#i hate hate hate the idea that fitness must be done Intentionally and in a Hegemonic Way

[uncanny-tranny]

Hey, you're being lied to about what fitness constitutes. If you can't work in an hour-long crossfit slog, but you can work in a five-minute walk, then that is still fitness. If you can't use your legs but you can do arm circles every now and again, that is still fitness. If you're moving around at work, that's still fitness. It can be intentional or incidental, but here's the best part: your body doesn't care if you're dedicating specific work-out times. It doesn't care if the "only" fitness it gets is your nine to five on your feet. It doesn't care, fitness is fitness is fitness. Some of us do it differently, but the end result is more or less similar.

If you can do any type of fitness safely, your body isn't going to care if you're doing it like an Olympic athlete or if you're just a casual.

#fitness #gentle reminders #i hate hate hate the idea that fitness must be done Intentionally and in a Hegemonic Way #like... fitness is whatever you make of it and whatever you do #your body isn't going to be like 'well you walked for fove minutes but you didn't do shoulder presses at the gym so it doesn't count 😊' #if you want more specific forms of fitness then SURE you might want to do more specific exercises and activities #but if your goal is overall movement for however much if your body then... you don't Need to be THAT specific #and your goals may be specific for only parts of your body and that's GREAT! #a wheelchair user may for example do more arm exercises so they can use a manual chair for instance... #...and to many people i've noticed they don't think it 'counts' because the chair user isn't using 'all' of their body... #...but it's like... using your arms in non-powered chairs can be really important so like. it's still fitness. #you don't actually have to equally focus on everything if you don't want to or can't #all this to say that fitness is Not hegemonic and you don't need to feel shame about what you do or don't do #even a tiny tiny TINY amount is significant and matters <3 #this is definitely something i've gotten more passionate about since becoming a ~gym bro~ #because you see just how different people are and what they want out of fitness #and it's taught me a lot more about my own disabilities and how i work with (and even against) them to find balance #this is what i love about those fitness video games too! because they're often made to be engaging and fun! #i LOVED just dance as a kid and that was fitness merging with video games (and i loved video games (still do!)) #and i HIGHLY recommend people get video games like just dance or that one nintendo ring game because of these elements! #it combines the comfort of home with movement with engaging music/story/video game elements #and things like that make me believe in peace and love and care on planet earth <<3

[hoseoksluna]

BLUR | myg ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x oc (feat. jungkook)

genre: smut

word count: 17k

summary: one encounter with both of the males heals you enough that you don't become anything but joy.

pinterest board: blur

warnings: dom/sub dynamics, marking, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, cuckold kink, toying with the idea of polyamory, daddy kink, punishment, nipple play, oc gets triggered, face riding, ass play, male masturbation, multiple orgasms, use of butt plug, raw sex, cum eating, clit rubbing

note: i want to thank oc. i've always wanted to pinch jungkook's nose and i got to do that through her. LMFAOFSJLDKFS ANYWAYS—this is the LAST part of the steam series, whoop whoop. finally. this took me so fucking long to write and idk if it even makes sense, which is why i need you guys to let me know everything that you're thinking, feeling, hating, loving. I NEED IT. so pls, send me asks. spam me. thank you. ENJOY READINGGGGG. ₊˚⊹♡

A thin layer of sweat coats your hairline. And inside your skull, momentarily, there aren’t any thoughts—none, whatsoever. They have been swept aside as the feverish evening wind carries your boyfriend’s words through the aroused energy pulsating around your naked form. Around Jungkook’s, too. 

Yoongi is still the only one fully dressed. And, adamantly, he’s taken the role of a watcher, shifting the dynamic in such a frantic way that the sole impulse that you find opening within you like buds of tree flowers is to obey. To submit to the role, externalize one that will fit it. To play along like he did, when he caught onto your scheme. 

Even though you don’t know how to particularly go about it. 

And when Yoongi walks over to the armchair in his living room, plops down on it, angles his head slightly to look at you and waves a hand towards the couch across from him, inviting you to sit, your nescience claws at you. Brutally. 

You don’t know if there are any shadows thickening in his headspace because you deem there must be a reason behind his sudden decision to turn things around. He’s been okay with every practice done so far in the playtime—he validated all of them, was in charge the whole time until he gave that control over to Jungkook. You can’t help but worry if there perhaps isn’t a catch. 

And the lower your disquiet sinks inside your gut, the higher your distrust of yourself springs, lodging in your throat. You’re not sure anymore if you’re right about anything. What if there is something you’ve done that you completely overlooked in the middle of your pleasure? In the middle of Jungkook’s pleasure? 

Once you exchange a heavily-charged look with the puppy, you hope to find a hint in the tenderness of his eyes that would help you figure it out. Though, the more you deepen the scrutiny, the more you’re met with absolute blankness. 

He’s as clueless as you. 

Bewildered, mostly, that Yoongi let him have the upper hand. 

Your finger itches to hook around his, but you only angle your head in the direction of the living room, dubious to listen to your body, intentionally wary. You make the first move and you don’t sit down on the couch like Yoongi motioned you. No, you sink your knees into the space beside his on the armchair, the leather creaking beneath you. Wrap your arms around his shoulders. Study the depth of his gaze as he focuses it on your face, looking for the hint, for anything that would lead you to it. Bury your fingers into his night-tinged hair the way he likes it, the way you like to do it, too. Pull it a little to make known to him that you’re bubbling with uncertainty. 

Yoongi merely watches you, borrowing his friend’s stoicism. 

You click your tongue, disliking it. “Yoongi,” you drawl out, cupping the sides of his neck, willing his attention to be more of an intimate sort. Just you and him. You need to talk to him about this. Need a peace of mind in order for you to enjoy this. In order to please him in the process as well. 

He turns his head behind him, though. To check the whereabouts of his friend. And when you follow the same direction, you discover that his dining space is empty. 

You don’t detect any panic in you. Perhaps it’s due to the fact Jungkook never abandoned you before. Or perhaps you’ve healed to the point that it doesn’t bother you anymore, no matter who does it. And what’s more, you think he probably went to pee. 

With two fingers on his jaw, you turn his attention back to you. Leave them there. His lips curl up as he tries to purse them, his stoicism fragmenting. Eyes gentle, moonbeams swimming. The sight is so endearing to you that your own mouth mirrors his, butterflies awoken, fluttering their wings in your tummy. This is the man you love. This is the man that’s yours. Yours, only. And you’re alone, intimately, cordially. Just like before. 

“Is something the matter, honey?” He tips his chin, irises dilated and looking up at you. Latches his hands onto the fleshiness of your thighs, just below your hip bones. 

With your inhale of breath, you muster as much courage as you can. “Have I done something wrong?” 

Perplexity writes itself on his softened face. Could it be—

“No, why do you think that, hm?” He narrows his eyes at you playfully, tapping his fingers on the side of your hips. You exhale a breath that loosens your worry a little bit and your mouth rounds. He leans in to peck it. “You’ve been perfect.” 

Have you? You’re not so sure—on the contrary, what you’re sure of is the fact you can better yourself. You have to, in order to make your worries dissipate all the way. 

And you can fulfill that if you know what role to play. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

One corner of his mouth tugs ever so slightly to the side and one brow quirks in confusion. “You’re about to get eaten up. Enjoy it—that’s what you are to do.” 

You sigh, realizing you should’ve worded it better. That’s precisely what you want to do—enjoy it, but you can’t risk getting lost again. Can’t risk getting submerged. You need him to tell you who you are to be in this new dynamic he established and you don’t want to hear that you should be yourself. If you relax your boundaries, you’ll step into a dangerous territory—and you’ve been there before. 

So has he. 

“Yoongi, no, I meant—”

He squeezes your muscles. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here, you hear me?” he murmurs, one hand coming up to your hair and curling it behind your ear. And it’s these words that unwittingly, little by little, drive you to drop your own hand, your guard and your worries. The fact that he doesn’t even want to hear your better wording, too, because he understood you the first time. It guides you to think it’s not worth speaking out, not when he evidently knows better. 

And it feels nice. To have someone intelligent enough that they know. To have someone care enough that they don’t let you immerse yourself in doubts because they know the type of shit your thoughts consist of sometimes. He remembers everything you unraveled during the therapy sessions. And that feels nice. More than nice. 

Your mouth rounds again and you repeat it after him. To acknowledge yourself with it. To swallow it so it streams down your body, where its meaning can unfurl. “You’re here.” Your voice is subdued, unsure, the words foreign on your tongue. You knit your brows while you taste them, unable to identify the flavor. That is until you realize it could offend him. You relax your features right away. 

But Yoongi merely watches you with a sympathetic look, one that makes you feel terrible for reacting the way you did.

Not for long, though. 

“I know I’ve made a mistake in the past, but that’s not happening again. I’m not leaving you on your own this time,” he says and you realize that is precisely what you needed to hear, what your body needed to consume first in order to recognize the flavor of his reassurance. You caress his face in deep emotion and you try again. 

“You’re here.” It’s a mere silken sound for only the both of you to hear, but it matters—it’s enough, it’s perfect. In the distance, you hear a shuffling of feet in the kitchen, the song of the wind gaining momentum, inclining to listen to the expression of love between you—to be a witness of the right thing being done at last. And you can taste the sweetest wine of the ripest of grapes, spiced with the most vibrant of roses. You can taste home; his stability you can lean on. 

Yoongi smiles in your grasp, noting the way the words sounded different—more secure. The moonbeams liquify in his waterline. “That’s right. And because I’m here, I’m not letting history repeat itself.” He pinches your cheek, knocking your head back and forth with the well-meaning, ferocious movement. Erases completely the lingering presence of the guard and fears you’ve dropped. You laugh, softly, relieved—so fucking relieved. Joy fills your empty body, energizing you, roses rising in you. Your roses, the ones you know, fraternizing with the unknown flowers that Jungkook planted in you. And you discern that it’s you who’s in your comfort zone, in your safety zone. The males have stepped inside theirs and now you have. You inhale fresh air in your new lungs, exhale your relief. “Say it. So I know you understand.” 

“You’re here and you’re not letting history repeat itself.” Beautiful, beautiful words—beautiful consolation and kindness. A pillar of the most exceptional magnificence. Mentally, you rest against it, rest your enfeebled, exhausted body of all your needless worries and false thoughts. 

You didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t make a mistake. Though, if it weren’t for the weak moment, you wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have gotten the comfort you didn’t know you needed.  

So peculiar, the newness. It dawns on you that it should’ve been like this in the beginning. Healthy conversations, reassurance. Why hadn’t you done this? Why did you jump headlong, bringing along such darkness of—

You close your eyes fleetingly to shut down those thoughts. Forgetting is taking place. Newness is here. Old is gone. Like the verity that he’s here, you repeat it to yourself again and again in your heart. You can’t change what’s happened. You can only move on with the eternal perception that you’ve changed, that you’ve learned. And that’s enough. 

You brush your thumb upon the column of his neck. Back and forth, like he did with your cheek. Thankful for him. “You’re here and you’re not letting history repeat itself.” 

Yoongi isn’t puzzled you whispered it to yourself again. In fact, he embraces it. Kisses you tenderly, deeply to seal those words. They spread roots in you. Rake through the earth so the roses, the flowers can grow healthily, happily, luminously. You feel them lean into the satin touch of the butterflies that elongate their dusty wings before they curl the membranes around their radiant petals, forming a protection circle.  A dose of healing you didn’t expect to receive. Not from him, not now—not now when you’re about to be eaten out by his friend. 

It’s so surreal to you. To feel protected like that. To feel safe. Safe to now roam freely in your undiscovered sexuality because you have someone to look out for you, to possibly guide you back if you lose your way. The stability that envelopes you—you can’t bear it; it’s too good to be true. And when you take a deep breath and those roses tremble with excitement in you, in the circle, there’s nothing left for you to do but to accept it because it’s so strong, because it’s unyielding. You couldn’t move it even if you tried. It won’t let you—it’s here to stay. Here to be alongside your boyfriend, protecting you as you venture out on your perverted adventure. 

You’ve worked hard to get to this point. And now you get to reap what you’ve sown. 

Yoongi grins after the long kiss, proudness emanating out of him and you feel like weeping. You’ve done the right thing, for the very first time. “That’s my good girl.” 

The praise does something to you. Stirs you violently, magnifies the intensity of the flapping of the butterfly wings in you. Sends back feeling to the ache between your legs, propped against the linen of Yoongi’s pants. Throbbing, slapping, memories of what has been done to your pussy—you’re a meadow of wildflowers and you’re ready to be pleasured again, however you register a matter that pulls you away from this notion for a moment. 

There’s no catch. 

Because Yoongi created a new realm for both you and Jungkook with his sense of safety and comfort, there’s nothing for you to fret about. There’s no role for you to play. And, furthermore, who you are meant to be upon this ground is who you’ve been throughout the whole trajectory of your relationship. 

A good girl. 

Only this time it’s entirely different. 

You didn’t want to be yourself because, if anything were to backfire, you thought you’d have the responsibility for it. In addition to that, you thought the normalcy of your sexual life was a no-gone zone for Jungkook, which is why you’ve been racking your brain, trying to come up with ways you could differ it, so Yoongi wouldn’t get jealous. 

But things changed so drastically that because Yoongi took control, now you don’t have to be in charge of that. You’re not the artist, you’re not choosing colors for the palette. Yoongi is. 

There’s still one more thing that doesn’t add up. And you voice it out. “If you’re not letting history repeat itself, though, why are you letting Jungkook be in control?” 

Yoongi grabs your hands and holds them. “I’m letting him be in control of how he does what I tell him to do. I’m in control of the whole situation, honey.” 

You suck in a breath. To protect himself, he won’t make the same mistake again; that’s just the person Yoongi is. He’s allowed Jungkook to have the freedom of a bird in the pleasure he wants you to receive from him, but he won’t hesitate to ensnare him if he runs up against something he doesn’t like.

You find that immensely, immensely attractive. 

Hot. 

The pillar of stability, the warmth of reassurance, the absolute fucking boss—that’s your man. You lid your eyes, swearing, leaning forward to suck onto his lip, kissing him with utter desperation and he lets you. Lets you kiss him. Lets you show him how much you liked that. Growls when your hand creeps to his neglected, clothed length and squeezes it. Hums when you feel him up until you find his tight balls. Responds to your touch—bucks his hips so you focus on them more and you go mad. Interminably, mad. 

And when you swirl your tongue around his, you feel a cold, wet hand on your back. 

The magnet to your madness. The healer stands by the side of the armchair with a dew-sprinkled face and there’s a feigned, playful jealousy that you feel when you regard him, for the only dew you want on his face is one that’s your own. He washed up in the bathroom—you reckon he did it to cool his desperation, to cool the sweat of arousal that lines his skin, much like yours. You note that it didn’t work, at least not fully, because when you roam your gaze down, you discover he’s still painfully hard. Much like your boyfriend. 

You wrap your hand around him and the forbidden, exhilarating feeling of having two cocks in your grasp is too brief for your liking because Jungkook pulls your hand away again. Holds it and leads you towards the couch. You frown at him with a puckish smile, but while he tugs you away, you steal a kiss from Yoongi. A hard, quick kiss that makes him twitch—something that you get to feel before Jungkook grabs you by your pits and throws you on the couch. 

