now he just needs to remind you how gentle he can be. Hands traversing through your skin, massaging your arms, your pelvis, petting your sore breasts he nipped on, kissing your collarbone, kissing your cheeks. "such a good girl you are, darling." he smiles softly, glancing at the way you stare at him, so love drunk and so immersed in subspace. "you know I love you right?" neuvilette crooned, craddling you into his arms after he pulled out. "ssh ssh ssh, it's okay." he hummed, watching your ragged breaths slowly taking the direction of calming down. you were wordless, mindless and oh so fucked up in the best ways possible. No one could ever make you feel so good after all, it feels like you're floating.

"let go," neuvillettte gently commanded, watching your pupils shut down as you strain yourself to keep you awake. You croaked a small, "I love you" to him.

"I love you too my darling mate, please, let go. I'm here for you." neuvillette reminded you tenderly, his knuckles running gently through the apples of your cheek.

"let's run us a bath, how about that?" neuvillette suggested after letting you gather yourself enough in his warmth, in his soft embrace. You nodded, leaning in against his chest, humming in approval.

He picked you up princess-style, making a beeline towards the rest room, turning the jacuzzi on of the bathtub, cradling you into him like you're his little baby. Like you'd break if he was even slightly careless.

The warm water soothed your aches, while neuvillette used this opportunity to hold you close, cooing sweet nothings into your ear- how special you are, how you make him feel loved, how you made him feel like he's a part of fontaine, not an outsider, how you kiss him every morning when he leaves for work and how he can't wait to come back to you. God- you make him spiral so good for you, in all the best ways. "I'll not be kind to anyone who even thinks of harming you." there is a slight sense of degeneracy attached to the tone of his sentence. You hummed, sighing and letting yourself bask into the sweet feeling of being taken cared of. You nodded, "no one's gonna harm me, not until they know who's wife I am." you chuckled, and neuvillette for once, agreed, too. He would do anything to protect you after all. <3

[soulofapatrick]

Fragile Threads - Rhysand x female reader 

Summary: you get kidnapped and this is the aftermath to being saved by the Inner Circle

Warnings: mentions of attempted r; hurt-comfort; ptsd; fluffy and angsty

Words: 3.1K

Y/N's POV

I stand under the cascading water, the heat searing my skin as if it could burn away the memories etched into every finer of my being. The events of the last few hours replay like a nightmare in my mind, each moment sharper than the last.

I can still feel his hands, vile and invasive, creeping under my armour, his repulsive breath hot against my skin as he loomed over me, a sick grin on his face. The terror of those moments claws at my insides, relentless. Just when I thought I couldn’t keep fighting, my voice raw from screaming, my back burning against the stone floor as I fought to escape, Rhysand and the others had burst through the doors like avenging angels, their shadows and blades shattering the nightmare and pulling me from the abyss.

The water pounds against my skin, relentless, as though trying to wash away the taint of his touch. I scrub furiously, but the memory lingers, staining my skin with its foul residue. A sob claws its way up my throat, spilling into the air as I scrub and scrub. I must’ve made more noise than I thought because Rhysand’s deep, soothing voice cuts through my haze of panic.

“Y/N?” His tone, usually velvet and authority wrapped in one, is now softened with concern, a balm to my fractured soul. In that moment, I know what I truly need. Without hesitation, I find the courage to voice my plea, my voice barely a whisper, trembling and desperate.

“Stay with me,” I manage, the words slipping past my lips, clinging to the breath that carries them. I long for his presence, his warmth to chase away the chill of my fears. I hear the faint shuffle of footsteps outside the bathing chamber, his hesitation palpable. And though the silence stretches between us, fragile and uncertain, I cling to the hope that he’ll sense the plea beneath my words.

“Please, Rhys,” I whisper, my anguish heavy in the space between us, a silent prayer for him to bridge the divide and offer me solace in my despair.

The silence in the chamber is thick, broken only by the soft exhale that escapes him. I hear the rustle of fabric as his armour falls to the floor, the metallic clang of his belt echoing against the tiles. Each sound sends a jolt of unease through me, a reminder of the nightmare I’ve just escaped.

But then, like a tether in a storm, his arms wrap around me from behind, strong and steady, pulling me back from the edge. I release a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, my tension melting as his chest presses reassuringly against my back, his silent promise of protection enveloping me.

His touch is gentle, deliberate, as he silently pries my hands from where they cling desperately to my shoulders, nails biting into flesh in a futile attempt to anchor myself against the chaos within. I close my eyes, shielding myself from the onslaught of memories, as tears slip unbidden down my cheeks, each one a testament to the agony etched into my soul. The scent of lavender fills the steamy air as Rhysand reaches past me, his movements fluid and sure, pouring the soothing oil into his hands.

I tremble as his fingers thread through my hair, the sensation both soothing and agonising in its tenderness. His touch is a balm to my wounds, a silent offering of solace in a world torn asunder by violence and fear. He works in silence, his hands steady and practiced, each stroke a wordless prayer for healing, for redemption. And though the tears fall freely, each one a drop of the pain that will haunt me, Rhys’s presence is a light in my darkness, a reminder that he found me and pulled me back from the brink.

But even as he tends to me with such care, such tenderness, I can still feel the ghost of the Hybern soldier’s touch clinging to my skin, a stain that no amount of scrubbing can erase. The thought swells within me, threatening to drown me in a churning sea of despair and self-loathing.

Rhys’s hands cover mine, his touch gentle as he completes the ritual of washing away the remnants of terror from my hair. His touch, steady and unyielding, is a lifeline in my darkness, an anchor in the storm that rages within me. Yet even as he holds me, the ghostly touch remains, stubborn and unrelenting. It’s a thought that threatens to break me, to drag me under into despair.

And then, in the hollow of my turmoil, Rhys’s arms circle around me, drawing me close as if to shield me from the shadows of my own fear. The weight of his presence is both a comfort and a burden, a reminder of the fragility of my own resolve in the face of such unspeakable horror.

My knees buckle beneath me, the weight of my grief far too heavy to carry alone. I am lost in a tempest of sorrow, my choked sobs echoing against the stone walls as Rhys cradles me in his embrace. The cries are so raw, so unguarded, that I’m certain the others can hear me from their place outside, waiting in the hall.

Rhys sinks to the floor with me, his strong arms never wavering, a silent promise that he will not let me fall, that he will not let me drown in this darkness that looms around us both.

In the sanctuary of his arms, I find release, the floodgates of my anguish opening wide as I finally let myself be held in this raw, vulnerable state. Memories crash against me, each one a wave pounding at the fragile shores of my sanity, threatening to pull me under.

“It—I—” I choke, my chest heaving with the weight of my sorrow, and yet Rhys waits, patient and unmoving, his steady presence a silent assurance that I am not alone in this pain. And then, with a tenderness that takes my breath away, he presses a kiss to my wet hair, a silent vow to stand by me no matter the cost.

“I can still feel him,” I whisper, the words barely audible above the rush of water, but they hang heavy in the air between us, a reminder of the scars that linger beneath my skin.

“Do you trust me?” Rhysand’s voice is a gentle murmur, a question whispered against the nape of my neck as his stubble brushes my skin. I don’t speak, but I nod, allowing him to pull me gently back to my feet.

He turns me to face him, his deep violet eyes holding mine with a tenderness that belies the weight of the world we carry between us. There’s a gentlemanly grace in the way he looks at me, a silent acknowledgment of the wounds we both bear. With a steadiness born of resolve, he reaches for the body wash, his fingers brushing against mine in a fleeting caress.

I unfold my arms from around myself, revealing the bruises and cuts that mar my skin, souvenirs of the darkness still lingering within me. Rhys’s breath catches in his throat, a harsh exhale echoing the pain etched across his features. But there’s no hesitation in his touch as he picks up the shower sponge, his movements deliberate and unhurried—a silent promise of healing amidst the devastation.

He cleanses me with a gentleness that borders on reverence, his hands tracing the contours of my body with a tenderness that speaks of unvoiced love, of wounds too deep to fully comprehend. Each kiss he leaves upon my tingling skin is a testament to the intimacy we share, a silent vow to stand by me through the darkest nights.

Even as the water prickles against our skin, a reminder of the heat that still burns between us, I find solace in the sanctuary of his embrace. His arms envelop me, a fortress against the storm raging outside, his face buried in my hair as if seeking refuge from the pain that threatens to tear us apart.

I lean into his embrace, my head resting against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a lullaby amidst the chaos surrounding us. In his arms, I feel small and fragile, yet so safe, cocooned in a love that knows no bounds. I want to hold onto this moment forever, to lose myself in the warmth of his touch, in the safety of his arms. But reality intrudes—a harsh reminder of the world waiting beyond our sanctuary.

“The girl?” My voice is a whisper against his chest, a question heavy with unspoken fears. He acknowledges it with a sound, a subtle shift in the air that speaks volumes about the burdens we both carry. Then, with a tenderness that pierces the silence like a knife, he steps back, turning off the water and pulling back the curtain. The moment slips away, a fleeting glimpse of paradise in a world torn asunder by darkness.

In the soft glow of the setting sun, Rhys stands like a figure chiseled from the night itself, illuminated by the golden rays streaming through the window. His silhouette is a study in strength and grace, every angle accentuated by the fading light. The ethereal glow catches the sharp contours of his face, the high cheekbones, and the elegant line of his jaw. His raven-black hair, tousled and slightly damp, falls effortlessly across his forehead, framing his face and enhancing the allure of his otherworldly beauty. His violet eyes, deep and unfathomable, lock onto mine with a tenderness that steals my breath away, the corners crinkling with the ghost of a smile that ignites a fire within me.

I can’t help but drink in the sight of him, from the proud arch of his brow to the curve of his lips, each detail a testament to the beauty that lies within. My gaze lingers on the expanse of his muscled chest, the rise and fall of his breath a hypnotic rhythm that draws me in, until my eyes trace the line of his body down past the happy trail to the heavy length settled between his thick thighs, my eyes widening at the realisation of just how impressive he is. My mind wanders to what that would feel like—

“Eyes up here, Princess,” his voice, low and commanding, pulls me from my reverie, sending shivers down my spine. It’s a command I dare not disobey, though the temptation to linger upon the sight before me is almost unbearable. With a sheepish smile, I lift my gaze to meet his, the warmth in his deep violet eyes melting away the chill that lingers within. “Let me just get dressed, then I’ll give you a hand, okay?” His words are a gentle reassurance, a promise of solace in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty that threatens to engulf us both. I nod in silent acquiescence, my heart pounding in time with the rhythm of his footsteps as he crosses the room.

Each movement is deliberate and purposeful as he slips back into his clothes, the fabric falling against his skin like a lover's caress. As he draws nearer, his presence envelops me in a cocoon of warmth and safety, a sanctuary in the midst of chaos. Every touch is a symphony of tenderness, a silent declaration of love that transcends words. In his embrace, I find refuge from the storm that rages within, a flicker of hope amidst the darkness that threatens to consume us whole.

As Rhys kneels before me, his touch a gentle caress against the bruises that mar my skin, I’m overcome by a flood of emotions too powerful to name. Each stroke of his hand is a silent prayer for healing, a testament to the depth of his compassion in the wake of tragedy. His lips leave sweet kisses in the wake of his touch, a balm against the wounds that still linger beneath the surface. I watch as his eyes flutter for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability in the depths of his gaze, and in that fleeting moment, I see the depth of his love reflected back at me.

With trembling hands, I cup his face in my palms, the warmth of his skin a welcome embrace against the chill that still lingers in the air. There is a tenderness in his touch, a reverence that speaks volumes of the bond that binds us together in the aftermath of despair. And then, with a courage born of desperation, I guide his face down, my heart pounding in my chest as our lips meet in a chaste kiss. It is a moment of vulnerability, of raw emotion laid bare in the quiet sanctuary of our shared grief.

As Rhys pulls away slightly, his eyes search my face with an intensity that takes my breath away. In the soft glow of the dimly lit room, I see a myriad of emotions flickering in the depths of his deep violet eyes—love, longing, and a hint of vulnerability.

His lips brush against mine once more, a silent question lingering in the space between us. And then, as if drawn by an irresistible force, he leans in again, his kiss infused with a newfound passion that ignites a fire within me. I feel the heat of his touch against my skin, the warmth of his breath mingling with mine as our lips meet in a tender embrace. There is a hunger in his kiss, a longing that mirrors my own, as we lose ourselves in the depths of our shared desire.

But even as the intensity of our passion grows, the kiss remains gentle and tender, a silent affirmation of the love that binds us together. In the quiet sanctuary of our shared grief, we find solace in each other’s arms, our hearts beating as one against the darkness that threatens to consume us whole.

“That’s enough, Princess. You need your rest. We have all the time in the world for this.” Rhys breaks the kiss, albeit reluctantly, as he helps me finish getting dressed. My heart jackhammers in my chest, but this time it’s not from fear; it’s from anticipation.

With his help, I slip into clean underwear and a pair of his oversized tracksuit bottoms, their warmth a comforting embrace against the chill that still lingers in the air. He tends to my hair with a care that speaks of love unspoken, his fingers deftly weaving it into a bun as if to shield me from the chaos that threatens to consume us both. I make a mental note to ask him where he learned such a skill—a reminder of the mysteries that still linger between us, waiting to be unraveled in the quiet moments between storms.

And then, with a quiet resolve that belies the weight of our shared sorrow, he holds out his shirt from the day before, a silent offering of strength in the face of adversity. I meet his gaze, the unspoken bond between us a lifeline in the darkness that threatens to tear us apart. With trembling hands, I slip my arms through the fabric, wincing at the ache that still lingers beneath the surface. He helps me button it up, each touch a reassurance that I am not alone in this battle, that together, we can face whatever demons may come. As he leads me toward the door, the rest of the team awaits, their concern a silent testament to the bonds that hold us together in the aftermath of tragedy.

As Azriel's eyes meet mine, a kaleidoscope of emotions swirls within their depths, threatening to spill over in a torrent of tears. His words hang heavy in the air, suspended between us like a fragile thread on the verge of breaking. Morrigan's grip tightens on Azriel's arm, her own expression a mirror of his turmoil, while Feyre's hand flies to her mouth in a silent gasp of shock and disbelief.

Cassian's jaw clenches with fierce determination, his gaze a steel blade slicing through the tension that hangs thick in the air. Amren's expression is stoic, a mask of controlled fury that belies the storm raging beneath the surface. And yet, despite the turmoil that threatens to consume us all, they remain steadfast by my side, a silent testament to the bonds that bind us together in the face of adversity.

I shift uncomfortably under the weight of their stares, seeking refuge in the sanctuary of Rhysand's embrace. His arms are still wrapped around my waist, a shield against the storm that rages within and without.

"I—I don't want to be alone tonight," I whisper, the words a tremulous plea that hangs in the air between us like a fragile thread. In that moment, it’s as if a switch is flipped, the rest of the team springing into action with a sense of urgency that borders on desperation.

Cassian and Morrigan move with purpose, their movements swift and sure as they push the two double beds together, creating a makeshift sanctuary amidst the chaos that surrounds us. The others disappear from the room, only to return moments later with armfuls of pillows and duvets, their hands a flurry of activity as they arrange them with meticulous care.

With a courage born of desperation, I turn to Morrigan and Azriel, my voice a tremulous whisper in the stillness of the room. "Will you sleep with us tonight?" The words hang in the air, laden with unspoken emotion, a silent plea for solace in the midst of our shared grief. They nod in silent understanding, their expressions a mirror of my own turmoil. Amren takes the couch without complaint, a silent sentinel in the night, while Feyre and Cassian settle themselves on the floor amidst the pillows and duvets, their presence a silent reassurance in the darkness that threatens to consume us whole.

I nestle my head against Rhysand's chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a lullaby in the silence that surrounds us. Azriel’s arm is thrown haphazardly across my waist, a silent vow to stand by me through the darkest of nights, while Morrigan’s fingers brush against my hip in a gesture of comfort and support.

That’s how I fall asleep: My team, my family, surrounding me and the hope of something growing between me and Rhysand in the future. Those words echoing in my mind.

We have all the time in the world for this.

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

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@lilah-asteria @maleficmuse @fanficscuziranout

[nomazee]

EVENT TIME EVENT TIME

how about.. 4:44am & dr. ratio? 🫡

AUGHH THANK U GWEN i lvoed writing ths..... first time writing dr ratio be gentle on my fragile soul

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

When Doctor Veritas Ratio walks into his very-private, very-locked, very-secluded study, he’s greeted with the unfortunate sight of you—sitting on the floor, an easel with a wide canvas set up low to the ground, oil paints sprawled absolutely everywhere. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

A sheepish smile pulls at your face, as if a sweet expression will get you out of the mess you’ve made of Ratio’s personal space. It’s far too late— late? Too early? Regardless. The hour of the night-slash-morning that you’ve decided to paint in his room is not appropriate at all. 

“I can explain,” you say, followed by a complete lack of an explanation as the two of you stew in silence for another half a minute. 

“Why are you even awake at this hour?” Ratio scoffs, stepping around you and your hazardous art set-up as he places some irrelevant stack of books on his (thankfully untouched) desk. “You should’ve been in bed a long time ago. Soon you’ll experience delirium from lack of sleep.” 

“Oh, please,” you argue, swatting a hand in his general direction playfully as you turn back to your canvas. It’s full of nauseating color, clear shapes and lines that don’t blend together in the slightest, vague animal-like forms that overlap with each other. “You’re awake too, aren’t you? Unless I really did hit delirium, and you’re just some Veritas-ghost floating around in my subconscious.” 

Ratio does not get a kick out of your very funny joke. An annoyed huff escapes him, tainted with something like weariness and exhaustion. Your eyebrow twitches. 

“And to answer your first question,” you prattle on, mindlessly scrubbing dried paint from the side of your hand with a wet rag, before picking up a fan brush, “I’m painting. This room is really well-ventilated, which is nice, because it would be a shame if all the fumes got to my head and zapped away my few remaining brain cells.” 

That one gets a laugh out of him, probably because it’s at the expense of your own intelligence. 

“There are a hundred other rooms that are exactly the same as mine,” he argues, finally turning away from his pointless shuffling of materials on his desk and facing you, looking at you while he talks to you—you know, like a normal person would. “There was no reason to infiltrate my own private study for your… painting. The door was locked, too. How did you—” 

“Don’t ask silly questions, Veritas,” and you like the way each consonant of his name clicks against your lips and teeth and tongue, “I have my ways. Does it bother you that I’m defiling your good room with my frivolous fine arts endeavors?” 