You let out a string of giggles, loving the feeling of being manhandled; loving the feeling of Jungkook being in desperate need to eat you out. Your face heats up, your body following suit, the ache between your legs worsening. Yoongi smirks, validating your enjoyment and he adjusts in his seat, which you think is dismal. You don’t want him to be neglected. You want him to be pleasured, too.

The words tumble out of you before you can think them over. “Can you touch yourself for me, baby?” 

Yoongi licks his lips. Pauses before he responds. Tortures you like he tortured Jungkook. You spread your legs to provoke him, giving him a show of the shine on your folds. It’s enough for him to palm himself briefly, as if he lost control for a split second. He takes his hand away and places it back on the armrest. “I’ll consider it.” 

The boss at play. You swear, closing your legs to squeeze them, to give yourself some sort of relief from the ache you feel. Butterflies go rampant in your tummy, but despite the buzzing tension, you feel content, safe and utterly elated. Happy. 

You expect Jungkook to say something, though he merely props a knee on the leather of the couch and spreads your legs how he wants them. He doesn’t lift them, only parts them as far as they can go. You go to grab his length again because you feel a certain magnetic pulling to it, but he catches your hand in time. 

“Behave.” He presses your hand firmly to emphasize his scolding before he lets go. Such a stark contrast to the playtime of before. You remember how he wanted you to do the complete opposite. To misbehave. Your body heats up even more, the fire compulsing your hips to sway, asking for attention. 

Another set of words tumble out of you unwittingly and you place your hands under your thighs. “I’m sorry.” 

The surprise that floods Jungkook’s features is overwhelming to you and in response, you grin, coyly. He strokes the adorable fat of your cheek. “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.” 

You purse your lips and before the fire of that praise can lick your whole body, Yoongi speaks up, too. “Good job, honey. You learned your lesson so well.” 

Shock comes first, then fire—vibrant blue fire that scorches you whole. You blush, deeply, squeezing the leather of the couch—the praise and the validation from both males so profuse, so profound that you can’t take it. You hide your widening grin beneath your palms. “Stop,” you drawl, the sound muffled and soft, even though you don’t want them to do anything of the sort. 

Jungkook coos, pulls your wrist away, uncovering your rosy, glowy face. Then, he pets your head, fingers sinking into your hair. He forces you to look at him, to see the smile of endearment that bathes his face in light, but he does it so gently that you purr, his hold so stimulating, so titillating—his countenance so lovely, so darkly angelic. Eyes crinkled but still round, still so tender. “Who taught you to have such good manners, huh?” 

You swipe your tongue along the top arc of your lip, his gaze flicks to it and and the answer thrums in your belly warmly like a sip of a good wine. It doesn’t unnerve you, doesn’t make you afraid. In fact, it’s so tranquil and so right that you relish every syllable. “Both of you did.” 

The rays from the light side penetrate the dark one and healing takes place. Healing that you never thought you’d ever be a witness to. You know that the act of forgetting was supposed to fully sink in all three of you, but your words diverged its path. You swallow warmth and you swallow relief, watch as Yoongi gets up from his seat and mirrors Jungkook’s position, one knee on the leather, hand under your jaw. A soft set of tears rush in at the attention and the realization of what’s actually happening, and when the healer sees them, he lets go of your hair and brushes his thumb across your brow, hand spread across the side of your face. You lean into his palm, so terribly emotional, and when Yoongi plants a delicate kiss on your cheek, your chin begins to quiver. He felt it, too. Felt the gravity of those words that now dulcify his intention to make things right this time. And he kisses you again, prolongs the peck, as if to thank you for your goodness. 

When Yoongi lifts his head and bores his mellow gaze into you, it is the same relief that you’ve swallowed that you see saturating his face in effulgence. At last, it has come for him, has come to live in him. At last, it’s here. 

You’ve done it, all three of you. Healed from the pain. 

Jungkook knits his brows at the sight of the first tear plopping down onto your skin as if it physically pained him to see you cry. And before you can register the movement, he swipes the liquid emotion away and kisses the residue of it, as if it were fate itself that wrote it was meant to pour down on the right side of your face—for Jungkook to collect, for it to seep into his fingerprint. 

So much love. The air is thick with it. Your lungs tremble as you take a deep breath. The wind billows in and out, but doesn’t carry it off—intertwines its translucent body with it instead, bringing in a fresh gust of briskness into the atmosphere. No more tears stream down your cheeks; you smile at both of the males—the healer and the boss. 

Yoongi remains standing beside you. Takes your hand in his. Says a myriad of silent words of great importance that you cannot decipher as he exchanges a look with Jungkook, who merely nods at them in plain understanding. You don’t have to wonder long what was behind it. Jungkook turns your jawline to him and kisses you softly. Doesn’t let go. Prolongs the kiss until he whimpers onto your mouth, softened, too, by the healing that occurred. No tongue, just the warmed silver of his lip ring, the smooth tenderness of his mouth and the most affectionate emotion exuded into the kiss. 

The pop of the withdrawal is all you hear. You keep your eyes closed. Feel him take that kiss onto your neck, your collarbone, to your sternum. Feel the tightening of your boyfriend’s grip around your hand as Jungkook drags his lips down your tummy, where the healing vibrates and he says hello to it with his tongue, makes it feel safe. Feel the tightening compulsion to watch him as he does it and you obey your body. 

Jungkook is kneeling before you. Brows furrowed, expression so terribly serious as he understands how significant this part of you is. Sinks his whimpers into your skin while he sucks it and it’s only when you run your fingers through his silky hair that he looks up at you. And the sight of his wet eyes breaks you. 

He’s as emotional as you. 

Your throat constricts. If it weren’t for him, none of this lively beauty would take place—and if it weren’t for Yoongi, too. It is their work of art and you’re the one doused in colors of most resplendence. And you tell them, your body urges you to, while you squeeze Yoongi’s hand and caress Jungkook’s hair. “I’m so grateful for you both.” 

The healer whimpers again, letting go of your skin, leaving behind a purple memory of this heartfelt loveliness. His tears don’t escape the confinement of his waterline—he blinks them away. Blinks them even more rapidly when Yoongi places a hand on Jungkook’s bare shoulder and he gapes at him in disbelief—in disbelief that his closest friend is touching him with such gentleness after everything. You don’t allow yourself to think of the past, of the last violent touch that you saw, but you can’t help the emotion rushing in your eyes. You let go of Yoongi’s hand to clasp the one on Jungkook’s shoulder, deepening the love. 

And you press a loud, exaggerated kiss on Jungkook’s forehead to make him laugh—like he did that one time by talking about his worm. To distract him, if there are perhaps any overbearing thoughts in his mind. 

Now his disbelief is directed towards you. Mouth parted, wrinkles between his brows. You burst into laughter and it triggers his. Yoongi’s, too. It’s your breasts that bounce now and none of the pairs of eyes flick to it, fixed still on the glamorous gracefulness that blossoms out from your face. Jungkook shakes his head, cheeks awash with redness, irises glinting with a spark you’ve never seen before, and you consider your job done. He tells you to lay back down, but his grin lingers. 

Yoongi takes your hand back in his and you perceive that he needs it, that he needs to hold you. You smile at him, fluttering your lashes, blowing him an air kiss, and he nudges his nose against yours to remind you to enjoy this. You begin to prepare yourself, taking a deep breath—

It hitches in your throat harshly. Jungkook kitten licks your clit with deep pressure, just once, lifting his head to watch your reaction. The reverberation of the pleasure causes you to moan and he smirks at you—what’s worse, he winks at you, so terribly smug that he coaxed such sound like that by one lick and it makes you tremble, needing more. He can see it, but he tortures you, keeping his hands on your thighs. 

And when Yoongi reaches behind himself and sinks your headband with yellow kitty ears into Jungkook’s hair, you’re done for. You must’ve left it there when you were doing your makeup. Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge it, however. Too drunk by his first proper taste of you to do so, glossy eyes transfixed by that flesh of yours. 

It suits him so well that you coo at him, grasping his neck to pull him back to your cunt, but he doesn’t let you. Your heart begins to thump with hard beats and you grow desperate, whining, looking at Yoongi to make him do something. 

He merely smiles at you. “Be patient.” 

At his words, Jungkook lifts your legs and begins to focus on the back of your thigh, marking it, groaning against your skin, inhaling your mango scent. He roams his tongue all over and you whine louder, finding it so unfair that you have to wait for it, that he reinforces your neediness by those hard kisses and sucks, by his sounds, breaths and control. You grind your hips, the ache between your legs made unbearable by your helplessness and Yoongi stops you by placing his hand on your lower belly. 

“Did I not tell you to be patient? Be good,” Yoongi scolds, lowly, rubbing the place in slow circles. Your whine is bratty, but you nod your head, pouting, halting all your movements, becoming still like the wind that has come to stay and observe the unfolding of your daydream. 

At your submission, Yoongi creeps a finger to your wet clit, testing you. Doesn’t do anything beyond that and once he sees you’re well-behaved, he plunges the same finger into your mouth, giving you a taste of Jungkook’s saliva. You mewl, sucking it. The healer watches the act in deep thought, your skin in his mouth, and you’re certain an idea flashes in his mind. 

Jungkook straightens to his full height, proving you right and the feeling is utterly gratifying. Reaches behind him and grabs the tall glass filled with water that you never noticed he put on the coffee table. Yoongi withdraws his digit and inspects his friend’s doing with curiosity. Jungkook takes a small sip of it without taking his gaze off of you, tips it to your mouth right after and you realize he did it more so it wouldn’t overflow, as you take a well-needed sip of your own, rather than to refresh himself. That is until he does something that completely shocks you, ripping away your delightful proudness of being proven right. 

It is something between a yelp and a moan when the coldness of the water drops onto the skin of your chest, scattering it with tiny, pellucid pearls that almost pool by your violent heart. The demo before the full game; your breathing gains as much speed as the throbbing in your clit. Jungkook inclines the glass again, holds it as a longer, thicker trail trickles down your body—from the middle of your breasts, across your tummy until it reaches your cunt. And the contact of the liquid with the hotness of your swollen seashell? You groan, rolling your body. So much that you slap your hands down on the leather, gripping it with all your might, needing something stable to hold onto, to release your pent-up desperation. 

Amused, Jungkook sets the glass down and kneels back down. Licks a long, torturous stripe from your clit up to those pearls, following the path he mapped out while zeroing his stare into yours. You part your mouth, your madness closing around you again, puffing out short breaths and subdued, desperate moans and when Jungkook closes his lips over your neck and begins to suck, you turn your head towards Yoongi and roll your eyes back. Struggle to keep them open as you feel that muscle of his tracing patterns on the sensitive skin and Yoongi knows. He knows how good it is for you and he kisses you like he means it, mimicking what his friend is doing around your tongue. 

Your sounds grow in volume. Your desperation, too, in intensity. 

“Please.” 

Jungkook emerges from your neck but wraps a hand around it, nonetheless. Is as close to you as your breath, his nose bumping into yours. He squeezes your column firmly before he curtly turns your jawline away from Yoongi. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat under his forearm, if he can feel how desperate she is for him, too—in a way you don’t understand. “Please what?” 

He opens your mouth wider and spits. 

Shock comes first like a thunderbolt, spreading across your veins, paralyzing your body. Then it blurs into a tumultuous arousal that seizes you whole, that makes you beg for more. No one has ever spat in your mouth, not even Yoongi. You’ve never liked it in porn, but experiencing it first-hand gives it another meaning. The dominance, the absolute film of lustfulness caking his face, the estimable seriousness that wafts off of him. He’s turned you into a boneless putty, his putty, and you want him to do it again. 

“Spit in my mouth again, please—please.” 

Jungkook grunts. Shadows surround your vision as you narrow your eyes in sheer pleasure at his sound, biting your lip to cage in your worsening desire for him—but he saves your lip, pulls it away from your teeth and opens your mouth wide. You ogle him as he sloshes his saliva in his mouth above you before he taps your tongue, signalizing you to stick it out for him. Once you listen, he spits hard onto the muscle that waited for it. You moan, satisfied, swallowing it right away and showing him. 

He pokes his own tongue in his inner cheek, fire blazing in his as equally narrowed eyes, the act of spitting in your mouth making him beyond fucked out. You can sense it deep in your core and your obsession with it grows. 

“You’re filthy, but so good. It’s making me lose my fucking mind,” he says, hazily, fingers squeezing your throat for a heartbeat. The momentary lack of oxygen gives you a perfect demonstration of his words and the moans you let out are so breathy, so choked out that he takes your madness and makes it his own—loosening his grip and kissing you nastily, licking into your mouth, both hands traveling south to your breasts and kneading them harshly, pressing your nipples between his fingers. 

And when you utter the words rising vehemently in your throat, he takes the demonstration to otherworldly levels. “Thank you, Daddy.” 

Jungkook cocks his head at you and drags his teeth painfully across his bottom lip, swearing. His eyes darken, at last. Thrill sizzles beneath your skin and you feel an upsurge of adrenaline, the aftertaste of the title so sweet, so delicious on your tongue. “As if you didn’t deserve it already, I’m gonna take you to heaven for that.” 

You laugh softly, brushing your fingers through his hair, anticipation joining the adrenaline. “You like me calling you that?” 

He hums his agreement and you don’t feel Yoongi, you don’t even feel his hand; your vision, surroundings, persona blurring so rapidly. “Daddy’s gonna make you feel so good. All you have to do is come for him as many times as you can. Thank him that way. Is that clear?” 

You shiver at the use of third person. Never thought you’d find it as alluring as you do. Brush your thumb across his brow like he does it to you. He coos, kissing your hand, sinking his body lower. Touched by the gesture. “Yes, Daddy. That won’t be too difficult for me to do.”

Jungkook gives you a smile that envelops you in an aura, where it’s just you and him. You don’t have the brain cells, nor the will, the desire to stop it. “That’s a good girl. On her best behavior for us.” 

It wakes you up and the feeling of Yoongi’s grip on your hand returns, the circle of the aura withering. Disappointment descends in your gut, one that is soon forgotten when Jungkook sucks your clit into his mouth. 

The squeak you let out would be embarrassing if you weren’t so out of your mind, but the confidence it came out with, the seductiveness and beauty—Jungkook shows you how much he liked the sound by humming against your sensitivity, the appreciation smothering every fiber and nerve ending of your body, hoisting you up towards the canopy of clouds. He swirls his tongue around the flesh, sucking deeper before he opens his mouth wider and licks you all over, closing his eyes and moaning, reveling in the feeling of you, the scent of you and the warmth of you. He toys with your lips, chuckling in delight when he acknowledges himself with them, burying his mouth completely in them, kissing them, caressing them with the puffiness of his pillows. 

He’s pussydrunk—and the sight of it intoxicates you just the same. 

And then he pauses. Kisses your clit. The peck so ardently earnest that he sucks it in the process. Does it again and again until he tinges your femininity in the faintest, daintiest, most dreamiest tone of red, prettier than any flowers you’ve ever seen—so akin to the wash of color scattering along his cheekbones. Then, he rubs his face in you, vigorously, moaning against you so intensely that your sounds become one. 

Raising his head, features drenched in your dew—just like you wanted it—his chain taps your cunt in long staccatos. The pleasure is so dizzying, along with his looks, that you feebly jump at every contact. It reminds you, vividly, of the spanks you like so much. “Pussy so fucking wet and pretty for me. I’m gonna destroy you.” 

It’s only at this time that you hear Yoongi smug but quietly laugh. He draws close to your ear and his hardened breath steals your attention from his friend’s praise. “He makes me wanna taste you, too, and make you come repeatedly on my tongue. Fuck, honey. I want that so bad.” 

You mewl, about to burst at the seams, unable to take the double relish given to you from both men. Yoongi latches his mouth onto your neck, causing your eyes to roll back, and it sparks up some kind of competition in Jungkook, for when he dives back in—you scream. 

The flicks of his tongue are so brutal that your lungs heave. You take many breaths but you can’t catch them, the heat from Yoongi’s kisses and the rapidness of Jungkook’s movement numbing your body to the point that you’re rendered powerless. 

Jungkook alternates between fast flicks and long swipes from your entrance to your bundle of nerves, parting your lips so he can have easy access. And being spread like that, attended to by two males that you have strong attachment to, the kitty ears bobbing up and down as Jungkook devours you—your orgasm chases you down, the knot in your lower belly pulled so taut that it takes a mere heartbeat for it to snap completely. 

And when you come, Jungkook laps you up, grunting in insatiable need for more. Your body violently shudders, but he keeps going, widening his swirls of tongue around your clit before he rubs it with the tip of his nose and—

He begins to fuck you with his tongue. 

You don’t feel anything. Not your heartbeat, not your struggling lungs—just the hard jabs of his tongue inside your hole, pushing you closer and closer to paradise. Not heaven, you’ve been there, but to something beyond. A paradise of the warmest color and sunlight, swaying trees and a pool of the most refreshing water. 

And Yoongi’s noise of joy is the bird that flies past in that place, dipping to its reflection. “Daddy’s so good he’s giving it to you better than I ever did.”

It’s those words that make you come again. 

He laughs, fondles your nipples, holds you steady as Jungkook prolongs your orgasm by strenuously sucking your clit and you sob hard, tingling all over, senses gone, everything gone. You feel so lightweight, so airy, dopamine and oxytocin making your head all fucked up. Happy, satisfied. 

Jungkook withdraws, kissing your clit one last time, licking it slowly. “You came so hard for Daddy, well done,” he praises, mouth wet, face as colorful as the meadow of flowers in you, gleaming iridescently. “But I’m not done with you.” 

You moan, wanting more, badly. Take him by the neck with both hands and draw him closer to you, the chain stimulating your breasts. You kiss him hungrily and the taste of your dew causes you to let out such obscene sound that Jungkook and Yoongi growl simultaneously. Dulciness, with a hint of piquancy that makes you even hornier—the slipperiness of his mouth making it worse. “I want to ride your face. Please, please, let me.” 

Jungkook smiles at you, pecking your lips, faintly. Cocks his brow at Yoongi. “You’re gonna give the princess what she wants?” 

Your eyes follow the sharp line of his jaw and you bite your lip. Don’t think twice about taking that skin into your mouth, licking it over, watching as Jungkook closes his eyes at the contact. Musk, the forest, wood—you carry your still lingering hunger and unravel it upon the spot beneath that strong jaw, devouring that scent of his, aware of how his breath lodges in his throat. You mimic what he did to your clit there, enjoying every second of it, enjoying his reaction as he hums and thumbs your clit, waiting for Yoongi’s approval. 

And you quicken it by begging for it, squeaking little sounds, beckoned by that slow motion of his digit. “Please, Yoongi. I want it so bad.” 

Badly enough that you force your head away and look at him. As much as you thought there would be puzzlement to his face, what you detect is far more sinister. His smirking mouth tells you that he is simply pleased with the way you’re begging, with the way he gets to torture you. And not just you, but Jungkook as well. Ego high—his control at full play. You don’t blame him, not at all. It must be delicious to him in the middle of all this healing. 

“Ride him well, make me proud.” 

The joy springs in you so fast, but you don’t have the time to take in it. Yoongi gets up from the couch and you apprehend that you were very, very wrong. 

You haven’t healed to the point that it doesn’t bother you when Yoongi leaves. 

Your panic is so enormous that you rise, your movement so rigid that Jungkook stumbles, his arm quick to wrap around your chest, pulling you back onto the leather beside him. And you don’t see the twist of his brows, the deep clefts of his dimples while he scowles. No, you watch your boyfriend’s back as he makes his way to the dining table, your heart expanding in your throat. 

“Tell her at least where the fuck you’re going,” Jungkook grumbles, ever the healer who senses your emotions and the fact he stood up for you like this makes you mouth merely round, your otherwise triggered trauma unsettling the rest of your feelings. 

Yoongi returns a moment later with the butt plug and lube in his hand and with a solemnly guilty face. Kisses the top of your head in apology, but it’s not enough. Not when you can’t hear your heartbeat. Not when you can’t swallow. Not when your mind is so numbed by the recurring panic that you cannot even hear your mind. 

“Don’t do that to me,” you whisper, but the words are firm, piercingly sharp, important and gravely, so much that Jungkook, with sticky hands by his sides, stills next to you. 

Yoongi cups your chin, a dominant gesture, but you glare at him—masculine strength being the last thing you need right now. You may have foolishly thought your healing was complete and as much as it knifes you to be proven wrong, it’s the fact you expected more from him that hurts the most, especially after he promised you he’d be here. But maybe it’s foolish altogether, to be in hidden demand of him to tell you of his whereabouts, notably when you never voiced it out for him, not once during the therapy sessions, not once during the course of this perverted adventure—the matter of the gravity of your abandonment issues. 

You point your anger at yourself and fall to a dark, dark abyss. 

And you pushed yourself there on your own because you were incapable of reminding yourself of Yoongi’s reassurance, mind too blurred, too fucked out to remember. 

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m still here. I never left you.” 

You nod because he’s right. “I know now. I didn’t remind myself. It’s my fault.” It’s as much of a surprise to your ears as it is to Yoongi’s. He widens his eyes at your honesty before tenderness swims past. “I’m really sensitive right now.” 

Jungkook rubs circles on your back with his thumb and you welcome his touch, his warm energy.  

Yoongi caresses your face. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. What we’re doing here is pretty overwhelming. But I’m here. I got you.” His words hold the same firmness that yours did and it’s difficult for you to grasp how they’re mending you, how they’re swooping that darkness in their arms and flinging it away from your reach. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not one thing. Let me make it better for you, hm? You want me to make you feel better?” 

Emptiness plummets down your body, in place of the darkness and the anger, and the moonbeams in his eyes engulf it, filling it with its pale light. All you can do is nod, too weak to express any other form of affirmation. 

Yoongi kisses the place on your cheek beside your ear, slipping inside his words. “Good girl. The best. I’ll make you feel better. I’ll make you happy again, my love.” You sob at the pet name, at the tenderness, at the comforting feeling of Jungkook’s hand on your arm, pulling you back so you lean against his chest, participating in your healing. The round valley of his tattooed bicep nudges you in your cheek as he cages you in and you nuzzle your face into it, hooking both of your hands on his forearm. Musk, forest and wood suffusing your senses, along with a strong dose of safety. “That’s it, lean against him like that. Daddy will help you forget, too. Spread your legs for us.” 

You do as he says, needing what he’s promising you—needing it from them both. Maybe then, when it’s from such a vast source, will you get your full healing. 

Yoongi squirts a good amount of lube on his fingers, smearing it on your pussy. The coldness of it enlivens you and you lean your head back against the hardness of Jungkook’s chest, pressing your lips against his bulging muscles. And when Yoongi begins to massage your clit in slow circles, the healer tightens his hold around you, hand gripping your shoulders, the other one gliding down your tummy and staying there. Nipples pebbled against his forearm, breasts full and squished, your form safe, tucked, pleasured in the whole enormity that he is—you relax, giving yourself over to the delight of your boyfriend’s fingers. 

He sinks two of them inside you, stuffing you to the brim and pausing there. Jungkook sneaks his towards your bundle of nerves, resuming the circles, breaths hot against your scalp, gaining pleasure from pleasuring you, especially so when your healing is the primary goal behind it. 

And when Yoongi begins to fuck you, his hand drops from your shoulder and settles over your tit, pinching your nipple between the knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. You cry out and it drives your boyfriend to pump his digits harder—to the point that you can’t see the in and out motion, the pace so fast it becomes a blur. 

“Let go, honey, come on, let it go for us,” Yoongi murmurs, putting his whole body into his intention; you would move along with him, too, if Jungkook weren’t holding you so tightly. “You feel so good around my fingers. So tight, so wet. Such a good girl, getting what you deserve.” 

Jungkook quickens his circles, gruff groans muffled against your scalp. “You can do it, sweetheart. I know it feels good when we touch you like this.” 

Your body drips in sweat and only when Yoongi agrees, pistons his fingers faster into you do you fully let go. Your anger, your trauma, your darkness leaves you in the form of your dew and Yoongi collects it in his hand. Doesn’t stop fucking you, in fact encourages another one and you spill until your wetness overflows from his hand. Eyes rolling back, hips lifting, legs spreading even further apart. Both men praise you, but you can’t hear them—your senses silent. 

They come back to you when Yoongi licks his digits clean, swallowing your pain. Doesn’t waste time and turns you around, your sore, sensitive body colliding into Jungkook’s. And like him, he dives into your pussy, licking you clean, not having enough of your darkened taste. 

You’re so out of it that you can only focus on the brush of Jungkook’s hand down your hair and the overstimulation that seizes you, that you can’t do anything about other than take it. “Coming so well, so many times for us. You feel better?” 

You can’t answer his question, not when Yoongi begins to trace your tiny, virgin hole with his tongue, giving you a new kind of pleasure that you’ve never felt before. Your eyes whisk to the back of your head and Jungkook cradles it, understanding whooshing past his eyes—understanding that you can’t speak, not when you’re experiencing something so extensive. He smiles down at you, squishing your cheeks. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Fuck, you look so pretty.” 

Your choked out moans are enough of an affirmation for him. He coos. Then, a squirt of lube. A finger slowly going in. A gasp, a warm breath that Jungkook inhales, feeling it with you. The uncertainty in your eyes that he instantly smooths out. “You can take it. You’re such a good girl, why wouldn’t you be able to take it? Just relax. I got you.” He kisses your nose and you want to weep in joy, so overcome with it all. 

Per his reassurance, your round muscle relaxes and sucks him in. And when he begins to fuck you, you can’t contain your sounds. So lewd, so dirty, and Jungkook emboldens you by scrunching up his features, groaning with you, taking breaths with you. You give in, entirely, feel another orgasm coming, but Yoongi rips it away. Wants you to come around the thicker toy. 

The coldness of it makes you tremble, although the hunger both of the males awakened in you for it drives you to move your hips back, helping Yoongi insert it in. It takes a few tries, a few ins and outs before you welcome in it, before the fullness enthralls you so much that you become even needier, even more confident and seductive. 

Yoongi presents you to his friend, but each movement you make causes you to be more desperate than you’ve been the entire sultry night. Everything is heightened—every touch, every enjoyment of praise, every sliver of attention and all you want is to be fucked. Brutally, ravagedly fucked. 

To absorb the sight of you as you’re positioned on your hands and knees, Jungkook begins to make love on the skin of your behind with his tongue. You feel every word of apology compressed into it. For every bruise, for every red splodge, for every acute pain caused, no matter how much you enjoyed it in the moment. It’s just between you and him, shielded by the premise of desire stirred by your adorned tiny hole. And you keep it that way, whimpering for him sweetly, validating it for him. Tucking it safely into every chamber of your heart. 

Then, he strokes the flesh, replacing the bad memories with good ones—replacing the past with the present time. Lies down between your legs and pushes your hips down onto your face. 

And you ride him. His tongue, his nose. Fondle the kitty ears askew on his head. Let his moans envelop around those chambers of your heart, protecting them. Let his eyes seal your scorching, enchanting femininity with all its spirited confidence. And once he pacifies the grinding movement of your hips and takes control, palming your breasts, lips sucking your clit, tongue toying with it, you come in seconds that are not pathetic in nature, but outright exhilarating. 

You lean back against Yoongi, out of breath. He wraps his hand around your throat. “What do you want now, honey? You want to get fucked?” 

You hum, the idea clutching your body in tight excitement. “Yes. Badly. Please.” 

At your words, Jungkook begins to tug at his length and the needy movement reverberates throughout your entire body. You coo at him, enjoying the view and you get on your knees in front of the couch to watch him, inhaling his sounds like he did yours. 

“You want us to take turns? He stops, as if he was seconds away from coming, and you wrap your lips around him, letting him know how much you like the idea—at which he trembles, pulling you away. You grin at him in pure joy. “Like the sound of that?” 

“Fuck yes. Please. Both holes.”

Jungkook hisses, round, dark eyes rolling back for a split moment, losing himself—thumb swiping across your mouth once he comes back. “Daddy’s so fucking needy for you. Come here.” 

He manhandles you. Like a child he carries you to the dining space and bends you over the table. You turn your head to see where Yoongi is and he slowly swaggers towards you and Jungkook, popping his button open and pulling out his length. Tip red and painfully swollen, length long and hard—longer than you’ve ever seen it—balls tight. And when Jungkook begins to fuck you sluggishly with the butt plug, you grip the wood of the table with all your strength, fingertips white, and watch as it drives Yoongi to fuck his fist. 

The same fist he cups under your chin when he reaches you. “Spit.” 

And you do—at the same time that Jungkook forces out the silver toy, tongue immediately coming to whirl around the stretched muscle. Like before, as Jungkook fucks you there, Yoongi fucks his fist. The sounds that spill out of all three mouths are simultaneous, creating a harmony fitting just right for the paradise you find yourself in. It’s such a vigor that he eats your ass with—he does it much differently than Yoongi. Hungry and feral, he again buries his face in your ass, squeezing the flesh, before he drills the muscle with fast, strong jabs. You can’t see anything, the pleasure so intense, so darkly intense and heavily pressured that your vision remains perpetually in the back of your head. Your orgasm closes down upon you swiftly, at once, when he rubs your clit with all four fingers, not expecting it at all as no flashes danced across that night-doused canopy of nothingness before your eyes, no body heat nor pressure rose. Jungkook secures your release by slipping the butt plug back in, smacking his mouth in delight. You slump against the table, boneless. 

Jungkook takes your arms and pins them behind your back, angling the hot tip of his cock at your entrance. “You ready for this?” 

Your yes is but a tweet. 

Jungkook hums, breaths hard. “You want this cock?” 

This time, your yes is a louder screech, vibrating through the whole apartment. 

“Hm, I’m gonna stretch you out for him. Make your hole nice and big for all the cum we’ll dump you with. You’re gonna take it all like the good girl you are, aren’t you?” 