“Ridiculous,” his face screws up in displeasure at your assumption that he’d be so elitist to deny you of your passion. He walks around your spread of supplies again, carefully, before kneeling by your side to watch you work. As much as he’s loath to admit, you’re one of his few soft spots, and it shows in the way he traces the lines of your paint with his gaze, and the fact that he has yet to kick you out of his room. “The humanities are just as important as any other field.” 

“Spoken like a true scholar,” you quip, trying to hold back the shakiness of your hands and the swaying of your body. It really is too late for this, but you’d slept through the day and felt much too awake by midnight. Setting up camp in Ratio’s room was a natural instinct. 

“Go to bed,” he says, commanding yet gentle as he tugs a paintbrush from your hand. He doesn’t touch your hands, never really does, but he’s gathering your scattered, wrung-out tubes of paint and the little containers of linseed oil hidden under the easel. “It does neither you nor your artwork any good to be exhausted.” 

“I’m not even tired!” you complain, dragging out your words in a whine as he nudges you with his foot in a wordless command to stand up. There’s something like a cot in the corner of his room (because he does sleep, sometimes, and often it’s between textbooks and files and loose leaf paper) and a cozy patterned blanket that’s definitely yours. 

“You will be tired the second your head hits the mattress.” 

“This is a really awful mattress, Ratio.” 

“Don’t complain,” and his tone is harsh but you know he doesn’t mean it, because he’s pushing you back onto the little sleeping corner and tucking you into the blanket, nothing short of kindness in his hands. “You still have to clean your mess in the morning.” 

Sure, you think, already drifting off. By the time you wake up, you know that your mess will be packed away in a neat pile, floor wiped clean and canvas propped safely against the wall.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or my general taglist (navigation) to be tagged in upcoming works!

[beomiracles]

ahhhh so excited for kinktober!! could you pls do a taehyun x panty stuffing fic where he buys the reader some new underwear but before letting her wear them, he stuffs them into her pussy and fucks her ass until she squirts, drenching her new underwear :)

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

DAY 24 : KANG TAEHYUN + PANTY STUFFING — “It’s been a while since I fucked your ass, hasn’t it?” Taehyun murmurs, his hands, now on your waist, pulling you down the mattress until your hips nearly meet his. — “Think you can let me do that today?”

Feel like the ask explained it pretty well but. Panty stuffing is essentially stuffing panties into someone's cunt or ass and fucking the free hole.

pairings taehyun x fem!reader warnings um. panty stuffing, barely oral (f.rec), vaginal fingering, he fingers her ass too, hinted at squirting but not very detailed, anal (f.rec), creampie but in her ass?

#serene adds ✎ this was, something. no seriously I really liked writing it :3 and I could've NEVER thought of this on my own, so I thank you !!

EVENT POST

“Aw, you didn’t think I was going to let you wear them just yet angel?” Taehyun grins, a nasty and cruel grin. The new panties are snatched from your hands, the flimsy lace slipping past your fingers as Taehyun brings the fabric to his nose, inhaling the fresh and untainted scent. — “Where’s the fun in that?” He hums, his attention turning to your parted legs, cunt already glistening with arousal. 

The whimper you let out as his thumb drags across your fluttering clit rings out into the hot air and Taehyun resists a chuckle, the corners of his lips twitching as he watches you through furrowed brows. — “No, I have other plans for these”, he drawls and before you can begin to grasp his ulterior motive, does he shove two fingers inside your throbbing cunt, bringing the newly bought panties along with him. 

You gasp at the foreign sensation of fabric that suddenly fills you, thighs twitching as you emit a small moan of uncertainty. But Taehyun only coos as he brushes your hair back with his free hand, the other one slowly withdrawing from your core. “Keep them there for me, yeah?” He murmurs as he leans down to press a tender kiss against your forehead. 

Despite your initial hesitation, you nod, teeth latching onto your bottom lip as Taehyun settles back between your legs. The warm sensation of his hand, sliding along the back of your thigh, is soothing and you find yourself relaxing. Until he reaches the curve of your ass, fingers suddenly digging into the skin there with a force that was far from unusual. Your head jerks up at the motion, eyes wide as your jaw slacks, an unspoken question lingering on your lips. 

“It’s been a while since I fucked your ass, hasn’t it?” Taehyun murmurs, his hands, now on your waist, pulling you down the mattress until your hips nearly meet his. — “Think you can let me do that today?” He then asks, his head falling to the side, eyes glimmering with wordless desire. You swallow, contemplating your choices for a solid ten seconds before slowly nodding. 

The almost wicked smirk that immediately spreads across his face should’ve been a clear warning. But you ignore it as you settle back against the mattress, letting him level himself with your throbbing cunt The hungry kiss he presses to your clit as his fingers work your panties further inside, momentarily distracts you from the hand that massages the flesh of your ass, it distracts you from the way he reaches for the small bottle of lube he’d previously stuffed into his pocket. 

Not until he circles an experimental finger against your fluttering hole does your eyes snap open, a flash of worry raking across your face. But just as soon as it comes, it falters again, and your face contorts into one of pleasure as Taehyun presses his tongue flat against your swollen clit. Your back arches off the mattress when his finger breaches the tight rim of muscle, allowing him to ease inside your pretty little ass. 

“Always so pliant”, he hums, the words coming out muffled and wet against your dripping cunt. He gives you a minute or so to adjust to the slow and steady rhythm of his finger before inserting another one. The burn is no different from the first and your hands tangle in the bed sheets as you try to ground yourself. — “It’s okay, my pretty angel. Doing so well”, Taehyun coos as his tongue licks a fat stripe along your core, teeth grazing across the new panties stuffed inside your cunt. 

You nearly cry when you feel him withdraw, his fingers slipping out of your tight hole without much effort, only to be replaced by the thick head of his cock. “You gonna let me hit it raw, angel?” The question comes out almost tauntingly, and Taehyun slowly pushes inside without waiting to hear your response. 

Unable to form a single coherent thought, you can only gasp as he buries himself inside your tight ass, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open. — Suddenly, the warmth of Taehyun’s breath joins your own as his head comes to rest against yours. “Such perfection”, he exhales, the words fanning across your already flushed face and you let out a high pitched moan. 

He snaps his hips against yours, groaning at how your body convulsed around him. Your bottom lip wobbles with each thrust and you blink half-heartedly as you try to keep your eyes on him. You felt so full. You don’t think you’d ever felt this way before. — And as if he could read your mind, one of Taehyun’s hands slides down your body, fingers pushing inside your panty-stuffed cunt. 

Your thighs quiver as they wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, despite the burn that soared through you. “T-Taehyun…” You sob his name, but you’re unsure of what you’re asking for. Luckily he doesn’t bother to question you, instead he presses his lips against yours in a contrastingly soft kiss. “S’okay angel, you’re doing so good”, he whispers. 

His thumb presses against your throbbing clit, and alongside the feeling of being filled to the very brim, your mind can’t take it anymore. You helplessly plead for your release, hands clawing at his arms and shoulders as you ramble nonsense into his ears. — Taehyun only hums, granting his approval by leaving a tender kiss to your neck. 

You don’t think you’d ever come that hard before. The intensity of your orgasm leaves you trembling and panting, your body suddenly feeling weak and drained of life. But you can clearly make out Taehyun’s smug expression before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering as he spills inside your pretty little ass. 

A small whine passes your lips when he pulls out, and another one when he gently withdraws you new panties from your cunt. They’re soaked from top to bottom in your orgasm and Taehyun holds them up triumphantly for you to see. — “Told you it’d be fun.”

kinktober taglist (send an ask to be added) — @sweetpotatogyu @aduh0308 @joieouioui @inkigayocamman @bambammtori @hkplushier @gyusoulz @eliluvsjjunie @velvetmoonlght @izzyy-stuff @hwanghyunjinismybae @lunathewritingcat @ninitorih @run4gyu @beestvng @bamgeutsz

© all rights reserved ─ @beomiracles 2024

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#35: The Buildup (1.04)

gif cred: @perryabbott

This moment. This moment. This moment. Where to even begin? Let's just start by saying - hottest scene ever. ���❤️‍🔥🔥 When Richonne get back to that apartment there’s a whole stretch where they don’t do any talking...but yet they still have some very riveting communication 👌🏽...

They seriously tried to send me up into the afterlife with this whole moment, but it’s okay, I forgive them and thank them profusely. 😋

Y'all, I adore the way this pivotal, palpable, and incredible depiction of intimacy plays out. And the mind of Danai to turn both this buildup moment here and the love-making scene into something so deep and layered. Genius. 👏🏽👑

Rick and Michonne returning to this level of intimacy with each other for the first time in almost eight years was already going to make it pertinent to the plot and a purposeful development in the story - but for Danai to be of the mindset that she didn’t just want to stop at pertinent but instead communicate something profound and emotionally complex with Richonne's lovemaking moment. She deserves every flower for the thoughtfulness put into this. 💐

And TOWL in general was Andy and Danai getting to display their talent and chemistry to the max but from this moment on they broke the damn dial with the way they turned the volume all the way up on their talent and chemistry. 🙌🏽 🔉

source: @ririchonne

Genuinely, not even being hyperbolic, what was captured in the following passionate events feels out of this world and so of course when reveling over it I have to be...

This whole buildup moment in the apartment before Richonne heads to the bed is the hottest part for me. 🔥 The amount of tension and desire that they convey is crazy good. Richonne's hunger for each other is just visceral and it's like you can almost tangibly feel the way they're burning up for each other. ❤️‍🔥

So Rick and Michonne make it back to the apartment and we know adrenaline rushes really help set the mood for Richonne so the sexual tension in the air is thick immediately.

They’re both just breathing hard and then the temp controller chimes in to welcome them home again which I love. 😊 And this time they really are about to come home to each other in a sense.

gif cred: @nat111love

Like Michonne came really close to leaving but now that events have led them right back to each other in this apartment I feel like the thermostat is trying to get Richonne's attention like ‘hello, y’all are home to each other.’

Michonne is standing a bit ahead of Rick and looking around...and Rick ain’t looking anywhere but at her. Like homeboy is fixated. I feel like even if a dang meteor could be seen plummeting from that big window Rick wouldn’t peel his eyes off Michonne in this moment. 😋

I think after coming close to losing her several times in the last hour he’s a bit more aware of how much he needs to appreciate that she’s here with him. 

Michonne lifts up her sleeve a little because I think she can fully sense this hungry man behind her and what's on his mind (and her mind too.👌🏽)

gif cred: @nat111love

And the temp controller says, “Temperature control malfunction” and that’s probably because the temperature is already record levels of hot with Richonne's sexual tension permeating the air like this lol. 🥵

Rick slowly approaches her and Michonne slowly turns to him as they get up close and personal. The way Richonne can communicate without words, I feel like a whole lot gets said in their eye contact and kisses during this wordless sequence. 

gif cred: @nat111love

Also, I like how this scene parallels when Rick and Michonne were first in front of each other with the PRB earlier in this episode.

During that PRB moment, Rick was looking at Michonne like 'I know what we want to do but we can’t. ' And then now here when they've returned to the apartment he’s looking at her like 'I know what we want to do and we must.' They're starving and they can’t resist anymore.

Honestly, whenever Rick is within kissing distance from Michonne he looks like her presence consumes his mind and those inner magnets make it near impossible to not just lean in every time.

Also, I always get reflective of Richonne's overall journey and I just love how Rick and Michonne really went from this to this.

A love story for the ages. 🤩

So Rick looks down, mouth all open, and just again transfixed as he slowly reaches out his hand to touch her. One thing I love about this buildup moment is the slowness of everything. 😊 Like every movement takes its time.

And it makes sense that Rick is moving at a slower pace here because he’s trying to see if it’s okay to initiate all this after everything they just went through. But while the movement is slow, his heart looks like it's racing rapidly as he becomes pretty much intoxicated by her.

gif cred: @nat111love

...And Michonne can’t resist, y’all. 🤭 Like she knows she’s technically supposed to still be mad at Rick after the awful things he’s said but it quickly becomes clear that she misses him even more than she’s mad at him. 🥲

gif cred: @nat111love

And she misses all of him, including the parts she has yet to reunite with…but that’s soon about to change.

gif cred: @nat111love

Rick slowly puts his hand on her arm and she doesn’t pull away. And then Rick looks in her eyes like he hasn’t had a good glass of water in 1000 years and Michonne is the only woman that can quench him. Like the yearning in his look was really something.

gif cred: @nat111love

And then, y’all I thought it was laundry day the way our girl Michonne proceeds to fold. 😋 And of course, she folds. That's her baby and the love of her life and she hasn’t been able to be with him like this in years so...

Before Rick leans in for the first kiss, he’s already in the process of winning her over cuz she leans in a little first basically letting him know she does want this. It was giving magnets when she did that. 🧲👌🏽 

And her super subtle lean-in is all Rick needs to finally fully lean in and kiss her and I love Richonne’s slow single kisses. 😊 So far in TOWL they’ve been understandably ravenously making out and so this moment stands out for how much they let each kiss breathe a little. It’s so good.

gif cred: @nat111love

But also y’all, when I first watched this, knowing this is def building up to their first TOWL sex scene, I was sounding a lot like Nat. Cuz I was looking at Michonne like, “Sis...

I just wanted to be sure Michonne was going to be making love with her Rick and not the Sergeant Major who's been saying hurtful things and still hasn't asked anything about RJ.

Plus, I had a feeling Rick still had a little audacity left in his system and wasn’t yet going to agree to go home with her. (And that ended up being correct 🙃)…But look, it’s been a long time and so Michonne was like we’ll address all that later. 😅

gif cred: @kimwexlersponytail

So Rick kisses her once and then leans to the other side as Michonne puts her hand on his face, letting Rick know she doesn't want him to stop. They kiss a second time with a little more lingering on that kiss as things slowly but surely ramp up.

When they pull away Michonne looks at him like she maybe has 1% left in her that remembers she’s still supposed to be mad. The other 99% of her just longs for him.

gif cred: @msanonships

And then that 1% disappears into thin air during this next kiss and it’s my favorite part. 😊

Cuz Rick proves that it may have been some years but he still knows his wife and knows what gets her going because, while they don’t fully show it, you can tell that he definitely seems to have reached down to her derrière and that’ll do it for her, honey. 😋

gif cred: @fishalthor

Cuz when he does that and pulls her in closer to him, he has Michonne inhaling hard and fully leaning into that third hungry kiss. At that moment I was like...annnnd he got her. He got her and she ain’t mad no more. It worked like he knew it would. 😊

It’s also probably his first time even really being able to touch her like that since again those layers of clothing in previous eps were sort of a barrier.

There seems to be a consistent thing set up that her grabbing his hair gets him activated and as her husband, he definitely knows that grabbing her backside gets her activated...and him too lol. I think Michonne’s presence in general just gets Rick activated. Every part of her is a feast to him. 👌🏽

gif cred: @msanonships

And that last kiss just felt like they were about as ready to be intimate as they've ever been. After all that pulling each other closer in the previous kisses of this miniseries, this was the moment of them wanting to be as physically connected as possible and now they finally had the space to be.

Interestingly, they film a lot of this kissing moment where you mostly see Michonne’s response to Rick. I think that’s because she’s the one having to make the decision right now on whether she’ll let him in after everything he's said and done. And um I think her decision is clear.

gif cred: @msanonships

It's great how Rick is the one person who can make Michonne let go and get fully lost in the moment no matter what else is going on. And you know she has that same effect on Rick too. 👌🏽

I love how locked in they both get with that third kiss and how they turn things up a notch with it.

Those three kisses were communication. And, on top of them both communicating 'I need you and want you bad' in each kiss, the way I interpret the wordless conversation is that the first kiss was like Rick expressing, “I’m glad you’re okay and that you’re back” after the whole Michonne walking out and then later getting trapped by that chandelier stuff.

gif cred: @nat111love

Then that second kiss felt like Rick expressing, "I'm sorry" and Michonne receives that unspoken apology even tho when she looks at him there's a part of her that feels like there's still a lot for them to address and resolve.

gif cred: @lousolversons

And then y'all, to me Rick's little reach down with the third kiss was him saying, “Can I make it up to you?” And honey, Michonne's response said she'll definitely let him.

gif cred: @lousolversons

So then they really want to turn it up a notch when Rick proceeds to pick Michonne up. And clearly he’s done this before because Michonne is ready for it, and I love the way they just seamlessly transition into this. 😍

One thing I never questioned is if Rick would feel anxious about loving on Michonne with one hand. I knew that man would be like as long as I’m breathing that’s all I need to find a way.

gif cred: @nat111love

So Rick picks her up with ease and he’s basically just like 'alright you’re coming with me' and Michonne is like yes I am lol. And I also adore how even once he picks her up they immediately go right back to passionately kissing. The way these two fervidly desire each other is always 👩🏽‍🍳💋.