Both of your holes, your muscles, your organs clench at his words and you can’t halt the litany of vulgar words and agreement from pouring out. His grip around your intertwined forearms is deathly and when he fills you to the brim, tip kissing your cervix, walls stretching around his thick girth little by little and gives you a singular, hard stroke that shakes the table, you scream so loud that the sound echoes around the room, carrying it out into the feverish night. 

Your words are jumbled, a perfect mess, and it takes more than a few tries for you to get them out coherently. “You’re—you’re giving me all of it?” you ask, because if there’s more inches for you to take, you’ll die.  

Jungkook chuckles, darkly, lips at your ear, his body heat enveloping yours like a chunky blanket. Sneaks a hand to your hip bone. Sinks a little deeper until his pelvis touches yours, his heat spreading into all of your pores. You gasp. “I’m giving you every.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Inch.” Thrust. “And it’s all yours, sweetheart.”

You’re breathless, weak, and it’s a slow crescendo, the way he begins to roll his hips, the way he straightens and the fresh wind goes for the imprint of sweat of your and his origin on your back, cooling it, though he rips the briskness away almost instantaneously, repeating his hard stroke, the table banging against the wall. Doesn’t give you the time to prepare. 

“Can you take it?” he asks, along with that dark chuckle again. Your hands begins to tingle due to the way he’s gripping your wrists, your blood at a standstill. “Can you take us both, huh?” 

Brutal thrust. Just what you wanted. He takes you by the throat and presses you against his chest, kissing you with such vulgarity that you moan into his mouth, the fullness you feel only heightening it. He grinds in response, hands descending to your breasts, kneading them, pinching both of your nipples between his knuckles and thumbs. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You whine. 

He withdraws, then. Motions over to Yoongi. The loss disappoints you. 

A man of his word, Jungkook stretched you enough for Yoongi to easily slip inside you to the hilt. You expect him to give you a few strokes before giving you over to his friend, and you prop your hands on the table to ready yourself for it, for Yoongi’s hunger as he’s the only one who hasn’t felt any pleasure over the course of the adventure. 

But Yoongi only grips himself and pulls out. 

A thicker length. To the brim. A slender one. And they repeat it until all you can hear is the madness of their aroused laughter, their grunts and their pants. Hands all over you. The feeling is so overwhelming that everything becomes a blur. You don’t know whose hand is touching you, whose mouth is kissing you, whose cock is drilling you, senses ascending to a place beyond the paradise—

And then you feel both of their tips toying with your abused hole, acting, feignedly—drawing in and out, never fully penetrating. 

A short-lived moment that causes you to forget who you are. 

“Oh, god,” you drawl, slumping against the wood, helpless. They continue to take turns in fucking you fluidly, the symphony of your slick so loud, so filthy to your ears. You’re numb to the point that you don’t peep a sound, disoriented and so adrift in the place beyond paradise that they took you to. 

Jungkook takes control once he hears your call for help. Begins to piston his length inside you rapidly until stars take shape across your vision, wrapping a forearm around your neck similarly to the way he did in the middle of your healing, digging crescent moons into your shoulder. Stops your head from knocking back and forth furiously. You feel his sweat drip down his pelvis—and with each hard thrust, its pearls jump over to your skin, trickling down your trembling legs. The pressure in your core is but a heartbeat away from bursting. You sense it—and you sense it vehemently. 

“Are you gonna come around my cock or around his, hm? Whose is it gonna be, sweetheart?” 

Your body answers him for you, your walls tightening around him so resolutely that Jungkook stills, whimpering onto your neck. You come so hard that there is absolutely nothing else that you hear but that whiny sound—and all you can see is the stars gaining vibrant colors to their pointed shapes, various, various colors that blind you. Colors that, like you, get dumped with hot, ivory, thick cum. 

Your orgasm triggered his. 

You mewl like a little kitty cat, so pleased that he came in you, so pleased that you felt it, that you felt the twitching of his cock. Pleased that when you gape at him, you can see how spent he is, content and illuminated like those stars. 

You want to lick him up. You want to taste that glow on your tongue. 

His cum drips out of you when you turn around. Jungkook collects it with two of his fingers and pumps it back inside you. The look you give him is almost predatory, so awfully fierce that he grows faintly timid, post-nut clarity cocooning him in a soft aura, bringing his puppy nature back to him. 

You sit back down on the table and spread your legs for your boyfriend, but your gaze remains fixed on him. Blindly, you reach for Yoongi’s hand, drawing him closer, and he happily obliges your silent command. Lines himself up at your entrance and pumps Jungkook’s cum deeper into you. 

You let the puppy see the exhilaration springing up your body, tugging the corners of your mouth to each side. The glint in your eyes. The pure joy that you feel. Then, the falling of that expression as it blends into a depiction of your pleasure—furrowed brows, pout, narrowed lids. You don’t take your eyes off of him. Not even for a second. 

In fact, you curl your fingers in beckoning. And when he comes to you, you lick a stripe of the sweat coating his defined abdomen, tongue rolling around the valley of his hard muscle. Kiss the skin before you suck it into your mouth, moaning when Yoongi goes all in—fucking you with all of his energy. The taste of his glow only betters the experience, but you don’t think you can come again. You enjoy it, nonetheless. 

And when you turn your attention to your boyfriend, deeming he deserves it—Jungkook steals it in typical fashion. “Feels good?” Light, much bigger than yours, covering his eyes. You nod, humming, girlishly so—the sound pitched. “You’re gonna come again? For him?” 

You consider it an impossible task, but for him you’ll do anything. “I’ll try.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of approval, leans in and kisses you gently. Yoongi turns your chin to him and as soon as your lips touch his, you feel his cock twitch. Unlike Jungkook, he fucks you through his orgasm, groaning loudly into your mouth and you reach to the place, where you’re connected and squeeze his balls, wanting his cum, needing it.

And when Yoongi emerges from his bliss, he smiles at you, breathing out a soft laugh. Features relaxed, drowsy. You give him a smile, too, the same tiredness engulfing you. 

Slinking out of you, you discover he came so vastly that his male essence trickles out of you. You graze a finger across your slit and you gather so much of it that as you take your hand towards your mouth, it plops onto your stomach. You giggle, high on the hormones released through your body, high on the happy males watching you, high on life—high on rightness. The joy doesn’t even let you wrap your lips around your finger, adamant on showing them how well they gratified you by keeping them stretched in a dopey grin. 

They’re so endeared by you that the same expression graces their faces. Exchanging a single glance, they start at once—picking you up like a child. Yoongi by your legs, Jungkook by your pits and it’s him, the healer, who leads the way to the bathroom, walking backwards hurriedly. 

Though promptly, when putting you down, your legs are so sore, so weakened that if it weren’t for their arms, you’d fall onto the tiles. Giggles and obscenities are swallowed by the crooning sound of the streaming hot water in the shower and you sigh so deeply once it touches your skin. It alleviates the ache of your muscles, alleviates the throbbing memory of the last time you were under that burning cascade—especially when Yoongi twists your body, making you face Jungkook; especially when he says the words that quicken your heartbeat. 

“Wash her clean.” 

Making things right. Erasing that afternoon that ended in blood and bruises. 

The wet, puppy eyes you give to Jungkook are enough for him to do as Yoongi says, mirroring your mien, greatly affected by the permission, by the act of something so forbidden untangling its inextricable knot. It happened so suddenly that he doesn’t truly believe he’s allowed to do it, hands shaking by his sides, clenched into fists. It is only when Yoongi begins to shampoo your hair that he’s spurred to do something. 

And you help him. With a thudding heart and tight emotion lodged in your throat, you hand him your favorite almond-scented body wash. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you when he spreads the aroma on your sternum. Doesn’t blink once, doesn’t let his eyes wander south to your body—as if it was sacred, as if it was not meant to be looked at with lust in this intimate scenario. 

And you don’t feel fire when the heat of his hands glides down your neck, your shoulders and your arms. You feel something else entirely, something you can’t really pinpoint. Something holy, something so immensely heavenly. Maybe it’s brought about by the fact that he doesn’t touch your intimate parts—not your breasts, not your vulva. The only time he comes near to it is when he leads you into his chest and carefully, while peeking down, tries to pull out the forgotten toy. You sense Yoongi’s hands on your backside, watching over, and the feeling of being rid of it is so uncomfortable that you cringe against his pec, squeezing him hard, hugging him with everything in you. Jungkook makes gentle sounds for you, encouraging you and it relaxes your body enough that it lets go of the toy. 

Grabbing your shoulders, he studies your emotions. Sees only your same old tiredness and he pecks you, descending onto the tiled floor to cleanse you of your stickiness. Isn’t grossed out by the male essence that isn’t his. Kisses your trembling muscles on the apex of your thigh. Cradles your foot, massages it. The other one, too. 

And when Yoongi rinses out your shampoo and the bubbles of your almond body wash, Jungkook tells him, gravely, “Wash her where she needs it.”

You’re so touched by the fact he doesn’t dare to lay a hand there in a non-sexual environment that it doesn’t leave any space for shock to come through. Your finger itches to hook around his, but you take one step further—you slide your hand into his. And like a child, you let yourself be washed in between your legs as Jungkook, like a father, watches over it. 

Once you’re clean, the males take their turns. You observe the bubbles, the white foam, their veined hands gliding along their glistening bodies and, alternating, you touch them, helping them in a way. Touch the love bruise upon Jungkook’s abdomen; touch the indistinct happy trail on Yoongi’s. Rinse them off. 

Needing to be held, you guide Jungkook’s hands to your waist and fold your arms around Yoongi’s shoulders, but both males think differently. Squishing you in the middle of them, they hug each other, each head buried in each crook of your neck. You feel their hearts beat as one and it nearly lulls you to sleep, its healing beauty soothing you to the point that your lids become heavier. And the three of you stand there, in a cozy, homely embrace, until coldness wraps around you, too. 

They let you do your thing on your own. 

Once you come out of the shower, Yoongi kisses you and asks you if he should bring you any clothes. You merely shake your head and he leaves it at that, following Jungkook out of the bathroom. 

You lather your body in your mango butter in your aloneness. Blowdry your hair. Do your skincare. Note that there aren’t any thoughts in your brain, just deep, content silence swimming around with happy hormones. You’re so grateful for it that you could weep. 

To bed, you wear your newest purchase. A pink lacy camisole with matching bodycon shorts. You slide your feet into your fluffy slippers and as you make your way into the living room, you hope with all your heart that Jungkook hasn’t left. You haven’t exchanged many words after the sex and because of that, you knife yourself with the expectation to find only Yoongi lounging around in the sitting area. 

Midwalk, you bind it all into a loose braid. Don’t use a tie to seal it. Merely flip your hair back—with the futile wish it would untangle. 

And it does when you find the males smoking on the balcony with the door wide open. Jungkook, fully dressed in the outfit he came in. Yoongi, wearing his pants. You let out a quiet breath of relief, stooping to the ground to pick up your robe and the cheese ball, a dreadful twinge in your lower body alarming you. And then, you notice that someone folded your little sheer outfit neatly on the chair. 

“I wasn’t able to touch her after you,” you hear Yoongi say, the wholeness of the starry night plating his low pitch. You still your breathing, the perplexity from his words forcing you to whisk your head in his direction. “All I saw was my shortcomings… and—and I didn’t know how to please her anymore because you showed her new things. I felt less than. Unable to be the right person for her sexually.” 

Your heart shrinks so much it pains you. Yoongi never told you these things during the therapy sessions. He mainly spoke about the sexual moments at the cabin, but never about the ones after, never about what truly bothered him on his healing journey. He bottled it up. Your throat fills with bile. 

“Has what we did tonight changed that?” Jungkook asks, shoulders tense. “We practically did the same things and she was more than pleased.” 

Your heart grows back to its full size at the positive mention of you. You rise to your full form, flinging the cheese ball into its empty bowl before folding your robe. Your ears perk in waiting for his answer. 

“I think so.” The bile sinks back down, along with the pain coated with sadness. “I also think we should do this again.” 

Your mind doesn’t allow your body to exult, knowing the reason why he said it. 

He wants to either finish the hidden healing or… check if it has come to an end. 

The tension doesn’t ease in Jungkook’s shoulders. “Only if you work hard and focus on her. I’m not consenting to this if you only touch her with me being present.”

Silence in your heart—a skipped beat. You don’t want to hear any more of that conversation. You put away your robe and grab the dishes, washing them in the sink. 

No matter how much dish soap you use, you can’t scrub away the healer’s magic off of your hands. It pelts under your skin, to and fro, over and over as you repeat his words in your mind. Gives strength to your fingers as you hold the unusually heavy plates and bowls, the tiredness a hefty burden on your shoulders, weighing you down. 

Such a good man. You’re so grateful to know such an extraordinary being like him. A good friend, the best you could wish for Yoongi. A good lover, too—

“I think it’s way bigger and deeper, this relationship and how I feel about it. I can’t help it—” Jungkook’s voice no longer a far-off murmuring, he halts his words at the sight of you. Calls your name. “I thought you were asleep already.” 

You turn off the tap water, ignoring the question in your body about the incomplete sentence he uttered while being under the impression you were beyond hearing distance. Think you’ve learned and come about plenty enough of things tonight. You want to go to bed. With both of them. 

You don’t say your reasoning behind why you’re here. Deem it’s pointless. “Let’s go to bed.” 

You reach out your hand for him, but it is only the wind that encases your palm. You drop it. 

A chaos of shoulds and desires swarms in him. You can see it, vividly. “I should go home.” 

You’re having your way, you don’t care. “No. Stay.” 

Jungkook calls your name again. Yoongi licks his lips, smiling, fondly. Walks towards you and grabs your hand, leading you towards the bedroom. The puppy stays fixed on his feet, not comprehending that you want him to sleep in Yoongi’s bed and not on the couch. 

You raise your hand again for him. “Come, you’re sleeping with us.” 

Jungkook has gone commando under his jeans. You eye the sliver of minimal hair on his pelvis and before you can ogle his worm, he cups himself. 

Unabashedly, you click your tongue in disappointment, even though the recollection of your private decision to have his boxers as a keepsake, approved by him, suffuses your exhausted body in delight. 

You get under the sheets, right in the middle, watching as Yoongi hands him his gray sweatpants to wear, holding your breath when Jungkook turns around and you gain a perfect view of his round, toned ass. 

You’re certain that man will be the death of you. 

Yoongi crawls into the bed, nuzzling into the crooks of your body that he knows well, cuddling to your arm. You hear him inhale the scent of your shampoo. “You smell so good.” 

You stroke his forearm with your fingernails, transfixed by the way the waistband of the forbidden pants hangs low on Jungkook’s hips, by his slow, seductive walk that you don’t particularly think he’s doing on purpose. That’s just what makes him him, which worsens it all. 

In similar fashion, he lays down beside you, but he doesn’t turn to his side as your boyfriend has done. No, like you, he rests on his back, hands by his body, touching you without meaning to. His warmth environs you, but you notice that a good half of his body isn’t covered by the sheets. You fix it right away, tucking him in—tucking the fabric right under his chin. 