And I, of course, have to reflect on the overall journey once more because I just love that we went from Rick picking Michonne up on Day One of meeting each other as strangers, to now Rick picking Michonne up as husband and wife ready and eager to express their love in a way they haven't been able to in a long time.

gif cred: thewalkingdeadgifs/@msanonships

Seeing Rick and Michonne just get to operate fully in their husband and wife energy here was great to see. 👏🏽 They crave each other deeply and this scene captured that perfectly. ❤️‍🔥

The way their electrifying kisses slowly ramped up, it was clear that now that Rick and Michonne finally had the chance to reconnect in a way that they hadn't been able to with each other, nor allowed themselves to with anyone else, for several years, there was no way they were gonna just stop at these kisses here.

gif cred: @lousolversons

So y’all, this scene alone was already so hot it could break a temperature controller...but then the steamy sensual vibes continue. And as Richonne is finally intimate for the first time in years, the deep, passionate, and emotional moment is, in every way, a roller coaster ride. 🎢 😌👌🏽

[beescake]

PLEASE PLEASE MEGADUMP THE ARASOL!!! PLEAAASEE MR BEESCAKE I AM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU

HFHGHD GLADLY aaa i’ve been adding notes to it here and there for months but just hesitant to post it bcs im 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂

also this is just my own takeaway of the events, it doesn’t necessarily comply to the Ultimate Truth of Canon-Alignment or represent the actual facts of what hussie intended! v sentimental smh but hopefully its still interesting to read

i love when characters inform each other by proximity, it's one of my fave things to see in media :') it feels even more significant when two characters deliberately choose to stick together, so that when one operates, you can tell the other is similarly aligned in associative solidarity.

sollux is a keystone of this trope — whoever he aligns with is a wordless statement, a nod of approval. this stood out to me bcs the main four humans were alr friends by default, but once you reach hivebent you realize the trolls can actively choose who they want to hang out with.

and as we all know, after assessing every troll's biases/loyalties, sollux is the only one who maintains his selective preference for innately Good 👍 people.

aradia is such a beautiful character honestly, she evokes such incredible feelings in me. she might not have been consistently written with care but the best parts of her character are truly stunning. i think it's easy to remember sollux as the self-sacrificing one bc he's so open about it (and his friends frequently react to his Moments) but when you compare him to aradia, it's always struck me

how much more. raw it is

to be so alone as an agent of time, having to orchestrate immeasurably harrowing events nobody understands or gives a fuck about

with your role painted in the story as one who must tend to the needs of the narrative, responsible to match every next note

because when you're given the capabilities, it becomes your duty to carry it out.

it becomes expected of you to keep experimenting and arranging the machinations to work for everyone, dusting off hundreds of necessary failures to keep going

and having to be so unwavering in your drive knowing miserably that there's no one who can help you but yourself.

or alternatively: to make things fun! so other people won't think twice about letting you go off on your own.

sure she's had some very good buds, notably thanks to Team Charge v Team Scourge antics.

and yet, at the end of the day, the one friend that kept choosing her time and time again was the friend with the highest standards.

i can see why people like to define arasol as moirails/matesprits but surprisingly i find the nondescript, unlabeled aspect of their relationship more straightforward to understand.

there's no shortage of people who would accommodate sollux. most of the surviving trolls are his oldest friends bcs he’d chosen them well. his transparency with his feelings had built him strong friendships that won’t falter or break, regardless of how much of a dick he can be. they’ve already seen and accepted him at his worst, and they still like him for who he is.

contrast that with aradia, who'd been so approachable, friendly and reliable in her exchanges it was super fun to talk to her. but the moment she became depressed, all her connections broke down.

her friends became hesitant to interact with her (until she became god tier, “happy” and amicable again) because her gloom and resignation didn’t serve them. she dealt with it alone.

there’s def something of note here abt the disparity between the way male & female characters are written+perceived in homestuck (esp parallel arasol with davejade) but i won’t go into that lmaoo

with this in mind i like to think of sollux as a gift to her, a loyal companion given to complement and commend her resolve. she's capable of doing so much alone but hussie took the time to build her and sollux's relationship as one of a unit; a set.

the ambiguity of their status does complicate things, but i do believe it makes sense with their characters. aradia's relationship with romance is a rocky one, the dubious stringalong equius had with her is a pointed reminder that her feelings of attraction are ultimately controlled by the author writing her.

unlike the other trolls who can openly address and own up to their crushes, aradia had romantic emotions forced upon her (especially when hussie implies 'she kissed equius back on her own volition'). and it seems like her character is so intrinsically neutral abt attraction that even when forced by the almighty powers above, she's unable to retain it wholly.

however, looking back to pre-game when she could actually "choose" her own feelings, she did have a crush on sollux.

their soft spots for each other were so obvious to the point where other people could see it.

taunting aside, when vriska comments on their unit as bf/gf it actually informs the audience that arasol's relationship is romantic in nature despite not aligning with the quadrant system.

even while dead, aradia could still describe her care for sollux, expressing that she would like to see him happy. if they had more time to explore their relationship on alternia, it's possible they could've settled in a quadrant once they grew older.

but going back to the lack of labels, their dynamic was affected once more when aradia became god tier.

to me, her ascension was both the perfect culmination and possible closure of her character. it's the light at the end of her journey toiling through countless of timelines where she had to actively assess and participate. that's why it's cool to see her being silly and having fun giving guidance, passively exploring and watching other people do their parts.

and yet the joy of her freedom makes it hard to explore further introspection. if we take her by her word, she'd already come to terms with the hurt she's been through and forgiven those involved.

i can't help feeling attuned to how impersonal and detached it can be, to devote and meld your identity so completely with your designated position as Maid of Time until you've become hard for your old friends (and even some readers!) to personally connect to.

idk post-canon but i assume there’s some degree of similarity to be bridged here with aradia's god tier and how the hs2 humans' Ultimate forms was described as a consolidation of all their possibilities. since aradia's classpect is inherently of service to Time, going god-tier may have elevated her beyond personhood with the "game construct" possessing her entirely. sollux doesn't realize the extent of it bcs he's still mortal, but a part of him may have subconsciously understood this.

i think there is a core aspect to aradia that was lost to the dehumanizing glory of god tier — a core aspect that may have contained an element of why sollux enjoyed talking to her in the first place.

to him, aradia hadn't just been a nice girl, she was a cool girl. despite not having much in common, he's still willing to chill next to her so she's not alone while she does what needs to get done.

back on alternia, they held a mutual and equal-level regard for each other that could've definitely settled into something permanent. but now, he's placed himself in a position where he can be kept around or left behind at will. the parameters of the relationship are largely in aradia's court, so any label she suggests to identify their relationship with he's likely to accept.

but that's why it's so difficult to label it. because god tier aradia may not necessarily Want quadrants or relationship labels. rather than the initial romantic attachment, their commitment to each other had evolved into one fundamentally of companionship.

no label? ok fine. no matter what, he still thinks she's a good soul worth latching on to. the best, actually. aradia > everyone else.

even if it gets stilted at times. there's an unexpected struggle to connect when sollux's go-to default for talking points is his feelings about things, and aradia may not want to talk about emotions all the time.

not to mention god tier aradia became an observer, especially of chaos. but sollux's avoidance of involvement comes partially from his innate pressure to get involved if something goes wrong. and he can't always tell when something goes wrong, because aradia doesn't mind if things go wrong anymore.

it's a non-negotiable preference that causes them to take the occasional time apart, a new boundary that wouldn't have existed before the game and aradia's god tier.

but just like how his friends tolerated his moods, sollux accepts aradia as she is. with no quadrants, their connection doesn't break down because there's no implicit romantic expectations to be disappointed by or resentful over.

sometimes when i see hs content that deliberately distances sollux from aradia, i assume this is the dissonance people might have felt. people might find it "easier" to be cynical about them bcs of this strange tension.

but idc lmao. grab that shit by the neck

lack of easy resolutions and cleanly tied ribbons is pretty standard of homestuck and imo it doesn't make arasol's dynamic any less incredible. with the right affection and consideration, there's still so much potential to develop the nuance of their relationship outside of the popular quadrant-based depictions.

hs has a lot of really great character compatibilities but the way aradia and sollux are in their own special orbit is why i can write this much about them in the first place. it's that frail innocence between first loves that makes it so sweet to me, two kids who grew up too fast playing guesswork without being clear where they're going.

ultimately i do think you're meant to feel a little tragedy for just how much they care for each other, even if they can't quite establish it in simple terms.

maybe they keep taking breaks to progress their own paths. maybe they remain as anchor partners while seeing other people. but even if you decide to separate them, they're still (awkwardly) texting each other updates all the while. and when they reunite it feels like coming home.

and well. more than anything, i like to believe that they do want to be exclusive.

they're just afraid. after all, they're still learning how to love, beyond the projections of the foursquare quadrant system they had inadvertently distanced themselves from since young.

they might not have everything figured out, but they'll get there eventually if you just hold them together and write them there.

optional post-canon segment:

one of the limitations of main hs is that (monogamous) relationships are often written as the go-to solution to wrap up character growth; it's an easy "patch" to imagine characters getting their happy ending because they have a partner, and those who don't end up with someone don't get that closure (most notably jade).

hs2 reaffirms this by suggesting that aradia's character cannot progress without letting sollux go, because happily settling in a relationship automatically locks your potential.

that pathetic panel of sollux staring emptily into the sky is still my fave hs2 spoiler ngl i find the impact of their parting so emotionally provoking precisely bcs they were written in original hs to be each other's forever, coming back together again and again

but now, they're subject to the decisions of the post-canon authors who might choose to deviate from that.

it's not new for them to part, but now there's an underlying worry that her dropping him off this time might be the last time. while i think the prospect of shattering their stability to make them grow separately sounds fun on paper, no amount of me desperately hoping for a good execution is gonna guarantee it

idk. i guess prediction-wise im expecting sollux in classic dramatic-hs2 fashion to tell dave to back off aradia LMAO. otherwise it's just gon be sollux and karkat pathetically watching aradia and dave from a distance swimming in their unresolved feelings for narratively-powerful time players smh obvs it sounds corny as hell but who knows its still plausible

srsly tho i hope they take the opportunity to develop arasol's relationship in a fresh direction that doesn't hurt me too badly...... and i hope they force sollux out of his comfort zone. i like watching him struggle :-)

[konigbabe]

PEACH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader Word count: 1.7k Tags/warnings: no y/n; domestic Satoru Gojo; Gojo being a menace of a boyfriend in public; eventual smut (part V only) Summary: Gojo's an ass man. Part of my JJKS2 writing week; also written after being inspired by @greycaelum's ask.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

I.

It starts off innocently enough.

Even before you’ve got together, Satoru makes it a habit of his own to give your ass an amicable pat for "good luck" or "to bless him". Make it obvious that the young teacher’s rather fond of his fellow teacher’s backside, going as far as openly making up compliments. Spreading heat through your cheeks when his little game of teasing starts.

("Nice derriere, that skirt’s doin’ you wonders," he says, grinning from ear to ear while watching you walking down the hallway with Ijichi, discussing recent curse spirit’s activities.

Your companion’s breath hitches, a blush spreading over his cheeks when you turn around, "what does that mean?")

But you know Satoru too well, and his quirky sense of humor never fails to amuse you; even when you try to keep your face blank whenever he starts talking. Satoru's compliments are akin to a playful serenade. He isn’t holding back; not even in front of his own students.

("Y’know," forearm resting on your shoulder, he leans closer to you, "your tush deserves its own fan club and I'm officially the first member."

You don’t even look at him, rather starring blanky at the fighting students on the field, "Tush?")

II.

As your relationship with Satoru turns intimate and romantic, his playful teasing takes on a new dimension; it becomes a form of worship.

Lying sprawled on the couch, your head cradled by a pillow nestled beneath your chin, you watch the flickering TV screen with a mind adrift, sometimes diverting your gaze to scroll through your phone. Days off are a rarity amongst jujutsu sorcerers. The teachers especially. So you use the day to relax, unwind and let your body mend and rejuvenate after the latest mission.

The tranquil ambiance, however, is fleeting when Satoru returns. Discarding his shoes and jacket with a careless thud, he drops a small paper bag onto the nearest drawer before making a beeline for your relaxed form.

With a wordless playfulness, he plops the full weight of his body onto your back—or more accurately, the back of his head lands snugly on the supple, rounded globes of your butt.

"Satoru," you whine, neck straining as you try to turn around, "you’re way too heavy."

His arm restrains you, slithering around your lower abdomen like a sinuous serpent, fingers kneading the squeezable flesh of your hip. The other hand lands right at the apex of your back thigh, kneading the subtle build before moving upwards on the lower part of your butt.

"Mmh," he huffs, engrossed in massaging your body, too preoccupied to offer a proper response.

You can’t complain either; Satoru is skillful with his fingers, always knowing which spots to apply the right pressure and leaving you in a state of pure relaxation.

"You want me to stop," he asks after a second to which you promptly deny; letting out a contented sigh, prompting a small chuckle from Satoru. "Then I'm glad you're enjoyin’ it," he says, voice carrying a warm sincerity.

III.

The plates clash with each other, sound loud enough to make you think he broke it instead of washing it. A soft, gentle hum swirls around the air as Satoru moves the sponge in circles.

You watch from the arched doorway. Tall, lean frame covering your view of his task, yet the clanking confirms your initial suspicions. Satoru, focused on the chore, wears a well-worn apron over a simple, black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms that move with practiced precision.

Staying in place, you shamelessly marvel at the sight; watching him set another plate in the drying rack. Eyes gliding over the broadness of his shoulder to the contour of his waist, they land on their target.

Simple grey sweatpants, a black ribbon belt holding them in place, hide your target from your eyes. But you know where to aim when you start taking cautious, quiet steps toward Satoru.

The attack is quick. Calculated. The impact of your palm sends a loud slapping sound throughout the kitchen. A lively laugh escapes your lips at the same time Satoru’s head turns to the side, eyes locking yours in a frozen stance.

You take off.

He doesn’t rush. Calmly continuing to hum the song, he finishes the last dish and puts it on the rack. One hand turning the faucet off with a dangerous nonchalance, the other reaches for the washing cloth. Drying his hands and taking the apron off, he turns to where you ran off.

You make it to the stairs before you feel Satoru’s grip on your wrist, firm but playful. Tugs you backward; gentle force turning you around, bending you at the waist. Arm deftly sneaking around your shoulders, locking your arms by your sides as he stands tall by your side.

"You really thought you could get away with this, peach?"

His fingers, long and slender, dance over the small of your back. Barely grazing the surface of your skin over the material of your shirt; tracing a tantalizing path down your body.

As you squirm within his firm however gentle grasp, a soft and brief laugh escapes your lips, a mix of nervousness and delight. "I didn't mean it," you admit jovially, the words imbued with a tinge of mischief, "I didn't know it would lend so perfectly."

"You didn’t know," Satoru chortles, leisurely placing his palm flat upon the rounded curve of your pants-covered butt, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh, exerting a measured pressure as if savoring the feeling, "Think you can win this?"

With that, his hand leaves your body–

"Wait, Satoru," you try to swat him away but his hold over your upper body remains unyielding, steadfast, allowing him to orchestrate the next move, "Gojo!"

–and he delivers the first slap; earning a surprised yelp from you, body jolting forward. The sound of the impact reverberates throughout the open space, accompanied by Satoru’s contagious laughter as he lets you go. Hand supporting your weight, making sure you don’t fall flat on your face, you still end up on the ground.

The skin of your butt stings as you palm the flesh.

"You’re in for it now, Satoru Gojo," with a daring grin, you prepare yourself to retaliate. Not now. But the time will come.

The man in question throws his hands in the air, smiling brightly as he takes a step back, "Oh, I’m scared."

IV.

"We just need some edamame, more pickled ginger, and white miso," you list the items from your phone, taking the lead as you and Satoru both stroll through the aisles. He holds the basket, staying a good step behind you with his gaze focused on your back, a smile playing at the corner of his lips–eliciting a suspicious feeling out of you.

Even with the obsidian-tinted glasses covering his eyes, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze hasn't escaped your perceptive senses. A whisper of suspicion trails through your mind; you know he's scheming something.

As you approach the edamame section, you start searching for the perfect bag, seeking the one with the right plumpness and vibrancy.

But before you can grab one, Satoru unexpectedly announces “butt-five” before springing forward with playful exuberance, the resounding clap of his hand meeting your butt reverberating through the store like a percussion note, commanding the attention of nearby shoppers.

Involuntarily, you release a startled, high-pitched yelp—a symphony of surprise and embarrassment entwined. But before any further fallout can unfold, Satoru suppresses the escalating situation, covering your mouth with his warm, large hand, and steering you behind an aisle. Out of sight from curious onlookers.

Holding back his laughter, you feel his chest pressed tightly against your back, vibrating as he silently laughs, palm flat against the lower part of your face, muffling the remnants of your outburst.

"Sorry ‘bout that," he manages to stifle his laughter, an undercurrent of amusement still evident in his voice. "Couldn't resist, y’know?"

Through the slight crack between his fingers and your lips, you muster a muffled threat, "I’m gonna kill you.”

He releases his hand, feigning innocence, his eyes wide with mock surprise.

"What?" he questions you, knowing full well the extent of his antics.

"You’re a dead man walking, Satoru Gojo."

V.

Satoru has you in a vice grip; arms encircling the fat of your thighs with unrelenting strength, fingernails making deep crescent moons into your sensitive skin, setting your whole body aflame. Every inch of your being screams for more as you sink into the mattress, burying your face into the pillows to muffle all sounds of pleasure his mouth is drawing out of you.

He’s merciless. Relentless. Ruthless.

Tongue teasing your soaked slit, lapping hungrily at you like a man starved. The tip of his nose gleaming with your juices as he expertly fucks his tongue inside of you.

In and out. Going as deep as the position allows him.

Pulling your body more into him, burying his face into you; so close that it seems as if he wishes to be swallowed by your cunt whole.

You can barely concentrate before he pulls away; especially when another wave of pleasure washes over you. Wet lips worshipping your hungry bud, thin strands of wetness glistening around it, something he greedily laps up before moving upwards. His wet tongue leaves trails of fire along the fleshy swell of your ass, teeth soon following suit as they bite lightly into the plump globes.

Satoru nibbles at the flesh, one hand sneaking back between your legs to cup your sex, tease the entrance with his fingertip, collecting the wetness before pushing in two fingers. He fills you up, soon adds another finger as his mouth continues its sweet assault on your ass.

"Could eat this ass any day–"

He drives his fingers in and out of you. Fast and unrelenting; massaging your walls while making you gasp as he moves his mouth down, licking and biting at your back thighs before concentrating back on your asscheeks.

[risingoftime]

AGAINST ALL ODDS | CORIOLANUS SNOW X PLINTH!READER | CHAPTER THREE

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TW - descriptions of death (Sejanus) & hanging/strangulation, night terrors.

Sejanus' trembling body materialized before you upon the wooden platform amidst the grim presence of the hanging tree. His once robust body now appeared frail and bruised, bearing the unmistakable marks of beatings, and starvation seemed to have drained the vitality from his once vibrant frame. He stood, a testament to the hellish spectacle the Capitolites had subjected him to be. Sejanus struggled to hold back tears; his voice desperately cried your name, yet no sound would escape his arid lips. An invisible force rooted you to the spot, rendering your limbs motionless despite your earnest efforts to break free from this immobilizing grip to reach Sejanus. 

The peacekeepers marched steadily past you, and a chilling lull descended, punctuated by the haunting sight of Sejanus standing at the precipice of his fate. They tightened and adjusted the noose around his vulnerable neck with methodical precision. Fear etched deep into his widened eyes, the anticipation of what awaited him palpable. The weight of the moment bore down upon you, beads of sweat tracing a trail along the nape of your neck as a surge of nausea threatened to release. The harsh finality of the situation washed over your being.

Sejanus resignedly mouthed a sorrowful apology, his wordless cry cutting through the heavy air. And then, an irreversible shift transpired with breathtaking swiftness. The ground beneath him gave way, dissolving into oblivion, the sickening sound of his neck snapping searing into your consciousness, an unshakeable echo of his death.