He gives you a strange look that makes you giggle. “You want me to burn?” 

Oh, men and their body heat. You’ll never grow tired of it—it’ll forevermore fascinate you. 

You shush him. “Sleep.” Pinch his nose, deepening his funny scowl. “Goodnight, sweet dreams.” 

Yoongi begins to purr beside you and you know he’s halfway on his journey to dreamland. You lay back down, hip to hip with both males, hands on your tummy, your eyes languidly fluttering closed.

A hand on your thigh. You open them fleetingly, surprised at the contact, before they close on their own.

“I’ve missed his purring,” Jungkook whispers, thumb brushing across your smooth skin. Just once. “Haven’t heard it in a while. It’s better than brown noise.” 

You laugh, softly, agreeing with him in your heart. Submit to the call of your own dreamland and you turn to your side, facing Yoongi, propping the back of your hand under your chin. 

But then Jungkook folds into your form. 

Mirrors your position. Arm around you, hand relaxed on the mattress an inch away from your tummy. 

It makes you feel funny. It makes you wild, your body gaining the tiniest tendril of energy. You curse him, mentally, although you don’t mean a single word. 

You feel his gentle breath fanning the nape of your neck. Along with it arrives the need for him to touch you. You purse your lips, burying your head deeper into the pillow in effort to shake that off and focus on relaxing your body—

“Hyung?” 

He hums in response. You curse him, too. 

“She didn’t come when you fucked her.” 

Your eyes fly open. The audacity this man has—

Tense, tense nothingness. It thrums uncomfortably under your skin. 

“Lemme make it right.” 

Radio silence in your heart, its profound waves shaking through your entire body, tearing off its drowsiness. 

“Okay, Jungkookie.” 

Your gasp is so minimal, yet Jungkook feels it. He presses his palm against your stomach, pulling you closer to him. Yoongi turns to his other side, as if giving you the privacy for what Jungkook wants to do to you. 

Reposing halfway on his back, halfway on his side, he maneuvers your form to mirror his position. And for the longest time, you both just lay there while Jungkook brushes his fingers along your clothed body. Back and forth, in circles, in peculiar patterns that soothe you. You thought you’d fall asleep this way, but the touches keep your body awake, promising it things in a silent language that it so evidently wants. 

And it isn’t until Yoongi begins to snore that you perceive Jungkook waited until he entered his deep slumber. The breath you let out is loud, absorbed by your boyfriend’s much bigger ones, but it makes Jungkook hold your jaw steady as he draws his lips close to your ear. 

“I didn’t like that he used you,” he whispers and his words fill your body with something foreign, something that drives your brows to knit, your muscles to clench, for butterflies to stir awake, although you disagree with him. Yoongi didn’t use you. You don’t really think he did. When you motioned him to take his turn, you expected to come again, but your body was so spent that it wasn’t able to do so, which is completely okay in your opinion. “If I fuck a girl and I come first before she does, I don’t stop until she creams all around me. Even if it hurts.” 

You remember him pushing you away when you wanted to keep going after he orgasmed. “You don’t like to be overstimulated, though.”

He snickers again, softly and lowly. “And yet I don’t stop.” Both hands on your tummy, he glides them down, towards your hips, towards your thighs before he drags them back up. Lifts up your camisole this time around, getting a feel of your skin. Rubs circles. “I want to make you come like you deserved to. Can I?”

“I came a lot of times. I don’t know if I can.” 

Jungkook caresses your bottom lip with his thumb, angling your jaw towards him. “We can try and see if you can.” 

We. He kisses your cheek and you pout in his hand. Brain turned off, too numb by all the orgasms, the attention and the affection you’ve received, you take the other one and slide it beneath your shorts. Feel an onrush of freshness in your lungs when he whimpers at the contact of your lips with the pads of his fingers and you move your hips back against him, gaining another sound of similar nature that willingly tempts your madness to return to you. 

He’s hard. 

You grind your backside against his thick imprint, loving the feeling of it, loving the soft noises he makes as if he was trying to stifle them, but you were making it awfully difficult for him to do so. 

“Don’t do that or I’ll cum in Yoongi’s pants.” 

Your laugh is feral. Quiet, gentle. An oxymoron that could only belong to his name. To his art. The idea of him coming in your boyfriend’s pants drenches you and he gasps once he discovers it, teasing your entrance. 

“You want me to come like this?” he asks and you hum your agreement, his fingers ascending to your clit, stroking it in slow, slow circles. His breath hardens in tandem with yours and he swears. “But I don’t and you will listen to me.” 

He pulls out his hand and you whine, catching his wrist, bringing it back where it belongs. On your clothed, now swollen clit. You grind your hips with more fervor, just to work him up, just because you enjoy it and he fists the material of your shorts, stimulating you with the seam, dominating you through and through. 

You merely beam at him, illuminating the room, fisting his cock. “Don’t stretch out my new shorts.”

“Don’t provoke me and we’ll reach an understanding,” he retorts, swirling his tongue around the bone of your jaw before he kisses it. Responding to it, you grind your pelvis back, angling your hips so his cock fits just right in between your cheeks. He tuts in disapproval, shifts a little bit more to his side nonetheless, pulling you flush to his body. “No, other way sweetheart. Grind your pussy against it.” You try it, placing your hand on top of his, unsure and he helps you, guiding your hips with his, grinding upwards, as if he was fucking you. You mewl at the pleasure permeating your veins and with his free hand, he clamps your mouth shut. “Yes, that’s it.” He tightens his hold on your shorts, hoisting it higher. “Feels so good like this, doesn’t it?” You nod, your noises loud, only slightly muffled by his clammy hand. He shushes you, breath hot against your ear. “You gotta be quiet. We don’t wanna wake Yoongi up, do we?” You shake your head ‘no’, squeezing your hold on his hand. Jungkook lets go of your shorts and slides beneath them again, fingers spreading your new arousal on your clit. You squeak again, terribly sensitive and turned on, bound in his arms. “I told you to be quiet. Do you know what happens to girls who don’t listen?” 

You’re glad to hear he didn’t add “to me”, for some deranged reason and for that, you don’t peep a sound. 

“They get punished,” he answers for you and you can’t stop the moan from escaping your throat, the idea of getting punished by him again making you utterly, utterly delirious. 

He strains his fingers around your mouth until it hurts, but that’s not the reason why you draw it away. You do it so you can speak. “Teach me a lesson, please. I need it.” 

You wish you could see his reaction, but the darkness keeps it to itself. You can only hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes—and you can feel the twitch of his cock against you that divulges to you that he’s gone mad just the same. 

While silence takes place, he drags your shorts down to your thighs, the tight cotton preventing you from spreading your legs. He moves you so you lay on your back and from this position, you sense Yoongi’s body heat and the lift and fall of his chest, though he still remains facing you with his back. Jungkook lifts your camisole until your breasts are exposed. And then, he props the back of your head on his bicep, clamping your mouth back shut. He looks down at you and you can only slightly make out his features. The glint of his lip ring irradiates him. Mercifully. 

You want to kiss him so bad. 

“How does Yoongi punish you, hm?” 

The question shocks you, coaxes out a string of your arousal to drop down your clenched thighs. Whilst he waits for your answer, he grazes his palm down your sternum, your stomach, your mound. Leaves it there. 

It’s your body that responds out of its own will, not your brain. You can’t, for the life of you, think. He allows you to speak. “With his words. His cock. And… with pussy spanks.” 

Jungkook hums. Puts the covers out, revealing you to himself. “Show me how he spanks you.” Your hand trembles as he lifts it. He brushes his thumb across your knuckles while he places it on your cunt, taking control of that expression of nerves. Wraps the other hand around your throat. 

When your fingers collide with your clit, you hiss in sensitivity. Decide you will only show him this way. You can’t take any more. “Like this. Gently, but firmly. So it doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t like to cause me pain.” 

He exchanges your hand with his and spanks you. With bigger firmness than Yoongi ever used. You arch your back, not expecting it with your dumb brain. He pinches your right nipple between his knuckle and thumb, making you moan softly, not having enough and enveloping it with his mouth, sucking briefly before he swirls his tongue around the nub. Your wetness rushes out, along with your noises that you’re just so incapable of stopping. You grip his hair on the back of his head and in response he flicks the muscle. Your hips buck, asking for attention. 

Jungkook withdraws, stares you dead in the eye. “I’m punishing you for making a sound and yet you do as you please?” 

You swear, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.” 

He spanks your clit. “Sorry what?” 

Remembrance flashes through your mind. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

“Hm, that’s right.” He rubs your clit rapidly. Spanks it again. Your moans come out in strained breaths. “That was for the curse word. Say you’re sorry.”

But then, you can’t help but mewl at his fatherliness. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

He pecks you, deeply. For the title, for your good manners or perhaps to silence you—you don’t know. “How sorry?” 

His fingers find your clit again, strumming it, lips moving against you in a passionate kiss. Your brain malfunctions. “So sorry,” you whisper onto his mouth, gripping his hair.  

He spanks you, softly, for pleasure, then continues. “You won’t say it again?” 

“No.”

A sound of approval. “Good girl.” He sinks his middle finger inside you as far as your restrain allows him, fucking you slowly. The pressure of delight begins to build in you. “One more?” 

“Yes, please, Daddy.” 

Ring finger joins in, instantly. “Such a good girl. I love hearing you say that.” He jackhammers into you a few times before he stills, thumbing your clit. The fullness, the stimulation on your most needy part—it’s enough to make you come and you feel it chasing you again, nearing and nearing. “I want to fuck you like this with my fingers and have that toy on your clit. The one we used the last time. Keep the setting low, so it wouldn’t wake him up.” 

A curse word rises on your tongue, but with the last brain cell you have—you swallow it down. You’re tiptoeing before the edge, knot tight in your tummy, pressure so enormous, and you tell him. “I’m gonna come.” 

He lifts his thumb. “Hold it.” 

You panic, faintly, standing still before the edge, face to face with your orgasm, close, terribly close. “I can’t.” 

Jungkook shifts. “You will.” Bends you in half while keeping his fingers inside you, mouth latching onto your soaked cunt. 

Takes control of your orgasm as he begins to toy with it, building it little by little with sluggish circles on your clit with the tip of his tongue. Then, he wraps his lips around it, nibbling on it and resumes the movement of his fingers, fucking you steadily. 

The pleasure is so new, so different that you feel as though you’re levitating in heavenly places. You grind your hips against him, meeting him, but briefly. When he sucks your clit, he stills your motions and spreads shakes across your entire body. “Come for Daddy, sweetheart.” 

He flicks his tongue—and you do. You come so violently for him that you grip his hair with all your might, surprised that he isn’t wincing in pain. And he doesn’t stop. 

He keeps going until all that’s left of you is nothing but the cordiality of your high and those shudders, licking you up, devouring all that you’re giving him, wet fingers spread on the back of your thighs. 

Then, he sets your legs down, straddles you and kisses you nastily. Makes you taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue and he enjoys the principle of it all. Enjoys giving back to you what you leaked for him. “I could have you come on my tongue all night.” He pecks you, swirls his tongue around yours. “You kept quiet through it all. Good girl. You learn so well.” 

You’re speechless, satisfied, sensing something approaching you that you fail to understand. Something bigger than attachment, but smaller than feelings. Connected to his healing gift or perhaps invented from it. Something that’s smack dab in the middle, growing in you, and you submit to it, unafraid of it. 

A certain desire fraternizes with it. You push at his shoulder, wanting him on his back. As if he senses what it is, he stays put. Solid as a rock. In both ways. 

But you’ll have your own. 

You tug the waistband of Yoongi’s sweats down his hips and grasp him in your hand, spreading his thick arousal down his length. Jungkook’s breath shakes, but his words don’t. “When did I tell you you could do that?”

You grab him with both hands, squeezing him. He hisses, muscles bulging along his arms on either side of you. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Can I?”

He coos. “Only because you’re so well-mannered.” Nods at you. “Keep going. Make your Daddy feel good.” Your Daddy. The fire it sparks in you, you put its wholeness into your movement—jerking him off, twisting your wrists, using all of your strength. “Hands off.” He spits on his head, the trail long and delicious to your eyes and you’re quick, you’re desperate, to resume and make him come, ache pressing down on your pussy all over again. 

The slickness, his stifled noises, the snug warmth—you understand all of a sudden how he’s able to feel your pleasure because you’re experiencing it. You are pleasured because you’re pleasuring him. But still, you want more. You press him against your clit. “Fuck my hands like this, please.” 

He repositions your hands. Slides them lower on his length, so his tip can stimulate your bundle of nerves. And when he begins to thrust, you’re transfixed. 

By the roll of his hips, the clenching of his abdominal muscles, the evident delight overwhelming his body. You can’t take your eyes off of him. Especially not when he lets his guttural vocality loose. 

You smile. “You should be quiet.” 

He laughs down at you, softly. It vibrates in your core. He kisses you, humming into your mouth. “You’re right, but it feels so good like this. Doesn’t it feel good on your pussy?” 

You nod, biting his lip, angling your head and devouring his mouth, plagued by his arousal, by his pleasure, by his response to your little slyness. He fucks your hands faster, gliding across your clit, not lasting for a moment longer. He shoots out his hot cum onto your tummy, cock twitching in your hands, his noises muffled by your mouth. 

And he remains there. Even as he fingers you so fast that you come in seconds. Even as he takes those drenched digits, collects his male essence and plunges them into your mouth. “‘Atta girl. So good for me.” 

He cleans your folds and thighs with his tongue. Dresses you, like a child. Fixes your camisole. Puts the covers back on you and spoons you. 

Yoongi remains soundly asleep. You succumb to slumber faster than you came but before you do, it’s Jungkook’s words that lead you to that dreamland. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

In the morning, you wake up first. And the sight you see is so profoundly beautiful that you take a moment to gape at it, folding it into your heart. 

Jungkook drools in his sleep. Celestial countenance, tousled hair in all directions, broad chest lifting and falling in absolute tranquility. He twists his features for a split second, as if he was dreaming about something uncomfortable and you’re so affected by it that you look away. 

Turn your gaze to your boyfriend instead. 

Still snoring, mouth parted. Ebony hair brushed back, exposing his forehead. The corners of his lips tug up and stay and you think angels must be playing with him in his dreams. You kiss his arm, crawling back, painfully, until your feet hit the floor. 

You take a long, long shower. Practice your gratitude, recollecting last night’s events and words spoken by Jungkook that weren’t as private as he thought. Hearing them, they were too fresh to be consumed, but now that you think about them—your own smile finds your lips and you agree with him in your heart. You can’t let him walk away after this. Can’t let him return to his normal life that exists without you, not when you’re something along the lines of attached to him. Hell, you can’t return to your own normal life without him. Without his touch, without his celestiality. Without his attentiveness and healing gift. 

This has to be a continuous relationship. 

Jungkook was the one who called it that way and it feels right. Even as you taste it on your tongue, it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever swallowed. It fills your body with verve, one that you deem is essential at this point. One that you will need every single day from now on. 