Your eyes snapped open to see Tigris pinning your arms onto the mattress. Blinking against the dim sunlight, you managed to stammer, "Tigris? Why are you in my room?" your voice came out hoarse.

The worry in her eyes was unmistakable. She loosened her hold on you slowly until she let go of your arms completely, her hands slightly trembling.

"Your screams... I heard them from downstairs," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was bringing your dress in, and I feared...I was scared something terrible had happened to you." She paused, swallowing hard. "Then, I found you... sleeping, but your body thrashing in the sheets as if you were trying to escape something. Are you okay? Has this happened before?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the sunlight peering in from your window. It made Tigris's blonde hair look like a halo on her head. However, her gaze didn't waver from you, the anxiety written plainly on her face, promising not to leave until she was sure you were safe. Seeing Tigris in this state made you sad. You didn't mean to let anyone else see you like this. 

"Just a nightmare, that's all. It used to happen every night since-" Cutting yourself off, It was difficult to say his name, not after what you had just seen. "I only get like this when I'm stressed." Tigris still didn't appear convinced by your response. Your nightgown stuck to your skin from the sheen of sweat on your body. You couldn't imagine how horrible you looked and felt in front of Tigris. Suddenly, painfully aware of yourself, you pulled the sheets above you as an act of modesty. 

"Where's Ma?" you asked. 

"She stepped out to run last-minute errands for the event tonight. She called me to help you get ready and, well, you know the rest." You half-expected Tigris to leave, respecting your privacy. But she pressed on. "I used to have dreams like yours when my parents died during the rebellion. It took me a while to cope with their death. I still struggle sometimes. You can talk to me, you know? You're my family too now." 

With a comforting pat on your thigh, Tigris rose from the bed. "I'll give you some space to freshen up. Meet me downstairs whenever you're ready." Her words stayed with you as the bedroom door closed with a faint thud, plunging you back into reality.

Today is your birthday, the day of your wedding shower— another reminder of your upcoming marriage to Coriolanus. The date was impending faster than you had hoped, and there was no sign of it stopping. Young marriages weren't uncommon in Panem post-war, but you had naively hoped for more time before earning the title of someone's wife. More time, much like you had wished for Sejanus. His life was taken from him at eighteen, the same age you were now. That's when it struck you: Sejanus won't see you off to get married, nor would he be there to watch over your kids and be the fun uncle you know he would be. 

You silently wept in bed, overcome by grief. This day was meant to be filled with happiness; it was anything else but that. You felt shame, aggressively wiping away the tears that poured from your eyes like a waterfall. You knew wallowing in bed would solve nothing. Yet, facing the world with red, swollen eyes filled you with dread. It would be an unspoken confession of your struggles, a silent admission of your turmoil. And you couldn’t have that. Ma would need you to keep it together. She’s already lost one of her children. 

Mustering your remaining energy, you got ready and adorned yourself with makeup before descending the stairs to join Tigris. In front of you, an awe-inspiring dark crimson red dress adorned a mannequin. The tulle gown exuded a celestial aura like the night sky had woven into every stitch. Handcrafted with meticulous attention to detail, shimmering pearls embellished the fabric, creating a mesmerizing constellation effect. The dress's form-fitting bodice gracefully accentuated the mannequin's curves before cascading outwards from the waist. Its sheer beauty left you speechless, your mouth agape in disbelief.

Turning to Tigris, you asked, "Did you make this?" Tigris smiled widely and nodded. 

"I hope that you like it. The pearls are handsewn and thoroughly placed to sparkle with your every move." Tigris says. "Come and hurry and put it on! I can't wait to see it on my muse." Tigris didn't show any distress cues from earlier or fawn over your every move. She offered a place of comfort as you stripped down to your undergarments and stepped into the gown. It fit like a glove, which was impressive, considering Tigris hadn't taken your measurements. Her eye for detail is astounding. The corset of the dress pushed your breasts up, giving the impression that you had more cleavage and a smaller waist.  As you gazed at your reflection, a gasp escaped your lips in awe of the masterpiece Tigris had created. "If I were to die in this dress, I would die a happy woman," you whispered. The sight of you was truly intoxicating, and in this dress, you felt a sense of confidence and accomplishment immersed around you. The person who stood before the mirror embodied a timeless beauty. You could envision yourself as someone suitable to be seen on the arm of Coriolanus Snow, the young man rumoured to be the next ruler of the Capitol. Without another thought, you brought Tigris into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She held you closer with her warm embrace. An excited shriek pulled you apart to find Ma with Coriolanus. 

"Oh gosh! My beautiful baby girl is all grown up."

Coriolanus exhaled in surprise at your appearance. His eyes trailed from your face down to the heels that you wore. It was one of the rare times that Coriolanus was genuinely speechless. Tigris cleared her throat, “So… what do you think?” Coriolanus finally pulled himself out of his entrapped daze and faked a cough to hide his lust-filled expression. But it was too late. You have already seen it.

"You look beautiful." Coriolanus wore a suit in a similar shade to your dress. Tigris must've tailored his outfit to cater to yours. “Tigris, You've outdone yourself,” he said.  From the outside eye, you were well suited for each other and made a good-looking couple. It would be easy to fall into the fantasy you have been presented with. Yet it didn’t change that it was all a fallacy; Coriolanus had only agreed to marry you for the money. It was damn easy to forget all of this when Coriolanus flashed you his dazzling smile and wrapped his arm around yours to escort you out of the penthouse to your wedding shower and birthday party.

Coriolanus whispered to your ear, “And before I forget, Happy Birthday.”

𓇢𓆸

The event was hosted in an extravagant lounge. There were rows and rows of velvet red sectionals and opulent jade banquettes. The lighting around the room was soft and illuminated the lush plants and countless influential figures of Panem that filled the space. Your name and Coriolanus’s were etched on a banner for all guests to view. Your parents had invited almost everyone that you’ve known. The Dolittle family socialized with Dr. Volumnia Gaul over a glass of champagne. While Eris Dankworth and her family kept to themselves, overseeing and judging the festivities that took place. Some of the University and Academy professors were in attendance as well. President Ravinstill could be seen at the far corner, seated at a private table with his wife. He was the man who'd granted our departure from the Districts when your father sided with the President by providing munitions to the Capitol. The President wore his prewar military uniform like a badge of honour. The gall of it all made you feel unsettled. 

You observed Coriolanus closely, gripped by his ability to captivate everyone around him with his calm demeanour and impeccable manners. Whenever he engaged in conversation, his eyes would light up as if each person he spoke to had just said the wittiest remark he had ever heard. It was awe-inspiring to witness. A part of you was taken aback. This side of him was rarely revealed in your presence. The Coriolanus you grew to know had disappeared. This one was fun-loving and easygoing. It was a version of him that made you reconsider if he was all bad, like you initially thought. 

"Must I say Coriolanus, you've snagged yourself quite the catch? Miss Plinth appears to be Sejanus's better half." Dr. Volumnia Gaul smiled much too widely after her comment. She had a sneaky habit of appearing when she was least anticipated. It made whatever she had to say sound ingenuine and cunning. Your spine stiffened at the mention of Sejanus from his former professor. Coriolanus rubbed small circles on your lower back, a meek attempt to distract you. He returned Dr. Gaul's smile. Before you could devise your retort, Coriolanus replied, "Thank you, it'll be an honour to call her my wife." He looked upon you with a glint in his eye, something that you hadn't noticed before, admiration or possession? It was hard to decipher. His gaze travelled down to your exposed breasts, and the desire on Coriolanus's face made you feel feverish. Undeniably, a new side of Coriolanus was in front of you. 

"Fate is a funny thing, isn't it Coriolanus? The Plinth family lost a son, to soon gain another." She smirked as if she knew something you didn't, "I'm curious to see how this union will be fair in the future. Best wishes to the both of you." And with that, she departed to refill her glass of champagne. Coriolanus kept his hand around your waist. His hold on you was unshakeable, and his face turned straight. 

"Are you alright? What was that all about?" You asked. 

"Nothing, Dr. Gaul is quite peculiar in how she expresses herself." His glare didn't wander from her figure as she walked through the crowd of guests. 

"So I've heard, Sejanus would talk about her briefly after class and in his letters." 

"Letters?" Coriolanus faced you incredulously. The thought of Sejanus sending his younger sister letters during his time in District 12 hadn't crossed his mind. 

Suddenly, the lights were cut, and the crowd gasped in shock. In the distance, you could see Ma and your father holding a cake with eighteen lit candles making their way to the booth you sat at. Everyone erupted in song, singing You Happy Birthday and began to gather around. 

"Make a wish, Honey," Ma said. Your father flagged down the hired photographers with box-like cameras that appeared chunky and heavy to the eye. Flashing lights surrounded you as they fired shots at your every move until the last candle was blown out. You could see Romulus standing beside his brother with a big grin. The similarities were uncanny. He shook a blue velour box and mouthed, "I got you a present." Eris Dankworth stood not too far behind them and watched the moment unravel. 

“How about a kiss from the soon-to-be newlyweds?” Eris yelled out with a sickening sneer on her lips. She couldn’t help herself. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” she began the chant amongst the guests. Anyone would think she did it all in good faith and fun. But you knew. It was a reminder of the conversation that took place in front of the Academy. 

With all eyes on you, there was little option but to comply. It would be odd not to. 

“Well, Mr. Snow,” you shyly peeked up through your wispy lashes, and Coriolanus stood tall, towering over you with his height. "Let's give them a run for their money." He softly nestled your face in his hands, his touch both consoling and electrifying. You sensed a slight tremor in his hands from anticipation. As his plush lips met yours, the kiss began tentatively, as if you were exploring unknown territory. Coriolanus pulled you in closer, pressing your bodies together until there was no space between you. Not knowing where to place your arms, you instinctively wrapped them around his neck, cultivating deeper access and connection. An unfamiliar warmth spread throughout your body, igniting a desire you hadn't experienced before. Nerves fluttered in your stomach. This was your first kiss. Your first kiss is with Coriolanus Snow, and damn was it a good kiss. It was unclear who moved away first, but looking at your Ma, you could see her with clutched pearls. 

Coriolanus chuckled silently beside you, "Wow, I didn't think you had it in you, Miss Plinth. You're just full of surprises." Your elbow connected with his ribs, although this didn't stop him from laughing. Amid your embarrassment that your parents had seen you practically make out with your fiancee, you excused yourself to go to the powder room. If you found Eris alone, you would surely give her a piece of your mind. You were navigating through the crowd with mindless “thank you’s,” and the half-assed hugs were beginning to get on your last nerve. You just needed a quiet moment to yourself. Someone followed behind and caught your hand as you freed yourself through the exit doors to the restrooms. 

“Hey, I’ve been trying to get you alone all evening. It's like chasing a rabbit in a hay field,” Romulus said, slightly panting like he’d just run a marathon. He appeared strikingly handsome in his tailored midnight blue suit, a perfect complement to his dark hair and captivating features.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s unbefitting of a lady to be seen alone with a man who isn’t to be her husband, especially with the wedding date around the corner,” you said.

“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re letting Dankworth get to you,” Romulus wrinkled his nose when he uttered her name as if he smelled something horrid. “Besides, I like you better when you're defiant. It keeps things interesting in this dull place.”  

You rolled your eyes at his statement. Of course, he did. That was before. When you could afford to do whatever you pleased and live your day as your own. "What do you want, Rome?" you asked. He didn't track you down to chat. 

"Geez, did that kiss get your panties in a twist too?" Romulus snickered. You shoved him and snorted at his mortifying question. Romulus always knew how to make you laugh. 

"Oh God, please shut up! What was I supposed to do?" 

"I don't know, give the guy a peck, maybe?" Romulus's smile widened at your reaction, and he rummaged through his pocket to pull out the blue velour jewelry box from earlier. "Besides, if you didn't run out of there so quickly, I wouldn't be able to give this to you." He placed the present in your hands gently, like a delicate flower. 

"Rome, you didn't have to get me a gift-" 

"I know, but I wanted to. Open it." He nodded towards the box, motioning you to untie the bow that was wrapped around it. 

Inside held a beautiful gold locket necklace that looked like it had cost a fortune. Intricate swirl patterns were engraved into the locket, with hearts nestled beside each other. When you opened it, your favourite picture of you and Sejanus was inside. Romulus had taken the photo of the two of you that day in the sun. You wore a childlike grin in the photograph while Sejanus slung his arm over your shoulder, sporting a crooked smile. His pure essence is captured eternally, frozen in time just for you. This was the Sejanus that you remembered. Your eyes welled up with tears, and your throat became tight, making expressing your overwhelming gratitude to Romulus nearly impossible.

Romulus knew this and seemed prepared. He offered you his handkerchief. "Would you like me to help you put it on?" he asked. You nodded, as words still escaped you while you dabbed the corner of your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup. Romulus lifted the necklace, and it glinted in the light. Turning your back, he clasped the locket around your neck, which lay flat between your collarbones. A piece of Sejanus will always be near. 

"I think this is one of the best gifts I've ever received." you sniffled. 

"Even better than the horse your father bought you as a kid?" Of course, Romulus would try to crack a joke. 

"Even better." You took Romulus into your arms, holding him close and snugly, "thank you, Rome."

"Romulus, we need to stop meeting like this!" Coriolanus exclaimed with no humour behind the mirth in his voice. Peering over Romulus's shoulder, you could see him close the doors to the lounge behind him.

"Meeting like what?" Romulus asked. 

"With you, all over my fiancee." Coriolanus scowled at Romulus, tracking his every move with his glare. 

"He wasn't-" 

"I wasn't all over her, Coriolanus, don't be dramatic. I was merely giving her a birthday gift, and I didn't know that was a crime." Romulus raised both his hands in mockery as if he would be arrested. Your heartbeat began to pick up in pace. Little did Romulus know the severity of consequences that might lay ahead of him for taunting Coriolanus, even more so now that Coriolanus had seen Romulus holding you in his arms not too long after kissing him.

Coriolanus hid his malicious intent almost too well, "I know a couple of people who would beg to differ." There was a hidden meaning behind his choice of words. "I simply just came out to let my fiancee know that her parents are looking for her to make a toast before the guests begin to leave." Coriolanus turned to face you, making direct contact with the heart-shaped locket that embellished your chest. It made you feel naked under his scrutiny. 

"Yes, I'll be right there to join you soon. I want to say goodbye to Romulus. He was just leaving." 

Romulus caught on quickly about what you were hinting at and agreed, "Yes, I was. The only reason I came was to drop off her gift." He gestured towards the box in your hands and smirked. 

"Safe travels," Coriolanus muttered under his breath and turned to enter the lounge, but not before calling over his shoulder, "Please be quick. I'd hate to keep your parents waiting." 

When Coriolanus was out of sight, you hit Romulus upside his head. "Idiot! Why do you keep trying to get a rise out of him?" Romulus knew better. Coriolanus was not the type to engage in direct conflict. He would skillfully maneuver himself like a serpent, slithering to strike his opponents from behind when they least expect it. 

"You can't possibly believe that he'll make good on his threat." As suspected, Romulus didn't take it seriously when you told him about what Coriolanus said to you if he were to touch you. It would help if you had been wiser and not caught up in the moment. Getting caught up with Rome was a stupid mistake. 

"I don't know. But I'd rather not find out now. All I can do is hope that Coriolanus was bluffing." 

“The idea of you marrying him doesn't sit right with me. What do you even like about Coriolanus anyways?” Romulus sounded frustrated and perplexed, his hazel eyes filled with concern. 

Like was a strong word. You tolerated Coriolanus when needed. Still, the only things that you observed of him were from afar and through your brother until now.  

Sejanus was quite the optimist when he was ready. Coriolanus had always shown indifference towards us, the Plinths. He did not agree with my classmates' taunting but did not wholly disagree. Remaining neutral meant nothing to you, especially if said boy was Sejanus’s friend. What type of friend was he? An opportunist? Yes, for sure. But Coriolanus did not show much proof of friendship other than the tattered photograph he kept of them during the games and the letters Sejanus had written about Coriolanus to you. If you hadn't known any better, you would've called it a naive school crush that Sejanus had. Pa always chose to pay no heed to what displeased him, and Sejanus publicly grieving his childhood first love, Marcus, was undoubtedly one of them. 

Yet, you couldn't deny the chemistry you shared during the kiss. There was the possibility of growing to be fond of Coriolanus. This was likely at a different rate than your relationship was going. 

"I don't have to like Coriolanus," you sighed. 

"Well, you at least have to if you're going to spend the rest of your life with him," Romulus argued. 

"Rome, please, I don’t want to talk about this, not on my birthday." Your head began to pound from the onset of stress that returned to your body. One night, that's all you wanted. Romulus could see the tension rise within you and apologized. 

“I’m sorry; I didn't intend to damper the mood. Enjoy the rest of your night, and we’ll talk tomorrow.” Romulus surprised you by planting a small kiss on your forehead and departing shortly after. To see him leave so soon left a pit in your stomach. It was an unpleasant feeling. The more pressing concern was still present: would Romulus survive the wrath of Coriolanus?

𓇢𓆸

That question kept you up at night. The rest of the party was a success, although Coriolanus was in quite a sour mood for the rest of the event until we were escorted home. He'd returned to his usual self, only uttering a sentence in your direction if needed. After finding you in Romulus's arms, you partially expected him to be more brash towards you. It unsettled you when he was silent. 

Ringing from your landline telephone alarmed you. The only person likely to call you this late would be Romulus. There had to be something wrong. 

"Hello?" 

"You're awake." The voice sounded surprised that you had answered the phone.

"Coriolanus, why are you calling so late?" 

"Come let me in. I'm coming to your door." His words lightly slurred together.

"Corio-" you raised your voice in protest, but the line dropped. The flippant guy hung up on you. 

You rushed down the stairs in your silk robe as quietly as possible until you heard knocking at your front door. When you opened the door, revealing a dishevelled Coriolanus, his blazer was discarded and still in the dress shirt he wore to the wedding shower with a few extra buttons loose. "Shut up, will you! You're going to wake up my parents. Hurry and come in." He stumbled past you to sprawl out on the couch, faintly smelling of white liquor. Thank God the Avoxes weren't live-in help. 

"Have you been drinking?" you asked. 

Coriolanus pinched his thumb and pointer finger close together in response to your question. 

"Be honest, would marrying me be that bad?" Coriolanus's tone was soft and gentle. He looked tense and a bit unsure of himself. Even in this state, he looked handsome; it bothered you that Coriolanus didn't even seem aware of it. 

"I don't know," you answered honestly. "I can't imagine sharing a life with someone I don't love, regardless of their last name. I always thought I would fall in love with someone like Ma and my father. They grew up on the same street and started dating in their early teens. And I would raise a family and grow old enough to tell my grandkids stories of how I had loved and lost and met my greatest love of all, their grandfather." It was a small dream that wouldn't come true in this lifetime. 

"I can love you," Coriolanus retorted.

"You're drunk." You sat in front of him on the carpet. 

"So? I know I can love you better than Romulus. That guy couldn't wait to get his dirty little hands on you, and of all things, he got you a locket in the shape of a heart on the day of our wedding shower. I should strangle him with my bare hands, and I would do it again to any man who dares to lay a finger on you and what's mine." Coriolanus stumbled through his sentences, and if it weren’t for the last comment, you would've thought it was cute.

"Not this again. Are you jealous of Romulus? He's a friend, and it was a thoughtful gift, hardly romantic." 

"He's one of your only friends, and he makes you smile. You don't even laugh when you're around me. I should be the one that you want to lean on. I'm the one who will be your husband, not him." Coriolanus ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. 

"You sound like a child. I'll get you a glass of water," getting up from the floor to walk to the kitchen, Coriolanus took your hand in his to stop you. 

"Wait, don't leave. Let me prove it to you: I want to take you on a date." 

That earned laughter from you; it burst out of you and was hard to contain. “That’s hilarious coming from you, Snow.” But Coriolanus didn’t laugh, and his face became sober.  

Coriolanus expressed his sincerest intentions, “I’m serious. It’s still your birthday weekend. I’ll take you out to properly celebrate. I know tonight wasn’t ideal.”

You raised your eyebrows, still skeptical of him, questioning, “Why? So you could handle your vendetta?”

Unfazed by your disbelief, Coriolanus grinned, "No, it would be for you." His words lingered in the air. You were baffled and intrigued.

The room was momentarily silent, giving you time to process his response. You couldn't help but wonder what he meant by it. Was there a deeper meaning behind his words? Although you searched for clarity, you were eager for Coriolanus to continue, hoping his inebriated self would go into more detail. Yet, his face turned paler than usual, and his blue eyes met yours with focus. 

“I’ll take that glass of water now. I think I might be sick.”

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[otdiaftg]

The King's Men - Chapter Twelve

Day: Friday, March 8th / 9th* Time: 12:25 PM EST

Neil claims Kevin's abandoned seat, second from the back and right in front of Andrew's. Dan only waits a couple seconds to see if anything else is forthcoming before prodding Kevin's attention back to their aborted conversation. It takes a few tries before Kevin stops fuming long enough to cooperate. Neil waits until they start speaking before pulling his phone out of his pocket. Every night since his real birthday he's gotten a number texted to him. Today's sobering "0" had arrived during lunch. Neil doesn't know what to make of it or what to expect next. It is as anticlimactic as it is nerve-wracking. He wants to erase the message as he has every single one before it, but when his phone prompts him for confirmation he snaps the phone closed instead. He puts his phone away again, turns backward in the seat, and pushes up onto his knees to look down at Andrew. Andrew ignores him, but Neil doesn't mind. He is content for now to look, arms folded over the back of his seat and chin propped on a forearm. He doesn't know what he is looking for. Andrew looks as he always had, and Neil knows his face as well as he knows every iteration of his own. Despite that, something seems different. Maybe it is the sunlight streaming through the window, making Andrew's pale hair shine brighter and his hazel eyes seem almost gold. Whatever it is, it is disorienting. A wordless question buzzes under Neil's skin, leaving him restless and out- of-sorts. "Hey," Neil says, because maybe if Andrew looks at him he'll figure it out. It takes a moment, but Andrew finally slides a calm gaze his way. Andrew only tolerates the staring another minute before saying, "Stop." "I'm not doing anything." "I told you not to look at me like that."

Art used with permission by Lunapiq. Thank you @lunapiq!

*Due to the Leap Year, I have opted to highlight the day rather than the date to keep the events in occurrence to the 2007 year. I will continue to mark both days accordingly.

[sparkles-rule-4eva]

Okay, I really wanted to analyze this brief moment.

When I first saw him falling and saw his friends running towards him, I was thinking "Catch him, catch him!"

They did not catch him. (To be fair though, after a few more rewatches I realized that he actually crashed WAY further away from them; he just skidded a long way. They probably wouldn't have been able to reach him in time, anyway.)

And then they're just standing there looking at him. He's quite literally unconscious on the ground. Again, when I first watched it, I thought, "Why aren't they checking on him? Why aren't they helping him up?"

Then it hit me.

These are Sonic's closest friends. They know him, better than anyone else. They know he doesn't like to be fussed over, or touched (especially when he's more vulnerable than normal) even if he did literally just almost die.

And with this knowledge in mind, I could suddenly see how very concerned they really were. Look at the tiny bits of body language they express in just this moment.

Amy covers her mouth and reaches towards him with both hands, but doesn't touch him.

Knuckles just stares at him, half-lidded eyes, and when Sonic starts stirring, he moves a hand towards him ever so slightly like he really wants to help him get up, but he doesn't.

Tails has less to analyze, since the impact literally knocked him backwards off his feet and he's just getting back up, but his concern earlier and the fact that he was the first one to start running says enough.

They love him. They know him. And they respect him.

They know he'll get up. They respect his boundaries, even when those boundaries are vastly different from the average person's boundaries.

And that knowledge that he'll be okay works out, just like they knew it would. Watch the change in their expressions and body language as he stand back up and smiles at them.

Knuckles straightens up and smiles, regaining a more normal expression for him. Amy lights up and holds up her hands excitedly. Tails gets just as excited.

And THEN Amy jumps to hug him, and high fives and fist bumps ensue.

I dunno. I just really liked the volumes spoken by this silent, wordless progression of events. The animation team really went all out.

[hoseoksluna]

SMOKE, ii. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. bangtan)

genre: angst, smut

word count: 9.6k

summary: everything that begins prolongs and deepens. 

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join

warnings: hobi is drunk, oc gets triggered and dissociates, throwing up, ptsd, covid and the pandemic, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, thigh humping, social anxiety.

note: so happy to bring part two of the smoke series to my babies. you were all looking forward to it so sm that i worked hard to give this to you. it's longer than the first part and from oc's pov. this might have just become my fav series ever. idk why, it just feels different. more profound. please, enjoy reading and let me know what you think. i want to hear your thoughts. <3

He walks as if he’s immersed in a prayer.

With his hands sunk in the pockets of his sweatpants and his head dipped low, the gray strands of his hair, which compliment resplendently his monochrome tracksuit, shade his eyes with more charcoal that one finds in his absent eyes. It’s the first thing I noticed about him—the way he seems to be so out of touch with reality, how deep he’s fallen through the cracks and the way he’s not one bit bothered by it. 

Even the cloud that is suspended over his head is as gray as him. Hefty and sodden with the world’s rain and burdens that he broods over as he paces, unhurriedly. The room is jam-packed, filled with multitudes of people that make my skin crawl, but the way he appears to be pretending that he’s alone in the great spaciousness of the area is… uplifting. 

I wish I could do the same. 

But when I’m forced to be among souls that have more life than mine, I tend to overexert my non-existent social skills. Usually, it comes out in the form of my silent smile. Or, if the day is going well, I laugh and nod my head. Wait for the other person to continue talking so I’m no longer smothered in the awkwardness of the sudden airiness of wordlessness. And strangely, it works. 

And I know why. 

I’ve noticed people love to be listened to. To be fully conscious of the fact that the sentences they are uttering are being taken in, thought about and validated, either by that smile and that nod or by your own expansion on the matter. The latter is something I’ve more often than not had a problem with as I was born laconic. 

I didn’t speak as a kid until very later on. Didn’t have many friends growing up—and my parents seldom talked to me, as young as they were. It was their first life; kids having a kid and they didn’t know what to do. It may be a psychological block, my tendency to listen rather than speak and engage in a conversation, but it’s not something I blame my parents for. It’s something I’m grateful to them in my heart for. 

Had they been perfect and had I been perfect owing to that, I wouldn’t have the oneiric, yet earthy girlhood that created in me the confidence that is a sturdy mountain in me, unable to shatter or crumble. Being by myself, being in my head for the entire trajectory of my life nurtured its smoothness and strength. I’m not embarrassed that I’m unable to do something that is considered normal and perhaps… necessary in society. On the contrary, I take pride in it and I protect it. 

And my dignity in me is as unchangeable, assertive and secure as the day fading into twilight, greeting me, beckoning me out. 

It’s the only person—headless, mouthless, lungless—that doesn’t ask for words from me. When it takes me by the hand and drags me into its hues of pinks and blues, he doesn’t do it to expect something from me in return. The twilight does it just because. Just so I can breathe and refill my energy, my aloneness. Just so I can be knotted, devotedly, with my thoughts, dwell in them—dwell in my day and its ceaseless, eccentric events—without being under the obligation to share them with him or with anyone else. 

I like walks. I like my own walks in the tiny forest behind my apartment that pervade with the dreamy meanings of life stories, often more of other people’s than mine. Where I don’t meet anyone or try to match my steps to theirs. I could never even imagine turning off my brain and my life, in front of groups of nearly twenty people. 

But he’s done it and I can’t stop watching him. 

Whenever I’m forced to sit in someone’s company, I engage with my attention. He doesn’t—and it’s so stirring. 

Encouraging in the way it swirls my emotions because it incites me, almost, to get up on my feet and copy him, though somewhere far off, where no one would see me, so I’d get the hang of it first before I’d have the courage to do it in his fashion. 

My stomach grumbles and I don’t know why the question of whether he’s eaten at all joins my contemplation before I think about Jungkook first or before I even talk myself into taking the action to get something to eat. As if he somehow hears my body and mind, he stops in his walk all of a sudden and grasps the bottle of Hennessy that he set down on the table, by which he previously sat when I came in and our eyes locked so deeply that it took my breath away. 

I never thought I’d ever experience something like that. All my lonely girlhood, I read about it without ever expecting it to happen to me, nor longing for it. And it’s safe to say that none of them described it right. 

It’s not tender and dream-like. 

It’s a vacuum. A time-pulling force that sucks out your heart and leaves it hanging on the tip of your tongue for the other person to see. 

And I hope Yoongi didn’t see it. 

Because he wouldn’t see a flushed, unwrinkled and polished heart. 

He would see a bruise. 

A dotted, heavily breathing flesh speckled with unsightly yellows, reds and greens. A Vincent Van Gogh’s ‘The Night Café’ painting that is openly considered as ugly by even uglier society. 

An inanimate object. 

A gun—because whatever the eyes of society view as ugly or unright is a weapon against it. 

Yellow for my hostile solitariness. Red for my distrust towards the majority of men. Green for the streak of my hair that Jungkook dyed because he desired it to be a symbol of our special connection; for Grookey and my connection to him. 

His former struggle to fit in. 

A trauma response, painted by Japanese hands into a form of a chunky monkey monster that I’ve grown naturally attached to—because how could I not when something I struggled with a lot in my childhood was put out there in the world so beautifully and gave me the hope I needed that I will fit in with, that people will accept me the way I am. 

And the hope burst in my reality, in its own time. 

All those colors, that make the painting that my heart is, are a gun for Yoongi, too. That is if I ever let him in. 

It’s better if I keep it safe and hang around Jungkook like a kitten, keeping Yoongi’s safe in the process. Something that I never knew lived in me awakens from its slumber when I’m in his proximity, whenever our eyes lock in that depth and I don’t want it. I’d rather reject it and forget that it’s in me than provoke it to animatedness and get myself hurt in the end. Get him hurt. 

Falling in love never has a positive result in my life and the only relationship I had—if I can even call it that—devastated me to the point that I can’t even look in the eyes of a man I find attractive. 

Which is why I looked away, immediately, when our gaze deepened, because I knew that if I prolonged it for only two seconds more, my body would whisper to me that it’s inevitable and I’d believe it, succumb to it and beat at my heart until it stops feeling altogether. 

Which is why I look away now, when Yoongi senses my staring and swivels his head in my direction. I pray, like him, that he didn’t see the movement of my neck twisting quickly to pay attention to whatever Jungkook’s saying next to me. And I flatten my lips when my curiosity about the contexts of his meditation seizes me, the weight of his gaze only strengthening it, silencing Jungkook’s voice like I silence my body in a worthless fight.

I crawl into myself, spellbound, where a picture of him grows in size. A house where I can walk and contemplate without being seen or noticed, and there I ponder. 

A faint image of him rapping his lines flashes across the walls as if it was screened through a projector and I wonder if he was so preoccupied in his thoughts because of that. Jungkook told me it was their first performance in quite a while. 

But my own take me elsewhere. My gut tells me it was something else and the image disappears into the white of the surface until only his lidded eyes remain and they gaze right back at me. 

It’s like my consciousness is taunting me and it’s too much for me. I don’t feel my legs when I get up and take a walk. 

I exit out of the house. 

And I stride into the hall. 

My heavy eyes, beguiled by my drowsiness, follow the pictures of Korean idols and western singers along the walls. For some reason, whatever it is in me, that has more energy than my body, searches for Yoongi’s eyes, but none of them are so lidded, so in tune with suaveness and geniality of his art, powdered in pinks and purples due to the love he carries in his heart for his fans. I must be looking wrong, or looking in the wrong direction, because it’s nonsensical that I can’t find a group this successful in this venue. They bring glory to this country—and I think only their faces should grace these bland walls and bring more light into this hall. 

When I reach the end, I don’t find Yoongi.  

I find Hobi. 

So terribly low-spirited and pensive that my heart shifts in my chest. He sits on the ground with his knees pulled to his chin, his arms wrapped around them. He must’ve been watching me this whole time because when I meet his glossy eyes, he smiles, weakly, up at me. 

Doesn’t ask me to sit. I do it on my own—out of an obligation that is pressing down on me, for turning around and walking away would be too awkward and I don’t want to deal with any stingy feelings of embarrassment that I know would haunt me later in bed. 

I mirror his position, but I don’t lean against the wall. 

I face him. Him and his delicate, easy on the eye countenance. 

My bare toes nearly touch the side of his sneakers and it’s only now that I become aware of how cold the ground is. I shiver, eyeing his black furry jacket and the heads of his group members peeking out of the V of the zipper lining. Taehyung, hilariously, right in the middle and Jungkook, handsome and serious in his all black suit. 

No Yoongi. 

Hobi takes off his cap, placing it somewhere beside him beyond my sight, sighing distinctively, his stare fixed on a spot in front of him. It breaks when I prop my chin on the tops of my knees, something vague swimming, dazedly, across the enamel of his irises. 

He can be a doll, with looks like that. 

“Were you looking for someone there?” he croaks out, softly, clearing his throat, running a hand through his short, brown hair. His presence and the subduedness of his tone diminishes the pressure weighing down on me and I let out a muted breath of relief, my muscles relaxing. 

When I first beheld him, I thought he was the most beautiful boy I was ever blessed to witness. The fact that it seems I don’t have to force anything or fulfill any obligations is a lambent light my soul gravitates towards, fluttering and basking in the warmth and repose it offers to it. He gives me the hope that I could sit by him in complete, comfortable silence and he wouldn’t mind—he would appreciate it, not eager to change it. And for a brief second, before I answer his question, I muse on the pleasantness of gaining something you never expected—how precious it is and momentous. 

It gives hope to life; meaning, beauty and gentleness, too.

“I was,” I say, and there’s no ounce of lie in my agreement, even though I won’t tell him who I was searching for.

Not even Jungkook. It’s my private sentiment. Something to keep me company from now on before I go to sleep. 

And it’s safe in my mind, not so much in real life. 

“It’s so sad we had to do it online, but it’s the only thing we could do, the only thing we could give them,” he sniffles, lets me see the thick lines of tears that flood the corners of his eyes, and my heart rotates, my emotions in tandem with it. He would give his fans everything if he could, including himself. The awareness of that downturns my mouth into a pout, feeling his pain with him. “I wrote them a message. I told them I loved them, but it still doesn’t feel enough, you know?” 

Hobi sucks in a breath and hides his face in his palm and it’s not my mind’s command that lifts my hand and places it on his shoulder, rubbing it soothingly. It’s my heart’s, which splashes in the comfort zone Hobi created. 

And my heart, most peculiarly, opens my mouth and speaks. 

“They’re grateful that it was online. Everyone got to watch, that’s what’s important, isn’t it?” 

Hobi kneads his eyes, catching his tears before they could fall, dropping his hands. And when he sighs, deeply, I smell alcohol on his breath. Poor him, the wretched liquid most likely paints a more melodramatic, emotionally-charged picture in his brain, blurring the true face of reality. And if he’s anything like his members, he also hasn’t eaten, which allowed the liquor to cause havoc in his system. 

But then, a panic flickers in me—a distant memory of what alcohol did to a certain past person in my life poisoning my mouth enough that I can’t swallow, a lump forming in my throat. The comfort goes sour and red lights flash in my nerve endings, my need to detach and isolate myself and get my body into a realm of safety ringing, deafeningly, in my ears. 

My breath hitches and I pull my hand away from Hobi’s shoulder, my distrust reappearing, my knees shaking as I turn them in the other direction. My toes are icy cold and I flex them, trying to bring back some warmth, but alas—the iciness drags itself up my legs and my emotions glissade to a state of numbness, a thick mist of vague grayness obscuring my vision and my lungs tighten. I can’t breathe, I can’t feel my tongue, I can’t move my arms as painful tingles keep it in place around my stomach and—

A whistle. A raspy voice that calls out Hobi’s name. 

And its repetition fades out, melts into the static that I hear. 

And then hands. Soft hands that are fire itself, that stop my tingling. Delicate hands that pull me to my feet and take me somewhere. 

A splash of cold water on my face. I gasp, my lungs heaving, my throat hoarse as if I was screaming. My hair sticks to my cheeks and then doesn’t, pushed over the crown of my head, tightly. Droplets run down the nape of my neck; my length clutched in a fist that’s not mine. Then, down my spine, soaking the back of my dress at my loins and I am flung into present times, the image of reality unfolding before me, the static tapering off. 

Fluorescent lights that ache. Whiteness of tiles. Lidded eyes that used to be small but now are gaping and worried. 

It’s not Jungkook. 

It’s Yoongi. 

My stomach jumps, my gag reflex triggered and I bend at the waist, clasping a hand over my mouth to stifle my vomit. But that delicate fist moves it away and my trauma spills out of me into the sink, where I am pushed towards. 