You have to talk about this with Yoongi. The idea doesn’t scare you, despite the fact you can’t really picture his reaction. Can’t imagine which way it will gravitate towards—whether to light or to dark. You don’t mind at all, in fact you look forward to it and you wash your body with greater care than you ever handled it with before. 

With a face mask on, you take your cosmetic bag and do your makeup in the living room. The sunlight spills in, kissing your ebullient mien, and you imprint its red marks with a touch of blush across your cheeks, its lovely color with glitter on your eyelids and you finish the job with a few brushes of mascara upon your lashes and a singular swipe of a glimmering lip gloss on your lips. 

It is only then that Jungkook appears in front of you. 

“He still sleeps like a bear.” 

You’re so happy to see him that it manifests on your face. 

“Don’t try to wake him up or you’ll get eaten.” 

Placing your cosmetic bag on his lap, he sits beside you. “I wouldn’t dare.” Examines your face for a good moment. “Why are you putting this on? You don’t need it.” 

 “I enjoy it,” you say, watching fondly as he takes out each makeup product and scans them. Once he comes across your tiny tubes of glitter of various shades, light flickers in his eyes. Your heart does the same thing. And a somersault right after.

“You wear glitter?” 

You nod, a precious, girlish smile stretching your glossy mouth. “I’m wearing it right now.” You close your eyes for him, letting him see the small sparkles, resplendent of the sun. He praises you, the word ‘pretty’ embracing you tightly in all its snug simplicity, forcing your eyes open. A brighter spark shines in his irises. You brim with the yearning to doll up his eyes to match it and, having your way as always, you steal the tubes from him. “Which one do you want?” 

He doesn’t even fight you. As a matter of fact, he’s already decided. Doesn’t waste a second to reply. “The silver one.” 

Excitedly, you quiver all over. Dab the applicator on the back of your hand and lift your sight to catch him smiling cutely at you like the puppy he is. Your hand itches to ruffle his hair. Grab his cheek and bite into it. Go for his nose next. 

Whirling the pad of your finger on the splatter of glitter, you hover it above his lids. “Close your eyes.” 

He listens, immediately. You pat the imitation of his glint across that soft skin, but you focus on that beautiful, pouty smile of his. Think you’ll save his lips for last and savor them as you eat them. 

You swipe your finger for more and adorn his other eye. Take the rest and speckle it on the highest points of his cheekbones—this time with his attention all on you. 

You lean back to observe your artwork and find that something is missing. You know right away what it is. 

You dab the applicator on his cupid’s bow and drag it down his collarbones. Take care of that first before you move over to his lips. You blend it there with utmost care and he lets you, zeroining his gaze into yours. Deep, but gentle. Loving. 

To finish it, you kiss him. And it’s not because you were driven by your emotions or by that stare of his. You do it because you want to. Kiss him again, so the highlight is perfectly blended. 

He’s puzzled when you draw away, but you’re not unnerved by it. You’re firm and stable in your decisions, happy in the outcome, any hints of repercussions or doubts far, far away from you. In another world, in another galaxy. It has long forgotten your name and you’re glad for it. 

“We shouldn’t do this.” 

There he goes with ‘we’ again. It makes you weak. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you say, soothingness coating your voice, penetrating his negative emotion to the point that he relaxes. Before he can say anything, you continue. “I heard what you said last night. To Yoongi. That this relationship is way bigger and deeper.” Surprise and timidity bleeds into the glitter on his face and he’s unable to look you in the eye. You grab his palm, holding it with both of your hands in your lap. “I agree with you. I feel it, too. This wasn’t just a one time thing. I don’t think it was ever meant to be just for one night.”

There’s rawness to your words that make him reciprocate your eye contact. He gnaws at his lips, as if to eat away his nerves. You squeeze his hand harder and are about to continue, but the creak on the hardwood floors stops you. 

Yoongi. With his wrinkled face and puffy, but awake eyes. In a pair of boxers and nothing else. You stand up to your feet, dropping Jungkook’s hand, and you go to meet him halfway, but you don’t make it far. The soreness between your legs won’t let you.

He grins at you, wrapping his arms around you. “Can’t walk?” His taunt is loving and scrunch your face at him. “Good morning, honey.” 

You kiss his bare chest. “Good morning.”

Yoongi moves over to Jungkook and places a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep well?” 

Wet softness in his eyes. “The best sleep of my life.” 

“So, I want two boyfriends.” 

While Yoongi made coffee for all three of you, you were more than happy to make breakfast. Scrambled eggs on avocado toast—one that Jungkook chokes on upon hearing your words and one that flings out of Yoongi’s mouth because he bursts into a violent laughter. 

You laugh along with him—so hard that tears well in your eyes, slapping your palm down repeatedly on the round wooden table. Yoongi mirrors your movement on Jungkook’s back as he fights for his life, red in the face, eyes wide. 

“What did you say?” the puppy croaks out, bewildered, letting go of his bread and you feel terribly bad for him, for shocking him so enormously. 

The decision came upon you suddenly while you cooked. Easy, smooth. Appeared on your heart that sprang it up to your mind. Gave it pros and cons—good friendship, good sex, good time; Yoongi might get jealous and/or possessive, nothing else. It made sense to you, grazed your attachment ever so sweetly. How else would you keep last night continuous? Even Yoongi went around the matter when he talked Jungkook’s head off, asking him if he’d been with other people after you. 

Boyfriend simply means that. No other people—just you and Yoongi. 

You weren’t going to keep it to yourself. Even if there was a risk of it going downhill. 

It’s not relief that you feel upon hearing Yoongi laugh—it’s a river of liberation, concocted with absolute joy, coursing in your bloodstream. He woke up in a good mood. Woke up happy. And you fold that fact into your heart, hoping it stays for a long time. 

“Eat your toast, silly,” you say, smiling, eyes crinkled. Take a bite of your own. Happy that Yoongi is happy, happy that you’re eating your favorite fruit, sitting again at the table with your two favorite people. “You heard me.”

“Oh, fuck,” is all Jungkook says, whisking his eyes to Yoongi, who’s chuckling, bending down to pick up the piece of toast he was in the middle of chewing. 

You look at him, too, waiting for his response. 

Yoongi brushes his hair back, a lazy smile on his mouth. “I think it’s a fantastic idea.” 

You grin so hard that your cheeks hurt. The river in you speeds its stream. “Thank you,” you exclaim, rubbing his arm, quivering with excitement. “I say we mess around and have a good time. We can go on dates.” 

Jungkook relaxes a little bit, furrowing his brows as he chews on his toast. 

“She wanted two cocks, don’t tell me you didn’t expect this,” Yoongi says to his friend, patting your thigh. “I did.” 

Perhaps that’s why he had such a hard time in all of this. He knew it was inevitable—and he worked his way through it until he ended here. Fine with it. Healed. 

“When did that happen?” you ask, sliding your hand down to his. 

“When I decided the first time I was gonna give it to you. Then, again when I promised you we were gonna make this work,” he says and you pout at him, so grateful, so touched. He squeezes your thigh, looking at Jungkook. “I can see your questions all over your face. Out with them.” 

Jungkook has finished his toast, brows still furrowed as he swallows. He leans back in his chair, manspreading, hands intertwining behind his head. Pokes a tongue in his cheek, smirking. “Don’t kill me for this, but,” he starts, showing his teeth. “Do I get to have her to myself? Without you? And vice versa?”

Your heart beats ferociously in your chest. Yoongi pauses for a moment, thinking about it. He let him do it last night, he let him have you to himself, though under different circumstances. You figure what Jungkook meant is whether he can fuck you without asking for permission and the idea exhilarates you. 

And the vice versa part. Jungkook is one sly—

“It won’t be instant, but we’ll work hard. Work our way through it until we’re all comfortable and happy,” Yoongi finally says and you kiss his hand.

You’re so overwhelmed with joy that your blood buzzes. 

Jungkook nods. “Of course, I understand.” 

“Is this something you want?” Yoongi directs the question at you and you nod. 

“Yes, once you’re ready.”

Silence settles like fine dust. You finish your toast quietly and as soon as you’re done, you deem Yoongi should know about what happened in the late hours. “We didn’t fuck last night. While you slept. It didn’t even cross my mind and I wouldn’t do it unless I had your… blessing.” 

Yoongi cackles at your choice of word. “Good girl,” he praises. “You’ll get your blessing soon. I promise.” 

You look at him for a long time and you wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t do for you. 

“So, it’s settled, then,” Jungkook says and places a hand on the table, opens it for you. You grab it and he squeezes you. “Let’s celebrate.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part one, READ part two, READ part three

#jungkook x oc #yoongi smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot #yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine

[horizon-verizon]

I think it’s possible to recognize that Rhaenrya was a victim of sexism while recognizing that she was also a brutal tyrant. I think we can say that Rhaenrya was a victim of the patriarchy but also someone who responded to her treatment by lashing out at everyone around her, especially those below her. Calling for the assassination of Nettles, a black teenage girl, isn’t an act of solidarity and feminism.

I agree. I agree that the blood purity she performs and uses is a feature of her heritage that she actively & consciously chooses but I do not know for certain that she'd suspect the dragonseeds if she hadn't had to emotionally gather herself only to lose not one, not two, but three kids to the stresses of usurpation. Ordering Nettles' execution is definitely a reflection of that Targ-Andal blood purity.

What I protest against are the ideas that:

Rhaenyra's tyranny later is told to have been inevitable without the greens' intervention or any instigation (I don't even care about Vaemond's death, he was just looking to endanger her kids/her for his own ambitions, like the greens. "Fair" play and he was going against the not unfair declaration Viserys made)

that there was no instigation or provocation; her reaction doesn't make sense (in a sense)

a woman has to show that she is capable of ruling because the history of male rulers makes her obligated to show "girls can do it, too" -> that it's justified to expect her to be above-average just because she happens to be the first up-and-coming Queen Regnant in ("united") Westerosi history -> -> to expect a woman to "prove" to a misogynist base (I mean specifically the other lords or even some of her male relatives) her worth and fitness to rule is coming from the context of women being kept from rulership that is both supported and reaffirms the idea that female authority = unnatural condition for women... (HERE is a post by mononijikayu explaining the progression and origins of the gender divisions in medieval Europe)

that being in the middle of a civil war that she did not start, having had the royal treasury bled out, that the rumormongering done by a hidden master of whispers and later the fear-mongering rhetoric of a seemingly mad version of Savonrola ARENT something that no other monarch ever had to deal with & WASN'T an extreme and volatile situation that even Jaehaerys would have much trouble with (I must remind people that Jaehaerys would have had a lot more problems without Alysanne and Septon Barth and Rogar Baratheon AND there was no agent working against him behind the shadows nor did he lose a child out of his own actions and unfairly until his much older age [Aemon], and that was only one NOR was it out of actual hate towards his person! or a belief that genitals "prove" he shouldn't rule)

and tons of other lies I don't even want to get into

In other words, there are a lot of bad-faith arguments that just wind up as being misogynist, so where do we move on if we're hung back?

Once more, Rhaenyra was never herself a feminist BOTH because there is no such thing as feminists in real/fictional medieval settings AND because she never consciously and intentionally sought to better other women's lives. The reason why we look at her story as a story of feminism is because as a woman, even just sitting on the throne provides enough precedent and justification for other women to claim and keep their seats (Jeyne Arryn, and other women and girls in even pre-Targ history who has lost the opp to rule)--and who knows, if she had been allowed to live and rule, actually consider instituting some laws for women either of her own inspiration or persuaded. Thus setting Westerosi towards a more woman-included political framework. Even though misogyny wouldn't disappear, the sentiment of women being bad or incapable or even just "unlucky" types of rulers wouldn't be as strong or as justified or more easily countered.

Plus, if I do not explain why it is important to understand Rhaenyra as a person affected by others and society, looking for agency, then the idea of a woman doing evil as being the blueprint of evil itself actually makes it worse for women in general. Because it fosters the connection between womanhood and evil or "unnaturalness" or the unnaturalness of gender-nonconformity of any kind. This is one-way progress even happens, Westerners still do not live in a utopia for women, anon. But Western (and some countries in Africa and Asia) women have a safer bet now than they did in ancient Greece, Japan, etc., or 200 years ago in U.S. history.

Once more, no one has to actually think Rhaenyra is a good person or even like her. She absolutely commits evil and there are other women in the dynasty who perform less or none (none or without their own faults but most [before the loss of dragons] display a lot of intelligence or autonomy-seeking) Just watch out for why you don't like her and what you think characterizes that evil, the events surrounding it, what inspires her, and all those implications. And recognize that good fiction doesn't ask you to name a good person based on your already-conceived notions of good vs evil, but to see the characters' development and role in the narrative and how their roles/lives/contentions mirror our own.

Aegon is a person born into a royal family with incumbent supreme power and he uses it against women and children (Aemond, too, but being a second son never he will not have the same access to power as his older brother, thereby there is a level of frustration that he himself nurtures). Rhaenyra is born into a world that consistently takes from women to give to men, and even her own family has a history of sidelining its women to affirm their men's power over them and Westeros. GRRM is asking us what does to women, how it makes them retreat into themselves and develop their methods of self-defense, or how she chooses to gain back some agency? How far or how little can she (the woman, not just Rhaenyra) go to gain power or agency, and once she gets past a certain point that she can't even see because she is so inured into a state of self-defense, how can she "come back" from that? Is there even room for it? And what does that do to men like Aegon & Aemond or even common-born men (who also abuse their wives, daughters, etc.) -- encourage them to perform violence against women and children?

So honestly, this back and forth about Rhaenyra being a bad ruler or just about her tyranny and paranoia is less interesting to me bc it is NOT THE ENTIRE POINT and it's boring as heck!!! (Unless we talking abt the progression into Dany's leadership & her own textual defiance of gender binaries)

*EDIT* (9/22/23)

As I told someone below in the comments, check your own logic before coming to this post. I have many other posts of me explaining and refuting other sexist takes that begin: HERE; HERE; HERE; HERE. And all link to many more posts where I explain to various anons why their arguments (very specific ones) are actually incorrect or just plain sexist.

#asoiaf asks to me #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra's characterization #fire and blood characters #fire and blood #fandom misogyny #rhaenyra and feminism

[foggyparadisecandy]

On Making Room for Good People

Life is funny and the journey can take you places you weren't expecting.

I think when we are younger and starting out, it's easy to be uncertain in many ways about the choices in front of us. I think that's natural because we haven't done a lot of stuff yet - and we don't know how the world really operates. So we can have anxiety - whether we understand it or not - and fear of "making the wrong choice" or "screwing things up".

We spend a lot of time worrying about stuff that doesn't matter in the long run and we miss out on the really big things that do matter.

It's interesting to be older now and realize I have a different perspective than my younger self - and people I love who are younger.

These days I know one of the most important things is to find people I vibe with and figure out ways to find room in my life for them.

Because people matter. And the right people matter A LOT over the course of your life.

Having someone who supports us and loves us and cares for us and will go to war for us, to protect us, to defend us, to show us how to stand up for ourselves and make a better life ... fucking irreplaceable.