My abdominal muscles clench and clench. Cold water trickles down my back, helping me awaken until I’m conscious of what is happening. The more my pain exits out of me, the more it dawns on me. 

Jungkook isn’t here, an observer to my agony. 

Yoongi is here, a participant that snagged me out of it. 

A stranger that has come to know me, the entirety of me, and holds my hair as I empty it out. 

Jungkook can’t know about this. He can’t know it’s happening again. I told him I healed from it, that it’s not haunting me again. Enough time has passed from my past relationship and I promised him that it wasn’t bad anymore. 

But it came back to me in the forced quarantine and I don’t know why. 

Yoongi washes my mouth once he sees I don’t retch my guts out anymore, heaving over the sink. And the gesture makes tears burn in the back of my eyes, burn like the heat of his hands. 

My legs wobble, give out on me and I fall. 

Not just onto the ground. 

I fall for him, unable to stop it. 

No one has washed my soiled mouth before. Not even Jungkook when I vomited in his toilet after we spent the night drinking at his place and I mixed my usual wine with a taste of whiskey that my ex-boyfriend used to love because I wanted to feel him after the breakup. 

Jungkook didn’t even hold my hair back. He gave me his frog headband from one of the episodes he shot with his members and I laughed at the lip of his toilet. And when I felt better and Jungkook tore open a new package of toothbrushes, he played that episode for me. Saved me, essentially, because I laughed so hard that I forgot about Ji-hoon and I fell asleep with a weightless heart. 

I’d watch it all throughout the quarantine every time it would come back to me. My realm of safety. 

Yoongi has saved me, too, similarly, yet differently. 

And I look at him as my heart thumps in my chest, tell him through the open windows of my eyes what he’s done for me. And when my chin wobbles, something in his softened expression breaks. Along with it, my fear of him splits and withers, leaving me bare and vulnerable. 

I feared him because of that unnamed thing in me that began to long for him when he wouldn’t even give me a tendril of his attention. I feared him because of his aloofness, out of which wildflowers bloomed once his members left and he talked to me for the first time and I detected the exact same flowers growing long and strong along the ivory of my bones. My mouth smiled, even though I didn’t want it to, and my body reacted to him, to his sudden care when he ordered the staff to wait with me for Min-ji to come and get me. I became feverish, boiling hot, even, once he looked back at me and wished me happy birthday. And then rapped his heart’s tenderness and wretchedness on the stage. 

I feared him because I knew I’d be his, eventually. And it wouldn’t matter if he’d never be mine. 

The Yoongi I profoundly remember wearing a bulby teddy bear headband in that episode, which has become my coping mechanism. The same Yoongi that held my hair while I puked, washed my mouth and now holds me steady on my feet by gripping my shoulders. 

And the process begins. 

He sucks me into him, taking me—and I am slowly but surely becoming his. 

But I don’t feel my stomach springing again. Neither do I feel a certain fear or panic quickening in me. 

I feel relief. I feel solace. I feel as though I’m being lulled to sleep—as if he sat by my bed and read me a bedtime story, in a soft yellow light that doesn’t hurt the eyes while the moonlight watches and dreams. 

None of us speaks. We peer into each other’s irises and I am spellbound. A garden that he locks up for the night, so no one comes in to vandalize it, when he curls a strayed, wet wisp of my hair behind my ear. His own hair is shading his eyes once again, but his eyes aren’t absent this time. 

They’re present, intentional, and full of gentleness that I’ve never known from a man. 

I sob. 

“What happened? Did he hurt you?” Yoongi whispers, and the secrecy in his tone gives me the private, sentimental notion that this is just between us—something that only he got to see and no one else will because he won’t let it. Gratefulness swathes my warm heart, pats lovingly my process of me becoming his, advancing it. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me. Did he do something?” 

I take a difficult breath in. I should feel pressured to respond, my obligations descending upon my head, but I don’t. I take my time because I know he’ll want to know the cause of my dissociation and I’m not too sure if I’m capable of sharing that with him. The block is a rising pool of water and I can’t swim. 

But then he tips my chin, the pad of his thumb in the center while his index keeps my head afloat. I feel myself being lifted into highs I’ve never got to see before, even though my toes stay on the tiles. And it’s all due to his touch. I can only let out little shivering breaths through my mouth, my tongue tied, my brows rounded. He reads it in my face, that something is wrong, but I don’t want to put the blame on Hobi; I don’t want him to think he hurt me. He didn’t do anything—it was me. 

All me. 

“Please,” he begs, the sound a mere hushed noise that travels through me and breaks me. “Don’t be afraid of me.” 

His words change everything. The beginning of the night and its end, too. 

And they change me. 

My distrust towards men roots from my fear of them and hearing Yoongi beg me, out of the generosity of his heart, to not be afraid of him punctures a hole through my reclusive bubble, where only Jungkook is permitted to enter. Yoongi’s light shines through, a streak of newness and calmness enveloping the bubble in an opalescent glow, thick with smokiness, wispy and cloud-like as if he brought heaven itself into my life. 

And I inhale that smoke, filled with soft tones of the rainbow, becoming it. 

And all those colors bring words to the tip of my tongue. 

“He didn’t do anything,” I whisper, and Yoongi flinches at my sudden response, his eyes deepening on mine. I soften at his reaction due to the simple fact that I’ve always been the one who flinched. It invites me to not stop there, like I normally would, but speak more. Scream at the top of my lungs. “That’s just who I am.” 

His mouth parts and he sucks in a tiny breath, taken aback. A light of the same size flickers in his eyes for a split second and his thumb caresses my chin just once. 

And I don’t stop there, either. It’s me who begs this time. 

“Don’t tell Jungkook, please.” 

And I gaze into a mirror of me when my plea floods his eyes with wetness and redness rushes to the surface of his cheeks. A layer of sweat glistens under the shade of his hair on his forehead and I catch a structure of sadness permanently coming to live in his features. The corners of his mouth round downwards and his eyes return to that smallness I met them in. 

He takes his hands off of me and nods. 

I mourn them. I mourn his touch. 

“I won’t tell him,” he promises, still in that hushed tone. Relieved, I place my hands on my arms, where his have been to replace them, but it doesn’t feel the same. A yearning forms in me—for his hands, for his gentle touch that doesn’t have the traces of roughness that Ji-hoon’s did, and I wonder what waters I have to wade through in order to get it back. I find myself determined to do the unthinkable in order to sense the warm delicacy of that altar. “Do you want to go home?”  

I want him to touch me at home with no one else around. 

“Can you take me home?” I ask and it’s the bravest thing that ever came out of me. And the same stupefaction that I sense on my face stirs his features, zapping my stomach with electricity.

He holds out his hand. “Come.” 

Every muscle in my body spasms and I do. 

I take what he offers and, oddly, I don’t let go of it. 

It doesn’t hit me what walls have been broken down in me until Yoongi places his red Jordans in front of my bare feet, white Nike socks into my hand and misunderstands my momentary shock for something else I’m too overwhelmed to decipher. He kneels before me and I hiccup at the sight, my cheeks blazing hot as he slides his warm palm down my ankle, prompting me silently to lift my foot.

And inwardly, inertly, I celebrate his touch—my body marred with gooseflesh. 

He’s taken me to his dressing room. At first I thought he was changing out of his clothes or grabbing some necessary things he needed in order to get out of this place, but he only snatched his phone from his vanity and went, without a second thought, to his—I assumed—work closet to fetch out his shoes. 

For me. 

The same red Jordans he wore in the episode, the color of my cheeks. 

My heart palpitates once he sets my foot on his knee and, wordlessly, plucks his socks from my hand. Unraveling them and bunching one as if he was putting them on a child, he slides my foot in it, raising the waistband as high as it can go before letting it snap and patting it to signal to me that he wants me to switch to the other one, where he does the same thing. Then, he guides them into his big sneakers, holding the tongue back for me. 

The size of my foot barely covers half of the shoe. 

I laugh, softly, through my nose. 

“They’re huge,” I comment, still on whispering terms, and Yoongi smiles up at me, lopsidedly, screwing up the rhythm of my heartbeat. 

“I’ll lace them up for you,” he whispers back, and my muscles spasm again. I believe it will be a regular occurrence throughout the rest of the night. 

This would be the time my panic would set in and send out a message to my body to start running, giving me the vigor to do so. But I remain on my spot and what’s more—I smile back, without him seeing because his hands nimbly and tightly make a pretty bow on his sneakers, making sure my heels don’t slip out of them. 

I must be dreaming. This can’t be real. 

I’m in my bed, settled in a deep slumber, where a dream that’s too good to be true is manipulating my mind because there’s no way that a guy, well one of them, that used to be my comfort for such long months is on his knees for me, having broken down my walls so quickly and painlessly that I didn’t even take a moment to notice them crumbled and decaying at the bottom of me. 

I didn’t go anywhere. Not to any concert, not certainly with my only best friend in the world. 

I’m going to wake up soon and lament this dream, ponder my loneliness and go on with the rest of my day, living in this dream for some brief time before my body eventually forgets. 

It’s happened before. It’s the face of my life. 

I have no problem with it. It’s my fate. 

“Your outfit looks way better with those shoes on,” Yoongi says, his attention fixed on my feet and I follow his gaze, extending my leg out of the slit of my dress and eyeing my long socks and the Jordans that go well with it, giving it a more casual look. 

I wish I had a matching red purse. 

Which reminds me that I left everything in the lounge room. 

I wipe my palms down my dress, feverish. “I like it.” 

I meet his face and blush, find him already smiling at me and I grin. A glint illuminates his dark pools, which makes me break the eye contact and play with my fingers—something I do to avert my mind from my shyness, but his stare is so potent that it magnetically lifts my eyes to interlock our gazes while my chin remains dipped. 

And it’s him, this time, who resists. 

He chuckles, awkwardly, and I bite my lip. 

He tilts his head towards the exit and I follow him out. In the hall, he looks back at me, similarly like he did before he went on stage, and adrenaline rushes through my nerve endings. A particular obsession, that I know that I will think about a lot once I wake up from this dream, with it perches on the top of my heart like a little, gossamer bird, gray like his hair, beginning to tweet its subtle, but ethereal song. 

“Can you walk okay?” he asks, and I’m so bowled over that I can only nod, flexing my warm toes at last in the spaciousness of the sneakers. 

Who would’ve thought that the guy who barely gave me the time of the day would, ultimately, borrow me his shoes and ask me if I’m able to walk in them. 

To say this is a crazy dream would be an understatement. 

Yoongi clasps the closed side of the double doors to the lounge room and casts me a glance. “Wait here.” 

I scrunch up my brows in confusion. I thought we’re saying goodbye to the rest of the members? 

I dip my head inside. The boys are each preoccupied with something else. Jungkook is downing shots with Taehyung at the table. Jin is having a heated conversation over the phone, pacing the room like Yoongi did and shushing Jimin when he laughs a little too hard with Hobi resting his head on his lap, still as devastated as he was. They’re sprawled on the ground with their backs against the alcohol station—Jimin drinking another tall glass of his mojito. And Namjoon… he is sat alone on the couch scrolling through his phone as if he was on a break from babysitting all of these boys. 

Yoongi goes unnoticed by all of them, bent at the waist as he drifts through them, looking for my things. 

My heart constricts. 

He picks up my heels by the straps near the couch and grabs my purse, walking over to Jungkook and tapping his shoulder. He swivels his head mid-shot and he sets it down on the table when I make out Yoongi saying to him that he’s taking me home. Jungkook’s mouth parts and bewilderment erupts in his features, his big and glossy eyes flicking to mine. Yoongi adds something and Jungkook, without another word spared, bolts to me. 

But I notice Yoongi straightening up and looking displeased behind Jungkook’s back, his mouth pressed firmly and his head knocked back a little. My throat dries, his semblant possessiveness curling something stable in my sternum. 

Run, I hear from within, despite all. 

“You’re feeling sick? What did you eat before you came here?” Jungkook asks, pity rounding his eyes, and my brows furrow in confusion for a second before I realize that it’s a cover-up. 

Yoongi’s actions silence that voice. His slow walk, too. 

My throat dries even more, but for a different reason. 

“Tteokbokki with lots of cheese. My hand slipped. You know what cheese does to me.” It’s borderline truth and I’m glad for it because I detest lying probably as much as I detest drunk men. 

Jungkook laughs and I fake a smile, facing Yoongi who’s come to stand by the threshold behind Jungkook. He’s biting the inside of his cheek and I fixate on it in the momentary interlude of the conversation, his dimple popping in and out with each movement. 

So cute.

“I’ll get my stuff, wait.” He goes to turn around, but faces the dead end that Yoongi is, who grips his shoulder. 

“No need,” Yoongi mutters, that wrinkle deepening between his brows. “Stay here with Taehyung. I’ll get her home safely and I’ll be back.” 

Jungkook looks back at me to see my reaction and I’m in awe how it’s the same motion, same gesture that Yoongi does, and yet it does nothing to me. I nod my head, curtly, and clutch my stomach, taking a step back as another heat wave washes over me and I can’t breathe. 

I need a shower, my bed and my lavender diffuser.

Jungkook swivels back to Yoongi and rubs his shoulder and I catch him wince, silently. I wonder why, but then Jungkook whispers something into Yoongi’s ear that averts my attention from it and sparks my curiosity. 

Yoongi only nods in response, avoiding my eyes. 

Interesting. 

Jungkook, then, turns to me. 

“Text me when you get home. I hope you feel better. Rain check?” 

I’d rather not, but I nod in the same fashion anyway. 

Jungkook hugs me, tells me happy birthday one last time as he rubs my back. Tears blur my vision but I push them back, wishing to not contemplate the misery that my birthdays have become since the breakup. 

But Yoongi sees them, mid-hug. And his bottom lip nearly juts out, his head tilting to the side, his arms crossed, that wrinkle between his brows. I blink them away, rapidly, even as I continue to look at him. 

Jungkook lets go and lets Yoongi step through. I wave him goodbye and turn on my heel to see Yoongi waiting for me not that far down in the hall, my heels and Grookey on my purse swinging in his singular hand. I skip over to him and we walk the rest of the way to the exit door together. 

With mismatched steps and itchy palms. 

His displeasure turned into a pure disgruntlement once our lungs were graced with a strong hit of petrichor-tinged brisk air. It was still raining, but not as vehemently as an hour ago, the thunder silenced like the protesting voice within me. 

However, Yoongi couldn’t control the weather just as easily. No matter how much he looked like he desired to. He seemed to be deeply uncomfortable by the rain and it ruffled my curiosity all over again, the simple question of why echoing down my being. His energy shifted—away from me as he wouldn’t spare me a glance, waiting for his chauffeur under the roof of the venue. 

He wouldn’t talk to me. Not even in the car. 

And the only time he spoke was when the driver wanted to drop me off at the spot, where he picked me up earlier. Yoongi told him off, ordering him to drive me all the way home, using a voice that tensed my muscles. 

Strict and low, an outright growl that ricocheted in my mind for the rest of the drive. 

It was safe to move through the rain; the raindrops pitter-pattered on the vehicle, creating a sedative sound that would mollify my disquiet if I wasn’t so bothered by the sudden change in his demeanor. I longed for his touch more than I did back in the venue, which is why I kept my hand flat on the empty middle seat between us, but he didn’t notice it, as absorbed as he was in his thoughts. 

The only time he glanced at me was when the driver killed the engine at my apartment building. The rain softened enough that its song ended as well and I was filled with a yearning so great, knee-deep in my waters, that I whispered the first thing my heart thought of and I wasn’t afraid of it. 

“Come upstairs with me.” 

Yoongi unbuckled his seatbelt. Didn’t say anything else. 

Didn’t give me my shoes, nor my purse. Carried them all the way up the stairs as the elevator was out of service. Walked them up in front of me, not behind me, checking in with me with silent looks every once in a while. 

I blamed the five floors I had to climb for making my heart race, not those looks from the back. 

I swore Grookey smiled at me the whole time. 

Once inside, taking our shoes off felt so intimate that my cheeks burned. I poured us tall glasses of cold water that we finished in one go and that silence settled between us fully, a thick smoke, that I now sensed to be comfortable, wafting between us. 

I told him I was going to take a shower and he nodded, solemnly. It took no longer than ten minutes and I didn’t let myself think, not even when I brushed my soapy palms on the places he touched and my yearning couldn’t help but grow. 

I stood up in my waters, letting the stream take me wherever it felt disposed to bring me to. 

And it brought me to open my bathroom door with a loud thud, indicating to him that he was allowed to come in. My skin was lustrous underneath my short black slip that did anything but cover my breasts with its lacy, heart-shaped neckline. My nipples kissed the fabric and grazed against it when I combed my wet hair and I blossomed into desperation, the longer I waited for him. 

A violet wisteria tree. 

A thing of violence—my arousal. 

And he comes, cognizant of the sweetened fragrance that leads him to me. Stands in the doorway with softened eyes and a mouth that falls, nearly, agape when he regards my nightwear. I glance at him, sweeping a makeup wipe across my cheek for one last time before I reach for my night cream and smear it on. 

Once I’m all done—clean, moisturized, and on the cusp of biting into my yearning—I face him with my body. 

His eyes, tormented, fall to the sheer fabric across my breasts. And his first primal instinct is to unzip his jacket and put it around me. 

“No.” 

The word tumbles out of me before any thoughts could rush in and I perceive that it’s my yearning, the stream, that’s in control of me, not my brain.

I throw his jacket onto the floor. 

His head knocks back like it did when Jungkook bolted towards me and he didn’t like it. The steam from my shower shields me like the smoke of silence that wafted between us and I step out of it, inching closer to him until I’m forced to look up at him. 

Something of great depth looms in his eyes, darkening them, and I recognize that it’s a torturous fight. And he confirms it to me by clasping his hands behind his back. 

But I don’t mourn it. I blaze up with anger so pivotal that I unclasp his hands, pressing myself against him. 

He sighs, but lets me hold his hands. “Jungkook said no.” 

So that’s the string of words that made him not reciprocate my gaze.

My anger thickens, taking my attention off the fact I’m touching him and he’s touching me at last and unraveling, wholly, in my seductiveness that I only feel in my aloneness and experience, for the first time in years, with a man. 

I can do anything I please without being held back. 

“Since when is Jungkook the boss of me?” I challenge, and Yoongi’s brows rise, his fingers flexing around my hands and lingering in that tightness. A code for me to decipher. 

Does he want the same as I do? 

Something about the way he’s peering down at me with his chin tilted teases my yearning and the unthinkable becomes thinkable. 

Just like that. 

“Are you not seeing him?” he asks, flexing his grip again and his thumb brushes along my long, manicured nails, playing with the tips. A sensual storm begins to wreak havoc in my stomach; I draw closer to him, breathe against his neck, ghosting my lips over that smooth skin. 

His breath shivers and I feel myself dampen, a thunder sounding in me. 

“Would I ask you to come upstairs if I were?” I take that question to his ear and his chest shudders against mine, his heartbeat an accompanying song to the thunder. 

I want it to be my lullaby as much as I want it to be my lifeline once I’m submerged in the lustfulness of my waters. 

I untangle one of my hands from his and glimpse into his shadowed pools through my lashes in this close proximity. Before I can feel up the part of him that I yearn for, he clasps my wrist and yanks it away, putting it back into the original position—although now it’s him who grips my hand. 

I hold him, he holds me. 

Cold sweat drips down my spine and I curl my lips, regretting my actions. It was foolish of me to think he’d want me as much as I—

“Are you needy?” 

I blink up at him, light opening in me—a momentary streak of sunlight in the middle of the storm. I’m flabbergasted for a moment and he misunderstands it again. Repeats the question, emphasizing my name. 

A lightning strikes in me, smiting every negative emotion. 

“What would you do if I said I was?”

Again, his brows twitch, the same light enfolding his irises and abiding there. 

He lifts my hands and crosses them behind my back, pushing me flush against his thinly clothed body. I feel the top ridges of abdominal muscles against my breasts, my stiffened nipples rubbing against them and I bite back a whimper, caging my bottom lip between my lips. His nose dips under the wet strands of my hair and travels across my cheek until he finds his destination—my ear, leaving the ghost of his soft, warm mouth and breath in his wake. 

He stalls the time, ruffling through the flowers of my wisteria tree, my arousal; disturbing the waters of my yearning. 

I begin to quiver. 

And Yoongi feels my tremor, squeezing me tighter against him. As if to still it. 

“I’d make you come so hard you wouldn’t have to touch yourself for days,” he whispers in my ear, reminding me of our privacy, of our whispering terms—something that has become so intimate, something that’s ours. Another thunder rolls in me as my eyes whisk back into my head, a trickle of my arousal drenching the inner of my thighs. And I let out the sound persisting in me—a whine, muffled by the steadiness of the crook of his neck. He sighs, deeply, in response. “Is that what you want?” 

I hum out my agreement, fixating on the dream his words paint, wanting mine to fade into it. I clench his hands so rigidly that our intertwinement convulses. 

Yoongi withdraws, his mouth wet and agape at last. And it’s him who gazes down at me through his lashes that oscillate in the same rhythm as our hands. 

He sucks in a breath. “You have to give me your words. No humming.” 

But I’m captivated by that mouth of his, by its small fullness, faint pinkness and luminescence. And he knows this—I sense his observance of my engrossment as I trace the lines of his lips with my eyes. 

And our interweaving is magnetic from both sides—the meeting of a wind and a wisteria blossom in a kiss. 

Both heads lean in at the same time, wordless synchronization as I take his lips and he takes mine, sucking on them as time ceases to exist. 

There’s no air in my lungs and there’s no air in his—his chest deathly still. 

We capture time and move it to our terms as we shift our heads in effort to take more of us. 

I devour his lips and he devours mine. 

Left and right, left and right. 

And I slip my tongue into his mouth, rolling the tip of the muscle against his. But he’s a tease—he pulls back just to take control of me, seizing my mouth in a closed kiss, slowing me down. He arches me, pins me against the shower screen and with the movement I get to feel the part of him I yearn for the most. 

I drip onto the tiles. 

His thigh, too, because he roots it between my legs. 

Yoongi deepens the kiss, lingering there, and breaks it. Pulling away, yet dwelling in that closeness, a raw marrow of the world’s light swims past his eyes, through our enduring magnetic, moistened connection, and right into mine. 

I feel whole. 

Yoongi smiles, delicately. “No kissing, either. Words.”

But that magnetic connection drives my hips to move against his thigh and he moans, mutedly, while I sigh in pleasure, my waters roused and gratified. I tip my head back against the shower screen, the smooth material of his sweatpants causing euphoria to burst in my clit, and Yoongi’s eyes descend to my chin, his hands flexing mine. 

And through that connection, I hear what his body said. 

He wants to grip my chin and make me listen, but he needs my consent in order to do that.

He’s respectful enough that he won’t do what he pleases, won’t let his hands wander, no matter how much I’d die for them to do that. He lets them be incarcerated—in the place where I’ve put them and he won’t try to break free. 

He wants me to open the cell because I have the key. 

My orgasm threatens to explode. 

And amidst the hot flashes and white dots shrinking my vision, he begs. 

“Please, kitty.” 

I come so hard that I lose my vision altogether.

I cry out. 

My eyes roll back and forth, Yoongi a constant, stable dark figure through my lashes as I ride out my high, my chest shuddering against his in a motion that grazes my nipples, heightening my orgasm. My mouth emits myriads of whispered agreements and exaltations that have no end, concocted with moans that echo through the lessening steam all around. 

Yoongi doesn’t let go of our clammy hands. He keeps them in a tight lock—holding me through it. 

And when the high tapers off, he swears, hushedly. 

He comes into full view; my vision clearing. He’s as pink as his lips, glowy and radiating as if he were the one who just orgasmed. The sight moves me, rippling my waters—and I might just work hard to give him the words he desires. 

“That’s the most I’ve heard from you all night,” he comments, his low intonation rasping his voice, teasing me, overstimulating me. “You’re alive when you come. Raw and articulate. No shyness to you.” 

I blush and I beam. In the middle of my high, I never know what gushes out of my mouth, but I’m aware of the freedom that surges through me. Having it validated uplifts my seductiveness and confidence and I struggle, purposefully, against his hold. 

I want to wade further through these waters. 

But Yoongi seems to stop me. 

He draws in and maps out my freedom with the lower half of his face. His nose and his chin nudge mine, his lips tracing the corner of my mouth before rising up the peak towards my cupid’s bow. There, he presses a validating, tender kiss. 

One that makes my knees weak. 

“You know what to do,” he murmurs, sinking his words into my mouth and I swallow them, kissing him back. The smacking sound of our liplocks prolongs my neediness, despite the fact I just received my release. 

No more distraction. 

“Lick me.” 

He stalls the time again. Raises his knee, brushing his drenched thigh against my sensitive clit, daring me. 

I shudder. 

Yoongi squashes me against him, fully, letting me feel the hardness of him as a reward.

I mewl. 

“Where?” 

That solidness of his causes my mind to spin; I say the first thing I think of. 

“My neck.” 

He dives in, licking a stripe across my throbbing vein before he sucks on the skin right beside it. The world shuts out as I roll my eyes back, moaning into the steam and arching myself further into him, yearning to glide into him, into the whole firmness of him. And when he begins to nibble, I make small rocking motions on his thigh, enough to stimulate me, drench me and make me needier, but not enough to get me off. 

And Yoongi senses well when it’s too much for me. 

“Where else?” he asks against my jaw, mouthing it, his breath ragged, and I lose myself in my arousal. 

“My nipple.” 

He dips to that lacy fabric on the left side, wafts that hardened breath over my stiffened nub. He flicks it with his tongue and I cry out, my wetness creating a trail on his thigh that sloshes when I ride it, adding to my madness. Yoongi wraps his puffy lips around that adorned peak, sucking it as his tongue, slowly and controlledly, continues to flick it. 

I exhale in staccato moans, broken—but whole. 

“Where else?” He swirls the muscle around it, taking it inside his mouth one last time. 

“My thigh.” 

He kneels without losing the hold over our interlocked hands. And when he whimpers against my inner thigh, I realize I molded him into the image of me. 

He’s as needy as me. 

Needy for me. 

“So pretty,” he hushes, dragging his tongue along the ivory stretch marks scattered there, collecting the stickiness of me, grunting. Plants open-mouthed kisses as far as our interweaving lets him. 

The taste of me doesn’t let him stay there for long.

I open my legs for him. 

He glances up at me, eyes large and glittery.  “Where else?” 

The last place ventures out of me with ease. “My clit. Please.” 

He growls. “Good. Spread your legs more for me.” 

I do as he says, the fabric lifting with the movement and revealing all of me to him. Shiny and wet, needy and desperate. He pulls down on our hands so I arch out more, and I lean the nape of my neck against the screen. He studies me, with those softened eyes of his and the glitter in them flickering. With a lopsided smile that he allows me to see, for he gives me a feral look before he leans in and attaches his mouth to my swollen clit, placing that open-mouthed kiss of his there, moving his tongue from side to side. 

And moans aren’t enough; I need to speak. 

My pleasured body begs me. 

“Yes, yes, that feels so good.” 

Yoongi hums, eyes in a trance on mine, validating my words. He sucks on my clit with a certain intensity that I’m not used to and I yelp, trembling, my noises growing in volume and I can’t hear myself, only his validating hums and growls that settle deep within me. He doesn’t focus on just one part of me—he collects my wetness, submerging the tip of his tongue inside my heat, fucking me there, before he returns to my clit and spoils it with nimble, fast flicks and and fervent, zealous sucks that make me praise him so loudly that his hands begin to tremble along with me. 

And they must cramp, too, because he lets go all of a sudden. 

Sinks my fingers into the fluffiness of his gray hair—and I am elated. 

His strands, silky and soft, sift through my fingers and I caress them, holding him to me as what he does can only be described as making love—and I break, I break so disastrously and splendidly that I know I won’t be able to recognize myself in the mirror after he’s done with me. 

I revel in it. 

And I want more. 

As if hearing me, Yoongi slides my leg over his left shoulder. His dark pink mouth drips and twists in a faint discomfort and I lift my knee, not wishing to hurt him—the two and two connecting in my brain that he must’ve undergone some kind of injury that he’s still recovering from. But he tugs my leg back down and pushes my hips towards his face more and I stumble, stuttering out giggles that dissolve into his and he lifts me over his good shoulder and throws me down onto my bed, immediately bending me in half. 

All breath loosens from me. 

He spreads my legs and pins them back to my shoulders. I concentrate on the firm grip he has around the back of my knees and I die, the blood-tingling feeling of his hands on me coaxing my liquid arousal out of me. And he watches the little rivulet follow the curves of my flesh, licking his lips—as if he didn’t already get a taste of me; as if his chin wasn’t dripping with the residue of me. 

Yoongi glimpses at me. 

“You really want this?” 

It’s a question that makes me roll my eyes in annoyance. I’ve moved way past desperation that I can’t wait any longer and I bounce in his hold—just to catch him humming and smirking. 

My breath hitches in my throat. 

He becomes someone completely different when he smirks. A more vulgar, masculine and playful version of himself; beyond attractive. I bounce again just to please him and see that smirk deepen and he does it, bites his lip dangerously slowly. 

I need him. 

“I need you inside me.” 

Those are indecent words that I never thought I’d ever be saying to a guy I just met, but if there’s anyone to blame, then it’s him. He washed puke off my mouth. The concept of time doesn’t exist in our shared, dreamy realm. We’ve shifted beyond it—outran it and my words mock it. 

But Yoongi doesn’t see it the way I do. 

“You’re not getting it tonight.” 

I trail my fingers up his forearms that bulge with the strength he uses to pin my knees back. It doesn’t pain me that he’s not giving it to me because the more he smirks, the more I perceive that this is a chase. 

One I’m willing to play. 

“What am I getting from you then?” I purr, basking in the sultriness I radiate. I’ve missed my seductiveness and I fall into obsession with the way I share it with him, with the way it affects him. 

He thinks about it, stalling the time again, and I pat his cheek with my big toe—a gesture that makes a swarm of giggles come out of him like butterflies that flutter all over me. 

I grin, my fever rising. 

This is fun. 

Sweat coats him in sheen and I was wrong earlier. Hobi isn’t the most beautiful boy I was ever blessed to witness. 

Yoongi is, when he laughs like the world isn’t unmerciful. 

He lets go of one of my legs, but I keep it in the same position. He uses the same hand to grip the back of my neck and pull me towards him, kissing me indelicately. 

Vulgarly. 

Offensively. 

And I moan, brattily, into his mouth, dragging him over me. He allows me, allows me to feel his hard manhood against the place where I need him the most and I grind, I grind like my life depends on it, my moans evolving into whines when his grunts deepen and he squeezes his eyes shut, our lips longing for each other, sailing on the almost bruised, swollen surface. 

He fucks into me just once and pulls away. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, but kisses me with chasteness that I taste for the first time. “I’m sorry, kitty. I’m gonna make you feel good.” 

He occupies a castle that isn’t built out of just physical pain. I may have thought the chase was conjured by his knowing better, but there is a more profound reason behind it. An image of the way he paced around the lounge room after the show flares across my vision and I bow to his decision, internally. I respect his emotional pain without demanding to know its story—enough that I sit up and clutch his right shoulder, the good one. 

“You don’t have to,” I say, lowly, covering myself by tugging the fabric of the slip down over myself, but he yanks my hand away and flicks the fabric upwards, giving me a look. 

“Let me eat you out.” His stare softens, the whites blinding. “I want to forget, please.” 

I don’t ask what, knowing how difficult it is to talk about a pain so enormous that it stops you from going after what you yearn for. And the way I lie back down is more of an expression of my chasmic respect than it is out of a selfish desire. And the way I spread my legs for him and pin them to my shoulders with my own hands, like he did, is the declaration of my ultimate submission to him and all the small particles that make him him. 

Pain or no pain, he’s the apotheosis of my entire being when he sinks his finger inside me and finds me locked, finds me forlorn. And once he opens me, stretches me and soaks me like a flower singing to God, he becomes the epitome, the core of all of my obsessions. 

And I’m going to take care of him. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ first part here

[runecatwrites]

All About Rift!

Howdy, Linked Universe fandom! I’ve been seeing a lot of headcanons and art about how our new lil guy would fit in with the rest of the Chain, which is amazing - he deserves all the love! I thought I’d make a list of things we know about him from the game so everyone can get to know him better.

SPOILERS AHEAD!

-His hometown is called Suthorn Village, and is at the southernmost edge of the map. It seems to be in a deciduous forest, but it never (or almost never) snows there, so the climate is probably like that of the southeastern US. He has his own house and lives alone.

-As a child, he was “stolen away.” Being “stolen away” is how people in this Hyrule refer to being drawn into a rift. Historically, it’s usually just children who are stolen away, and they never return. However, Link miraculously survived and made his way home, along with all the other kids he was stolen away with. This is probably because he and Zelda are the only ones who can move inside rifts, and it’s implied that not only did Link get out, but he rescued all the other kids that were with him too.

-Each person who’s been stolen away loses something. It seems that most of the kids lost their memories of the event, and became quiet and despondent after. Link lost his ability to speak, but that seems to be the only negative aspect for him. He also gained the ability to sense rifts, and so has dedicated his life to seeking them out and keeping people safe from them.

-He makes a habit of patrolling the nearby woods and protecting people from monsters. One of the first NPCs you encounter in Suthorn Forest/Suthorn Prairie area is calling out for help from Link, as he is surrounded by monsters while out foraging.

-He has a close relationship with Lueburry, an old man who lives in the woods near his village. Lueburry is a researcher and the one that crafted Link’s weapons, including the Sword of Might.

-He is very expressive!!! It’s noted that though he can’t speak, his expressions and emotions shine through loud and clear. It should also be noted that though he can’t speak, he can vocalize (like wordless yelling). So unlike Wild pre-Calamity, he doesn’t hide behind a mask and appears to have little trouble conveying his intentions and how he’s feeling.

-He seems to be fairly outgoing and is a notable figure in his village. He’s well loved! He makes a habit of interacting with people, including children. One boy in the village recounts how Link taught him about snow.

-He doesn’t know Zelda at all. He knows of her, of course, but they have never met (until the events of the game).

-He gains possession of the Triforce of Courage during the final boss battle with Null, but after the battle it seems that it leaves him and the full Triforce (or Prime Energy, as it’s called in this game) reforms.

-He gets his voice back at the end of the game. It’s noted at one point that he keeps fighting back against the rifts as if he hopes that if he fights hard enough, he might be able to speak again. And he does! After Null’s defeat, he and Zelda are teleported to Castle Town and Link is shown animatedly telling a crowd of people what happened, seemingly at great length.

[nomazee]

Greetings! Would it be okay if I request bodyguard!Dan Heng x celebrity!Reader with a 19:58 timestamp? I hope it's okay, thanks in advance.

i think my dan heng favoritism is showing because this is the longest drabble i've written for this event so far,,, i love dan hen hsr,,, THANK U FOR UR REQUEST :**

my 1k event!

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The airport is much too bright for Dan Heng’s taste. The reflectiveness of the linoleum floor tiles and the beaming LED lights make him squint as he guides you towards the baggage terminal. 

“That was fun!” your enthusiasm is almost painful compared to how exhausted Dan Heng feels. There’s no hint of a drag in your steps or a lull in your words as you head towards the carousels, on the lookout for a sky blue and neon green striped suitcase—courtesy of you, of course. You asked Dan Heng for his opinion when you were first buying it, claiming that it would be easy to recognize among the sea of plain, typical suitcases. Truthfully, it was an eyesore, but you looked so happy about it, so he just nodded along. 

“Fun? You’re not tired?” he asks. Your atrocity of a suitcase is, in fact, easily spotted, and Dan Heng goes to pick it up for you. Luckily, his is on the same carousel, and he takes up both in his hands before turning back to you. “It was a long flight. You’ll be jet-lagged for a bit.”

“Oh, I’m definitely tired,” you admit, engaging in a wordless struggle with Dan Heng as he fights against your attempt to take your own suitcase from him. He has yet to engage in an actual fight as a bodyguard (or do much at all, really), so he might as well help out by being your glorified bag-carrier. It makes him feel less guilty about the paycheck he gets every two weeks. “But being in first-class was so exciting! You didn't think so?” 

Exciting is certainly a way to describe it. For most of the ten-hour flight, Dan Heng was trying to not puke in a paper bag in front of you in fear that he’d embarrass himself, and then get fired. He hadn’t been on a flight in years, and sitting through one that’s that long was not the best way to ease back into it. It would be embarrassing to admit out loud, but you have a way of reading through him, so he divulges as much of the truth as he can stomach.

“There was… it was shakier than I thought. But it wasn’t loud, which was good.” 

“I meant, like, the food and stuff! And the hot towels that they gave us.” 