Imagine finding a place for someone like that in your life and what an impact that they can make over the course of the coming years as you face new challenges and encounter new opportunities.

The funniest thing is that I know my younger self was a mess and would not have accepted that advice. lol

I was lost, hurt, angry, hating on myself, hating on others ... not intentionally. I didn't realize until recently that I grew up in a horrible, dysfunctional household - I was primed to hate myself and people please.

Ahhhhh .... either way. People make their own choices and have to figure stuff out on their own. I don't begrudge anyone their choices. I myself would not have appreciated my current self. How can I judge others?

Either way, we all make our own way in life.

It makes me happy to know that the people I love are watching out for themselves, taking care of themselves, PLANNING and HOPING for a brighter future than what they have currently in their lives.

And I'll be over here, doing my thing, and building my future. And if I can help, I would be happy to. But they have to choose to make space for me. Or not. And if they can't figure out how to fit me in to their lives, I won't take it personally. Whatever - I can't control other people. (not even with hypnosis lol)

Also true: I am no longer interested in emptying myself for others, or fretting over people who don't appreciate me.

Simple, right?

Took a lot of self-work to figure this stuff out. No matter how much I care about someone else, I refuse to accept being unappreciated.

Fiona Apple has a great line: "I don't appreciate people who don't appreciate."

(her next line is equally good: "All that loving must have been lacking something if I grew bored trying to figure you out.")

I'm fortunate because I've met a wonderful person who supports me as I support her. I love seeing her make strides forward to build a better life.

It makes me feel good to hear from her, and share ideas and strategies with her, and encourage her, and hear her encouragements of me.

Life doesn't have to be overly complicated. It's nice to be with people who appreciate and support us and we do the same for them. I will go to war for her.

I'm trying to not become addicted to her because that didn't end well last time around for me. lol

We have a strong, open communication style where we regularly share our feelings - good and bad - and have agreed to keep an eye on things.

We'll see. <3

#on topic

[paperstorm]

I think most people think all gaslighting is malicious but it doesn't need to be. Gaslighting (especially when it's cultural) can be done unconsciously or unintentionally, or perhaps even intentionally with an awareness of impacting the other person but not realising that the impact is harmful.

For example - when you try to express an unpopular opinion but it's just dismissed or people behave like they can't understand how or why you could possibly think that, even when you try to explain. Imo ppl often react like that because they don't WANT to put in the effort to understand or deal with the discomfort of a new/unusual idea. They probably don't mean to criticise your intellectual capabilities but if it happens for long enough or often enough, it's easy to begin thinking "I must be dumb/stupid, I must have bad taste, etc."

Another example is when you're trying to get your point across but the other person disagrees with you by addressing everything else except the key point you're making. For example, with the Carlos situation, if someone says "I dislike his s4 plotline cz it doesn't fit properly with the earlier seasons", the general response (not including you in this) is "oh but it's totally possible for someone of his background to do what he did". Um yeah, but that wasn't the point? The point was that the show messed up the execution of a perfectly plausible storyline. But the execution is never addressed generally, instead the discussion is repeatedly directed to the motivations of the character. Which leads to the feeling of "am I shouting into the void? can ppl not hear me? am I stupid for thinking this when most others don't even think the problem exists? etc etc"

Sorry to go off on a rant about this in your inbox. But if always drives me up the wall when people get offended about words like "consent" and "gaslighting" being used, just because they don't realise that there's levels to those concepts.

I think that you're right, there certainly are levels. And some of the things you described could fall under the larger umbrella of the term depending on the specific circumstances. I think people get their hackles up pretty quick tho because gaslighting is a very specific term. It describes a method of emotional abuse where someone's sense of reality is repeatedly called into question in order to gain psychological power over them. It is manipulation with the intent of making them completely vulnerable to their abuser because they can't trust their own mind anymore. And The Internet™ (sweeping generalization, I know) seems to have somewhat decided it is actually a catch-all term that applies to things like any time someone said something that doesn't reflect your perspective or whenever someone disagreed with you and didn't immediately acquiesce when you demanded they change their mind. So people are, understandably, going to be pretty instantly offended if you accuse them of intentional emotional abuse when what you really mean is "you're kind of being a dick."

There is all kinds of dickish behaviour that doesn't qualify as gaslighting, like being dismissive or being unnecessarily rude or arguing with a point someone wasn't making (people do this to me all the time on here so I feel you on that one. The whole "I like mozzarella cheese" "oh so you HATE CHEDDAR???" phenomenon. It is endlessly frustrating when someone is putting words into your mouth and getting mad at you for something you didn't say. It is an unkind and lazy and bad faith way to interact with someone. But that doesn't necessarily make it gaslighting.) Things go both ways, too. People are allowed to just straight up disagree with you and not be interested in taking the time to understand your position. Like it would be nice if they were willing to hear you out and be open to a different perspective, but you aren't entitled to demand that they do so and they aren't being abusive if they don't want to, especially over something as ultimately inconsequential as a difference in fictional character interpretation. People can just say 'I don't agree' or 'I don't see it that way' and move on. Idk. I see what you're saying, I honestly do. And I can see how that would be super frustrating and lead to not a very nice fandom experience. But it's just really complicated.

#911ls asks #911ls discourse #i have to work a lot today so I'm sorry to drop this on everyone and then dip but I have to dip

[my-darling-boy]

Genuinely asking, isn't self-diagnose with a condition kind of dangerous? Because legitimizing self-diagnosing opens a door to many malicious people who would want to exploit the fact they can self-diagnose? And in turn, make the space of autistic people worse?

Was going to skip this, but I’m writing a LONG response because I’m VERY exhausted with the amount of misinformation I see on this “self dx is dangerous” take, so buckle up and allow me to info dump.

Recently, authentic_autism_advocacy, an Instagram account run by a supposed medically diagnosed autistic woman was discovered to be a non-autistic woman, Connie Manning, posing as a medically diagnosed autistic person to spread hate and anti-self diagnosing speech. In reality, she is a neurotypical mother who regularly uses her autistic son for clout; she also turned out to have a hand behind CalmWear, a brand of sensory compression products designed for disabled people. Not only had she been spewing hatred towards other autistic people, she had been accusing well known AFAB autistic tiktokers like beckspectrum of faking being autistic and threatening self diagnosed autistics and saying they are a danger to the community, and engaging in other incredibly discriminating behaviour. Yes, she herself was a neurotypical person posing as a medically diagnosed autistic to perpetuate hateful rhetoric about self diagnosed people and used her voice to speak OVER autistic folk for financial gain and exploitation of autistic people, including her own son. If you want to read this roller coaster of a story, an autistic person wrote an entire article on it with tons of screenshots and sources.

So let me make one thing clear to you.

The purpose of actually, genuinely self diagnosing is not done to attract attention or to parade around and exploit other autistic people. Self diagnosed autistic individuals have recognised due to difficult life circumstances, financial hardship, bigotry and stigma within the medical/legal world, being a minor, lack of insurance, lack of proper access to safe care facilities, being denied assessment due to incompetent or biased practitioners, and/or any other obstacle that they may temporarily or permanently be barred from diagnosis. Self diagnosis does NOT instantly mean a person is posing for clout, nor does it indicate a person is trying to wring money from assistance services or exploit other autistics. And nts who use self diagnose with intentions of harming the community? That’s NOT self diagnosis, that’s abuse of something meant to aid people blocked from medical care or financial means to that care. All we can do for autistic people, no matter who we perceive them to be, is treat them the same way we would any other autistic person. Because the moment you start deciding by your own book who deserves respect and who doesn’t, you’ll be on a slippery slope to locking out thousands of autistic people from the community. If it’s discovered a person like Connie is literally abusing the system of self dx to intentionally mislead the community, by all means, we must hold them accountable. But you cannot simply go about granting and revoking access from people just because someone lacks a diagnosis or doesn’t fit your idea of what being autistic looks like, especially if it’s based on stereotypes.

Moral of the story? Isn’t it ironic how anti-self dx people will 100% believe a user who claims to be medically diagnosed but shows no “written proof” of it, yet always demand written proof from a self dx person? It’s almost like even anti-self dx people can’t tell the difference between someone who is medically diagnosed autistic and someone who isn’t. Well, that’s because they can’t. While there might be common traits, autism has no set model, it is a spectrum, no autistic person is alike; Policing self diagnosed people about their self diagnosis isn’t a form of protecting the community. It’s a form of gatekeeping. If you find yourself granting instant acceptance, without asking for proof, to a person insisting they are medically diagnosed like this neurotyical mother, but then prohibit self dx people from entry entirely on the grounds of not showing proof of medical assessment, you are upholding a double standard. This is why policing autistic people’s diagnosis, self or not, is inherently useless.

So here’s the thing... instead of asking people to stop self diagnosing, what you should instead be asking yourself is, “Why do people self diagnose? What kind of medical system could possibly be in place where people feel they need to resort to self diagnosis rather than get an actual diagnosis?”

Well, it’s mainly common knowledge among most of the autistic community that diagnosis is NOT easy to come by.

One of the main reasons why people cannot get a diagnosis is due to financial/insurance reasons. It’s reasonable to estimate that by the end of 2020 almost 30 million Americans alone were without health insurance. I’ve heard costs out of pocket for an autism diagnosis are between $500-$6000. If a person or a family cannot afford health insurance—which by the way on average is around $5,400 a year for a single person and $13,800 for a family here—where are they supposed to pull out $6,000 to get screened?

You might be asking, “Well aren’t insurances supposed to cover disability?” Sure, there are options for disability care through health insurance—not even going to get into that—but like a lot of things in the US, this is a severely flawed system. A lot of private health insurance will stop or limit coverage for an autism diagnosis or assistance services once a person reaches 18 to 21 years old. In most states, coverage has a higher chance of being denied to autistic adults coming with the added age cap or ONLY covering ABA, an abusive, manipulative “therapy” used to force social compliance and trait suppression on autistic people. The fact that ABA, a conversion therapy, is covered, but little else, shows exactly what insurance companies think of autistic people: they’ll only cover us if we want to learn to be “normal”. This can leave many undiagnosed autistic adults who cannot afford analysis, insurance, or safe assistance services with nowhere to turn. If I was not on my parents’ insurance, there is NO WAY I would EVER be able to afford a diagnosis. I don’t have $2,000 lying around. The MONEY ALONE would prohibit me from getting a diagnosis, no matter how many autistic traits I presented.

When I was going through this system years ago to start a diagnosis, I was shocked to find no therapist within three hours of me was accepting adult patients. “Up to 18 only” their websites would say. And in the event I had found one (1) that accepted me as a then 20 year old with X insurance, and that person refused me diagnosis, I would be out of options unless I planned a 5 hour drive which may have also led me to another biased screener. A person seeking self financed assessment can waste thousands of dollars therapist hopping.

People will say, “Well I live in X place, and where I come from, it’s covered!” Well the reality is that everyone in the world does not live where you live. It’s not realistic to assume everyone is in the same position as you or your family to afford care or access the same resources as you. When you say, “Just go out and get a diagnosis! It’s not that hard!”, understand you are speaking from your personal vantage point where screening may be easily accessed or easily covered/is free OR you have no personal knowledge of what that process is like yourself.

The second thing that bars a ton of people from being diagnosed is the fact that when autism was first discovered, its research was HEAVILY centered on white, cis, heterosexual men. The idea that autistic people are ONLY cis, white, heterosexual men carries on to this day. If you are an outlier to this stereotype, your chances of being misdiagnosed with something else or refused diagnosis skyrocket because so-called “professionals” don’t know how to observe traits in any other person besides a cis, white, heterosexual man, and refuse/fail to recognise the endless ways in which a person can be autistic. ALL the time I hear how AFAB people will go in to get screened only to find out their screener does not believe AFAB people can be autistic, because yes, sexism and anti-lgbtq+ ideas play a huge role in the incredibly outdated diagnostic process, because autism is still believed to be an “AMAB only” thing. People report going into a therapists office and being asked questions like, “Do you like going outside? Do you like having friends?” and being told that if you agree with either of these, you cannot be autistic because criteria at some places is so backwards, you can’t even say you enjoy conversation without failing the test. Other things commonly heard during the analysis are screeners telling someone they are too smart/articulate to be autistic, gas lighting them by saying they are mistaking their symptoms for something else/making them up, telling a person they seem normal, dismissing clear autistic traits by saying they’re unique “superpowers”, or intentionally misdiagnosing a person as ADHD INSTEAD of autistic. People on social media have also pointed out what influences racism has on the diagnostic process as well and how lack of research and understanding of autistic POC contributes to under-diagnosis and stigma has only contributed to refusal of care and under-representation of POC in the disabled community, as one autistic Black woman points out on Instagram, “I found excellent articles that support and validate my feelings and experiences, but I could find no research on autistic Black people.” Additionally, because research has primarily been done on young men, this means anyone who is not a cis man and is over the age of 18 and is seeking a diagnosis has a much higher chance of not receiving one because screeners don’t understand how autistic traits may present differently in adults, especially since adults are very likely to mask. Some autism screeners are so against autism they have told clients they would only diagnosis a person autistic if it was their last resort to avoid “placing a burden on their shoulders”. These reasons are largely responsible for why autism is incredibly mis/under-diagnosed. This ask would be the length of a novel if I included every single type of discrimination and mistreatment during the evaluation process alone, but understand it can be incredibly biased, sexist, transphobic, racist, or just flat out ableist. And guess what? Though this process can take as little as a month to get sorted, that is rare. The assessment SHOULD be very short. But a lot of autistic people have reported their diagnosis took more than 2-4 years because of having to waste time, energy, and money hopping from therapist to therapist looking for someone to take them seriously, as many autistic people compiled on the actuallyautistictiktoks page on Instagram point out.

The last thing I want to touch on is this idea that people have that self diagnosing is dangerous. “What if someone self diagnoses and they take advantage of services that are meant for autistic people?” ...The Big Things you think I am going to take advantage of as a self diagnosed autistic person, like scholarship money for instance or SSDI, I do not have legal access to without a formal diagnosis. I cannot waltz into a law firm and ask for a $5,000 scholarship for autistic people without a diagnosis, because they WILL NOT give it to me!

Let me tell you some of things I’ve “cruelly taken advantage of” as a self diagnosed autistic person. I bought glasses with blue light protection, because screen and fluorescent lighting at work and even natural blue toned light from the sky lowers my threshold for some sensory input like noise and social interaction; wearing them to work everyday has improved my sensory thresholds incredibly. I’ve talked to my manager and told him I’m autistic and that I have a hard time understanding vague direction and may need to step away briefly on occasion to tend to a shutdown before a meltdown comes on at work; he had no problem with this. I use subtitles; sometimes I have trouble processing audio or reading facial expressions and tone, and being able to see the words displayed on the screen gives me a significantly better understanding of what I watch. All my life, I have been having meltdowns which I had mistaken for mental breakdowns or panic attacks and having access to resources that walked me through preventative methods and tips on what to do if I have one has been ENORMOUSLY helpful to me. All my life, I was trying to deal with them thinking they were something else; becoming aware of this and accepting that they are in fact autistic meltdowns has helped me not only go through them, but has helped me redirect stims which at their worst previously had me hitting and clawing my arms, slapping my face, and even hitting my head. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wait 4 years for a diagnosis to use resources I could be using to make my life more accessible right now!