Of course you’d be excited over something like a hot towel. He tries not to look down at the (objectively) ugly suitcase that he’s successfully torn from your hands, but it’s all very you and he can’t help but be reminded of every single one of your habits. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks, instead of talking more about the plane, because he’ll seriously be sick if he keeps replaying the turbulence in his head. “The portions were small on the plane. We can check into the hotel first and then find somewhere to eat.” 

A sigh escapes you, lighthearted as you swat Dan Heng’s arm with your hand. You both walk through the confusing maze of the airport and eventually find the exit, stepping into fresh air for the first time in a while. “I’ll get you dramamine on the flight back, Dan Heng. Maybe then you’ll be clear-headed enough to understand how nice the hot towels were.” 

You’ve clocked him, saw right through him and pried your incessant way in and offered him a motion sickness pill while you were at it. He tries to ignore the flush of his cheeks as he watches you smile from his peripheral, but it’s hard to ignore when it’s all that he can feel right now. 

“The— food,” he stutters, because he’s a fool and would like to lay down already. “What would you like to get? It’s a little late, but you should get some dinner.” 

“Whatever you want, Dan Heng,” and he looks to his side to see you smiling at him, so warm and familiar and he’s really, really trying not to puke on the sidewalk right now for a variety of reasons. He ignores you again, because that’s his best way to cope, and hails a taxi before cramming in both your suitcases in a flustered haste. 

In the backseat of the car, you lean against Dan Heng’s side and open up Google Maps, scrolling through all the restaurants near your hotel. The line of your arm presses into Dan Heng’s, and his attention is flitting between that feeling and the bright icons on your screen, different foreign names and descriptions of food popping up. 

“I don’t feel like sitting down for a full dinner,” you admit, mercilessly skipping any restaurant that has things like tablecloths and candles and small plates. “Something to take back to the hotel would be nice. Oh—” you bring your phone closer to his face as if he can’t already see it crystal clear, “—the menu for this looks good! They have some of your favorites.” 

Dan Heng skims through it and finds that they do, in fact, have a suspicious amount of his favorites. There’s a prideful look on your face, hiding the fact that you likely spent an hour researching local restaurants to find something Dan Heng likes. It embarrasses him and makes him have hopes, like a fool. You treat him less like a bodyguard, more like a close assistant—a position that you’ve never actually had filled, which makes his suspicions (and hopes) grow day by day. Really, it’s more like a close friend, a partner, and he likes that thought more than he’s comfortable admitting. 

He mumbles something like okay, looks good, and the grin on your face only grows brighter and cheesier. He’s forced to look away from you and stare out the car window instead, watching the passing city lights against the dark background of the autumn night, in a country that he covertly learned the language of, so that he could guide you around a little better—in a country that you spent an hour looking up restaurants in, so that Dan Heng would have something to eat.

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gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or general taglist (navi) to be tagged in upcoming works!

[sipitdownlikecherrysoup]

i noticed - l.jn # 1

chapter 1. an evening dress to remember. (3.1k)

pairing: regency era gentleman! jeno x dressmaker! reader

blurb: Y/N is a popular dressmaker in regency-era london, and foolishly decides to gatecrash the first ball of the season: a masquerade. even a mask can't stop jeno from noticing that she doesn't belong.

tags: fem & she/her reader, present tense, use of Y/N, reader is paranoid, jeno is incredibly observant, i know nothing about embroidery/tailoring but i try my best, inspired by benedict's story (bridgerton).

Your heart pounds so rapidly in your chest that it feels like it might explode, and you feel terribly sick. You worry that the insane amount of effort you’d put into this dress will be ruined with the amount you've sweat in your anxiety. 

Maybe you are making a mistake. No, you definitely are, but it's a little too late to back out now. You are already at the ball. The famed Lee Masquerade Ball. The Lee’s always have the privilege of opening the season with their extravagant masquerade, and it's a favorite among many of the high-society families you now find yourself surrounded with. 

You should be having an excellent time yourself, just like the blushing young ladies on the dance floor, and the men happily chatting alongside a tower of sparkling drinks so high that you would definitely send yourself into the cardiac arrest you’re so worried about should you attempt to take a glass for yourself. The only problem is that it's hard to have much fun when you’re worried that someone will discover that you do not belong here.

Should anybody notice that perhaps your posture is incorrect, or your manners aren't quite right, or that you do not know the correct way to formally address many of these guests, or Heaven forbid somebody recognises you as their dressmaker, you will be thrown out of London for good. You’ll lose your home, the flourishing career you have built for yourself, your whole life. 

All you had wanted was to experience what a ball was like yourself. The young ladies that frequent your store gush about them all day long. You’ve heard so many tales of the fanciful foods, the most amazing music, and mesmerizing decorations that could make you feel transported to another world. And you know nearly half of the dresses in this very room were hand designed, or even hand tailored by yourself, as well as a decent portion of the gentlemens’ clothing, too. Foolishly, selfishly, you had thought maybe you deserved to attend one of these events after all your hard work. And even if it is as magical as those young ladies made it sound, is it worth all the risk?

This is a mistake.

“If you stare at that tower much longer, you might be able to make it fall with that piercing gaze alone.” A voice shakes you out of your thoughts, making you startle. It’s soft but deep, too, and comes from much closer than you thought anybody was to where you had tried to hide yourself in a far corner of the room. 

When you turn to face the owner of the mysterious voice, your breath catches in your throat. 

Like yourself, some guests to the masquerade opt for a look that conceals their identity. Some say it's part of the fun. For you, it is a genuine disguise. 

Others opt for a simple mask that does little to hide their identity.

The thin and sleek, deep-blue mask adorning Jeno Lee’s face does nothing to disguise him, and the fact that you are speaking to one of the hosts of this prestigious event does nothing to calm your nerves. 

You had only seen him once, when he accompanied his mother to the store over a year ago and she insisted he purchase a new pair of silk-white gloves. Startlingly, you realize he is wearing them right now. 

It must amuse Jeno, the way you stare at him, slack-jawed and wordless and dumb, if the way he smiles gently at you has anything to say about it.

“Did you want one?” He asks you, politely. 

“I Want… One?” Is all you manage to speak brokenly

He blinks at you, a faint smile gracing his lips again. “A drink. From the tower. I can fetch one for you if you wish.” 

You spy an opportunity to escape, to send him on his way and dart out of this far-too-big house, to run all the way back to your cozy apartment above the shop and forget this ever happened, so you nod and try your best to match his niceties, “If you would, please, I would be grateful.”

You know something you said was wrong from the way his eyebrows crease ever so slightly but he doesn't call you out on it. He must be too polite.

“Very well.” He turns to approach the drink tower in question before pausing, swiveling on his heels to look at you again, “I apologize. I didn't get your name, Miss…?” He prompts, looking at you expectantly. 

Your brain short circuits. You swear you can feel it pouring from your ears as you fumble wildly for a response. Your name— No! Not your name! Any name but your name.

“Miss… Throckbottom!” You squeak out, only to internally wince when your words reach your ears. Somehow, you have mixed up the worst aspects of two of your clients surnames. Lord Throckmorton, and Lady Oakenbottom. Curiously, it sounds a lot like ‘rock bottom’ and that is exactly how you feel right now. 

Still, Jeno has that stupid, and yet incredibly endearing, amused but polite smile. His eyes crinkle this time, too, so you know you’ve really humored him. You worry that he will question you, or that he knows but he only happily replies, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Throckbottom.” 

The moment he turns away from you, the escape plan begins. Your eyes dart around the room to locate the nearest exit and then you break for it. In your haste, you try to exit a different way than you entered and get utterly lost in a maze of hallways that seem to stretch on forever. 

As you race around the corridors, finding several rooms that seem only to be filled with different types of chairs, multiple locked doors, and a large hall that surely rivaled even the finest art galleries with the collection adorning it's walls, you panic about how deep into this mansion you now are. If you are caught so far away from where you should be, you will be all the more suspicious. And what if you are assumed to be a thief?! Forget being banished from London, you would be thrown straight to the execution block! 

Looping back around on yourself, you barely have any air left in your burning lungs when you make it back to the ballroom, but you are rewarded with a hopeful glimpse of your way out. You try your best to casually make your way across the entire ballroom, sticking to the far edges and drawing as little attention to yourself as possible. Your heart aches when you pass by a tray of sweets unlike any you had ever seen, but you could not risk stopping to try them. Not when you were so close to getting out. 

Finally, you reach the door, but just as you are about to duck and run, a hand catches yours to gently pull you indoors before it lets go. It’s firm and yet much gentler than you would have assumed given that whoever had grabbed you surely wants you arrested or put to death. 

“There you are, Miss…” 

He snuck up on you again. Just who is Mister Lee that he has the ability to go entirely undetected by your senses!? What kind of training does he have? Does he know that you were running about his house like a headless chicken just minutes ago? Has he been following you undetected the whole time? 

Despite your thoughts getting away from you, you muster the strength to turn and face Jeno, planning on at least attempting to defend yourself. You are shocked still by the careful concern written across his face, and dancing in his eyes, entirely unhidden by the flimsy mask he wears. He looks worried, terribly so, about you, you realize. As if he’s aware of the dangerous situation that you have gotten yourself into.

But he can’t be. Not when he says, “Are you unchaperoned, Miss? Surely you should not be. I was surprised when you had vanished.” 

Of course. This is the polite gentleman you had been speaking to, after all. He would be worried about the safety and honor of any lady. It doesn't have anything to do with you in particular.

You shake your head quickly, trying your best to lie your way out of this, “No, my mama is somewhere around here. I only wanted some fresh air, but I forgot myself. It would not do well to leave alone, thank you for the reminder.”

You spot the drink in his hand, the one you had requested, or rather the one he had asked you if you wanted. He had been carrying it around dutifully, then. 

“Perhaps a drink will cool my nerves, actually.” You add, trying your best to come up with a convincing story, “I apologize for leaving so suddenly. This is my first ball and I am rather nervous.”

Jeno passes you the drink, but you don't miss the inquisitive look in his expression, like once again you’ve said something wrong. This time, he does not ignore your mistake. 

“Ah, this is your debut season? You are… somewhat older than the usual debutante, but I can appreciate that it is likely still nerve wracking.” 

Shit. You had thought it would be good cover to play the clueless debutante. It would explain your lack of manners, and your nerves, but you were not sixteen, nor seventeen, nor even eighteen, but twenty-three! You’re not sure whether to be upset or not that he can tell your age from behind your mask. 

You panic, totally blanking, before digging yourself deeper into the hole of lies, “W-well! You see, my family is not… so… wealthy, at the moment, and we have had to save for my dowry… so…” You give up talking and then down the drink, far too quickly, almost choking on the slight burn of the alcohol. You had not realized it would have strong liquor in it. 

Jeno watches you closely, just as he has been the entire time you’ve been speaking to him. Again, he appears endeared, presumably by the way you just threw back your drink, and then he looks as though he has an idea.

“Would you like to share a dance?” 

He looks so genuine as he asks you, like maybe he truly does wish to dance with you. You cannot think of a single reason why. Perhaps he is trying to help you appear more desirable, then? He really is kind. 

“Yes.” 

No. What are you doing? Why did you agree? 

You don't have time to think about that because a pleased-looking Jeno is already leading you towards the floor, and somehow he is perfectly timed with the beginning of the next song. A song that you have no idea how to dance to. You don't know how to dance to any song!

Jeno takes one of your hands into his, and then places the other onto your waist. Thankfully, this appears to be a slow dance rather than anything too complicated. You quickly respond by resting your free hand on his shoulder, and then try your best to follow his lead as the dance starts. 

It's evident almost immediately that you have no idea what you're doing. You’re staring down at your feet instead of looking at him. Even with such simple steps, you’re treading on his feet and messing up the timing. Your eyes snap up to his face worriedly, but there isn't any judgment. Instead, Jeno simply looks contemplative before he leans closer to ask you a question in a hushed voice, “Have you never danced before?” 

Your head is spinning. He’s so close. You’ve never been this close to a man before, not even when tailoring their suit jackets to perfectly fit their arms— and goodness, does Jeno’s jacket fit him well. You are almost mad that you didn't get to tailor it yourself. 

It’s almost a relief that Jeno doesn't seem to require an answer to his question, unbothered that you stare dumbly at him once again, because he certainly already knows the answer. The hand resting at the side of your waist shifts, curling around your lower back, and then he pulls you closer still. He smells faintly of cedarwood and orange blossom and it nearly sends you into a frenzy because why is it so good? You think whatever he is doing to your mind, the way he is hypnotizing you, has tricked you into feeling that you are floating. 

Until you realize that your feet are not on the ground. Jeno is lifting you, with the strength of only one arm, so that you are just barely hovering from the ground. The skirts of your dress are long enough that they still touch the ground, concealing the fact that Jeno is all but puppeteering you into the perfect dancer. 

You must look shocked because Jeno whispers to confirm that you are alright with this before you quickly school your expression back to neutrality and nod. 

It's far too fun dancing with him like this, or just being spun around given that it's very little work for your part. It doesn't look like it's any effort for Jeno either, somehow. How crazy is this guy's core strength, anyways? It wasn't too typical for a gentleman to be that strong, because why would they need to be?

There is a subtle mirth dancing in his eyes when he continues prodding at your facade, “It is strange to neglect to teach a debutante to dance when that is the prime tactic for capturing a suitor.” 

Call you crazy but you might even think that Jeno is having fun, too. At your expense. 

“We could not afford dance lessons.” You grasp onto that same excuse from earlier, hoping he will let it go.

“Ah, then you must have been planning to charm a suitor some other way.” Jeno muses, and he’s still giving you that soft smile that makes you want to just melt, “From what I have seen, you do not seem to be conversationally gifted either, perhaps you have other talents?”

You have half a mind to scowl at him but manage to refrain. It would be too risky to claim being talented in areas you're unable to talk about, especially when you’ve painstakingly learned how curious Jeno is. You know nothing of pianoforte or watercolors, but embroidery you know.

“Needlework.” You say, before remembering to expand on the subject, “It is my greatest passion. I am never prouder of myself than when I am able to create a unique pattern.”

Unfortunately, you find it hard to stop yourself from rambling too much. 

“The pattern on my gloves, for example, uses multiple types of stitching to create what looks like drooping wisteria. Mostly the herringbone stitch and the continental knot stand out, hm, but the humble chain stitch should not go unforgotten. It is a classic.” 

Jeno appears to look at your gloves with an incredible intensity that almost makes you clam up self-consciously before he begins his praise, “It is fine work. Your modiste could be jealous.”

You tried to hide your nervous laughter behind a smile, feeling warm from his compliments, but dying inside at the ironic image of feeling jealousy towards yourself. 

The conversation lulls, but it's a comfortable silence you find yourself in whilst your eyes drift to take in the scenery of the ballroom again. 

You catch a glare from a short, pretty-looking lady and immediately you tense up. It's not just her, the woman next to her is glaring too, and you recognise her as one of your customers, wearing a dress you’d finished laboring over just days ago. You quickly scan the room to find that there are hardly any ladies not giving you some form of nasty look, and there are plenty of gentlemen looking your way as well. 

But of course the ladies are giving you such evil looks. You are dancing with Mister Lee, arguably the most desirable bachelor in the ton, perhaps only aside from his titled brother, though maybe still preferable based on the way you had seen debutantes fawn over his ‘handsome visage, kind eyes, and kinder still personality’ many a time while taking their measurements. The man that holds the supposed unofficial record for highest number of ladies trying to faint on him at a single event, as rumor has it, was still looking only at you. The Jeno Lee that many mothers had scorned whilst waiting for their daughters to finish trying their new gowns on for the fact that he has yet to announce his intention to marry is ever so close to you. The very Jeno that currently has an arm tightly wrapped around you is renowned for putting off his need to marry because he would much rather spend his time at home than at high society parties, so of course the fact that you are taking up so much of his time makes you the target of every unwed lady from here to… The rest of England! 

You feel dizzy from all of the attention, from how you can feel the hundreds of pairs of eyes glued to you. 

You need to leave. As soon as this dance is over. As soon as he lets you back onto the ground.

Almost as if you had pleaded hard enough to the Gods, the dance ends just as you will it to. Jeno finally lets you go. He’s wordless, but again there's something questioning in his eyes that you ignore. You offer your best, and yet definitely still shoddy, curtsey to Jeno and immediately hightail it back towards the main door. 

You have no idea what possesses you but you turn your head back for one last look, unable to stop yourself, to see that Jeno is standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, watching you leave. His gaze does not falter, it almost burns into you. He makes no move to follow you this time, in fact, he makes no move at all, much to the confusion of the other attendees that watch him linger alone in the dancefloor even after it has been abandoned by everyone else. He just watches you, and then everybody else does as well. That seems to snap him from his daze, and then he’s walking away from the floor but you don't bother to look long enough to find out where to. 

You focus back on your escape, near running now and it isn't long before you are through the door. 

You do not stop running, and you do not look back again.

---

author's note:

thank you so much for reading <3. this is the first time i've published on this blog, so i hope it's well-received. i can make a taglist going forward if anybody is interested, and please stay tuned for part 2! i have at least 8 parts planned overall :). thanks very much to cherry for proofreading this for me <33. - soup

[cowabungacafe]

Quiet Connection

prompt -"Putting their foreheads together and just being content with each other's presence"

The lair was dimly lit as Raphael returned from his nightly patrol, his mind still buzzing with the events of the night. But as he stepped into the living area, his gaze immediately found you, sitting quietly with a book in hand, a small smile gracing your lips.

Without a word, you rose from your seat and approached him, your presence a soothing balm to his restless soul. Raphael's heart swelled with affection as he closed the distance between you, a silent understanding passing between you as you stood face to face.

With a soft sigh, Raphael gently pressed his forehead against yours, a wordless gesture of love and reassurance. In that moment, the world outside faded away as you both found solace in each other's presence.

The weight of his worries seemed to lift off his shoulders as he leaned into you, finding comfort in the warmth of your embrace. In your shared silence, he could feel the depth of your connection, the strength of your bond, and he knew that as long as you were by his side, he could face anything that came his way.

For a moment, time stood still as you stood there, your foreheads pressed together in silent solidarity. It was in moments like these that Raphael realized just how much you meant to him, how much he cherished the quiet moments shared between the two of you.

Reluctantly, you eventually pulled back, but Raphael's hand found yours, his grip strong yet gentle as he looked into your eyes with a sense of profound gratitude.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "For always being here for me."

And as you stood there together, basking in the quiet connection you shared, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, as long as you had Raphael by your side, you would always find solace in the simple yet profound moments of tranquility you found together.