People will say, “Oh well yeah, I don’t mean You are one of Those Types of self diagnosed autistic people, you clearly sound/look autistic, I’m talking about other people.” The thing is, there is no broad “sounding/looking autistic”, that’s stereotyping, and you can’t demand everyone who interacts with you show you their Autistic Card, because again, not everyone is able to be diagnosed, especially given the mistreatment and stigma present towards autistic people in the medical field! And what made you ask for their diagnosis? Because they “don’t seem autistic” to you? Why didn’t you ask for their diagnosis? Because they “seemed autistic” to you? By denying anyone who doesn’t have a diagnosis resources they may very well need, you are denying assistance to thousands of people who are without means to be diagnosed. And I am SO tired of seeing comments online on self diagnosis posts that “people don’t know what they’re taking about” as if they know us personally, like are you me? Are you my doctor I’ve consulted? Did you watch me academically research and consult with other autistic people about being autistic for over 3 years? I’m tired of “well, one time a self diagnosed person laughed at my actually autistic diagnosed friend...so all self dx people are evil” because there is ZERO correlation between a person being self assessed and their behavior towards a non self assessed person. The fact both those arguments are in use whenever self dx comes up is yet another form of gatekeeping.

Self diagnosing autism is not begging for attention or Evil Criminal Money Funneling Schemes. It is a result of a deeply flawed medical and insurance system that has failed to give proper attention and care to those who need it, it is a result of resources not made available, of safe support systems not there for kids and adults alike. You want to talk about what’s truly dangerous? How the hate group Autism Speaks has been parading itself around since 2005 as an advocacy group for autistic people and has been misusing millions of dollars worth of donation money and promoting stigma and hatred around autistic people; no autistic members are present on their board. How Sia and her new film Music was nominated for 2 Golden Globes despite it replacing the original autistic actor with a neurotypical actor, using offensive stereotypes, and using the main autistic character as a prop, and featured an extremely dangerous bodily restraint scene on an autistic person having a meltdown in public and featured very insensitive content due to Sia’s lack of consulting with autistic people to make the film (spoilers in that article).

Instead of policing autistic people, whether they fit your idea of what an autistic person is or not, redirect your efforts and your energy to dismantling systems and holding others accountable for perpetuating harmful stereotypes about autistic people that are legitimately dangerous on such a scale that they have created insurmountable damage to the autistic community. But I guarantee you, worrying over whether your classmate is “faking it” will not do any justice to the decades worth of discrimination autistic people face still today.

I understand. You care about the community, you don’t want autistic people to be exploited or taken advantage of. I don’t want to be exploited and taken advantage of as an autistic person, and I don’t want that for others! But I also understand that when we self proclaim ourselves as judges of random autistic strangers on the internet or start accusing people of faking or demanding to see medical paperwork from people when the basis of our suspicions is “this person doesn’t look like my stereotyped view on how I think an autistic person should act”, THAT is when you really run into trouble. Because if you are allowed to deny self dx people entrance into the autistic community, what’s stopping you from thinking you have the power to deny ANYONE entrance into that community?

And there is power in self diagnosis for many autistic people. When the evaluation system is literally rigged to set you up for failure and put you through unnecessary hardship, self dx is a self affirming, empowering tool to take back control from a process designed to gaslight and crush you. The evaluation process was NOT formulated by an autistic person, nor was it made to be inclusive of all autistic people. Until the evaluation system in place for autistic people is safe, accessible, and free to ALL, you have EVERY right to self diagnose.

#like this isn’t even half of what I want to say #but I’m gonna stop cos this is So Long #no clowns in my inbox pls #long post #ableism #autism #actually autistic #ok to rb

[kimnjss]

tricky part | knj

⤑  series: plot twist

⤑ pairing: rapper!namjoon x rich girl!reader

⤑ genre: fluff?? (idk, man. i think they’re cute.) ahem, some smut... nd we get a little angsty, of course.

⤑ rating: explicit

⤑ word count: 8.1K // unedited.

⤑ warnings: (mentions of alcohol abuse). slight dirty talk, cursing, fingering, nipple play, handjob, unprotected sex, cumshot, doggy style, light hair pulling, multiple orgasms... i think that’s it.

⤑ chapter song: tonight (i wish i was your boy) - the 1975 (the entire song is namjoon is swear...)

⤑ A/N: hiiii! this is wicked late ., i took a nap today nd it was amazing . let me know what you think !! x

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 17:09

It takes longer than usual for you to get ready, stuck in the mirror contemplating whether or not what you're wearing is good enough. If maybe you should put your hair up instead of letting it fall freely. Would it be showing too much? But you wanted to show a little, right? This was a date after all, who didn't tease a little on the first date?

But this was Namjoon. Sensible, cautious, easily frazzled Namjoon. Would it turn him off? Or fluster him so he's showing off that cute dimpled smile of us. The one that he let slip when without even noticing it, cheeks flushing pink as he tried to avoid eye contact. Gosh, he was so cute!

Okay! Perfect solution, you're thinking as your eyes find the hair elastic on your dresser. You'd bring the hair tie and feel things out, read the room, and with the first desire to jump his bones, you'd tie your hair up. Giving him a perfect look at your shimmery collarbones, thank you Fenty, and the slope of your neck. No doubt he'd find himself thinking about pressing his lips against your skin at the sight of it.

Boys were simple. All of them. A mere flash of skin and they were putty in your hands. Joon was cute with it, though. So you'd let it slide. 

Your phone lights up, humming against your sheets. His name flashes in bold, waking up the butterflies in the pit of your stomach. Weird. He must be here, no doubt outside waiting for you right now. He'd think you looked nice, right? Grant you one of his lingering stares that he's always so quick to avert.

That's when you knew you caught his eye. Pride warms your chest each and every time you're catching him. It took a little bit more effort to get Namjoon to turn his head. Yet, he was still a boy at the end of it. He'd end up looking at you one way or another, it's all about how you present it.

Which is exactly why you were yellow. A yellow two-piece that highlights the best parts of you. And you're sure you've made the right decision when you catch the stutter in his step, eyes flickering from your face to your legs then back again. Forcing himself not to look away the entire time you're walking up to him, black platform heels carrying you with ease. Only a few inches below him with them on.

“Hi,” You're saying with a grin, hand reaching out to grasp his bicep. Giving it a little squeeze and watching the way his eyes go wide. He's wearing sweats but still looks so good. As if he's stood in front of you in a three-piece suit, although you might be exaggerating.

He doesn't shake you off but doesn't exactly relax in your touch either. Fingers tapping against his thigh and you can't help but wonder if he's holding himself back from touching you. Lame. “You're wearing yellow,” He says after a moment, stating it as fact rather than something that was intentionally done for him and his attention.

Eyes rolling on a laugh, you're nodding your head. “Yeah. You like yellow,”

“I do,” His nod is curt and his tone is military.

Huffing, while stepping forward, easily pulling him a bit close to you. “Okay, rule number on to this date...” Lifting a single finger for reference. His eyes flicker to it before he's looking back down at you. “You're not allowed to think tonight, got it? No analyzing, calculating. Weighing the options. Just do and talk, get loose.” Giving his shoulder a playful shake, you're shocked to hear the laugh that falls from his lips.

Like an actual, really pretty laugh. “Alright, deal.” A proud smile threatens to split your face when you feel his hand lift, hesitant at first but landing on the small of the back. Albeit, just to guide you, but it's still something. “Let's get going,” He's guiding you with the gentle hand on your back, barely touching you but you're stomach was doing backflips.

How quickly the roles reversed. Hands clasped in front of you, urging yourself to calm down. To stop acting like some thirteen year old who still hasn't had their first kiss. You were twelve years and eighteen kisses past that. Get it together.

“Where's your car?” Stepping on your tiptoes, attempting to peak up the street to spot it. “Actually, what kind of car do you even drive? I've never seen it?” Eyes shifting up toward him, a quizzical look on your face.

You're missing the soft, “I don't...” That falls from his lips because you're brain is working overtime to guess what car he could possibly drive. “Hm, you kinda look like a Chevy guy... maybe a Honda? But, I could be wrong. Definitely not a sports car, though.” You couldn't imagine Joon in one of those loud, low to the ground car.

Whipping through traffic as if where he had to go was much more important than all the other people on the road. Yeah, that didn't fit.

He's taking offense to this for some reason, nose scrunching, and hands finding his hips. His steps even come to a halt. “Hey. Why not a sports car?”

You're letting out a laugh, not at him, of course. Just at how adorable he looks right now. Actually pouting, with his arms crossed in the middle of the sidewalk. You've never seen him like this, not even sure where this new Joon came from. But he might be even cuter than the Joon you knew and had a huge crush on.

Moving toward him, not even bothering to stop yourself from poking his pouted lip. “Come on, that's totally out of character. You're practical and sensible. You wouldn't splurge on a sports car, that's not even durable. Those cars get torn apart in accidents,” He's not really mad, obviously. Which is why it doesn't take long for him to lose the face.

“So which one is it? Honda or Chevy?”

A large arm is dropping around your shoulder, tucking you into his side as the two of you continue your timed steps down the sidewalk. “Neither. I don't have a car. Or my license,” Eyes nearly popping out of your head with his words, stopping in your tracks to get a good look at him. Just in case you might've heard him wrong.

But he shows no signs of correcting himself or clarifying what he had just said. “Wait. So how are we going to get there!?” Did he expect you to walk!? All the way to Daejeon? In these shoes... they were cute, but not the most comfortable. And they didn't need to be because they weren't meant for walking 100 miles at a time!

“We're gonna take the train, of course. How else?” He's not even looking like he knows he's talking nonsense.

Like, honestly. Did he expect you to ride a gross train dressed like this!? What if you got robbed? Or kidnapped? Or worse, thrown up on!? This outfit was irreplaceable, one of a kind. No way could you take it on a train, that wouldn't do. “No. That won't be necessary. I'll just call one of my drivers, they'll come get us,” You've got your phone out before you're even finishing your sentence.

Namjoon is quick to pluck the device from your fingers, a sly smile playing on his features as he tucks it into his pocket. “Let those people spend time with their families. It's Sunday. There won't even be that many people,” Two firm hands placed on your shoulders, he's turning you effortlessly. “The train, it'll be fun.”

“You're the only guy, in the universe that thinks riding the train will be fun.” He's laughing again and it's not cute as it was a few minutes ago. “Oh no, I meant fun for me. You're gonna hate it,”

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 17:37

Just as you predicted, the train is gross. And sticky. Crowded and sweaty. Joon holds you close as you weave through the sea of people, fingers laced with yours. Although you know it's purely for survival purposes, the flutter in your heart still rises from feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.

You try not to make a huge deal about it. People rode the train every day and considering how many of them were in here, they've all survived. You'd be fine. Especially with this six-foot angel clearing the way for you at every turn.

Joon finds a seat for the both of you against the wall. Close with your thighs pressed together and he still hasn't released your hand from his grasp. It's cozy beside him, warm. Leaning your weight on to him, you try to be subtle but probably fail. He's concentrating on something on his phone and from the quick peak you were able to sneak, you see he's checking on your reservation for tonight.

Stomach flipping at the tiny fact he made a reservation for you two. It's so Namjoon to want to be triple prepared for anything, but the fact that it's in your favor makes you happy. No idea why, but that was the truth of the matter. More often than not happy when you were around him.

Even cramped in this stinky train, his hand in yours was enough to convince you, you were in the back of a limo. The unfocused chatter around you replaced with soft music that you'd play. Probably something he likes to listen to. His taste in music was quickly becoming yours the more time the two of you spent together.

He's dropping your hand for some reason that you don't realize until you're looking up to see him standing. Offering his spot to some brat with a broken leg. What the heck? Were you supposed to hold hands with this kid? Up without a word, didn't even bother to ask if you wanted him to get up.

Joining the other people standing, holding on to the railing and you're quickly deciding you don't like the distance. He watches as you stand to your feet, nose brushing against his chin. “Sit,” Gesturing to your now empty spot, earning a raised brow from him. 

“Come on, Yn. Your feet are gonna hurt. Just relax,” He tries to lower you back into your spot, but you're moving to the side with a shake of your head. “I'll be fine. Just sit,” Catching the stubborn glint in your eye, just begging him to argue, he chooses to drop it. Switching spots with you and sinking into the empty spot.

Not even a second after he's settling into the cushion, you're dropping yourself onto his lap. Arm wrapped around his shoulders, legs between his. Bum pressed firmly into his thigh. “Did you really think I was going to stand?” You laugh. He doesn't even look the least bit surprised, eyes rolling – but you catch the smile on the corner of his lips.

His hand finds the outer part of your thigh, holding your body steady as the car jostles. He doesn't move it even after the machine has settled, has even taken to tapping out a rhythm against your skin.

It's nice. Your new favorite song.

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 21:17

You had to hand it to the guy, Kim Namjoon knew how to put a date together. Pure perfection from beginning to end, you're not sure if it's his careful attention to detail or the small possibility that he wanted to impress you... you've decided to go with the latter.

The entirety of dinner was spent talking about everything and nothing. Actually getting to know each other aside from the surface level, 'I make good music and you screen it while balancing your massive crush on me,'. He was telling you about the time he first met Yoongi: second year of high school, Yoongi was a really cool Senior, the type of cool guy that everyone knows, but like doesn't talk to anyone. He found Joon making out with some cheerleader in the band room, her hand down the front of his jeans... and made it all of his business to tease him about it for the rest of the semester. 

Never would you have deemed Joonie as the type to take part in such excessive PDA, and although he insists it was not his idea... well, agree to disagree.

You were even telling him about the first time you got blackout drunk, which resulted in you being banned from every last Shake Shack. The only thing you remember from that night was getting in the car to head to the club, already started pre-gaming beforehand. But as Jungkook likes to tell it, you were a melting pot of 'types of' drunks. 

Started the night trying to fistfight the bouncer, after only fifteen minutes in the club, which resulted in you... and all of your friends being kicked out. Went from not-so-discreetly trying to mount your boyfriend at the time, Jackson, to crying on the bathroom floor Shake Shack all before you were puking in the booth, after swearing (a million times) that you 'weren't gonna throw up'.

Followed by a screaming match between you and Hoseok as he apologized a thousand times over to the employee he had to call over for the mess, trying to assist her while she tried her best to keep a smile on her face. Jungkook carried you to the car, full-blown had to haul you over his shoulder as you screamed curses at your brother.

You don't remember any of that, though. Next thing you remember from that night after getting in the car to leave, was waking up to the sound of loud video games, hanging half-naked off the side of Jackson's bed.

You're more embarrassed than you though, telling that story out loud. how bad you used to be. That was the worst of it, but the other times weren't too great either. Of course, you've calmed down a bit. Really tried each and every time you were sent away to clean up your act. And you were good for a few months after you came back, and then you were not.

Surprisingly, Joon doesn't look disgusted when you tell him. And you're not sure if that's a good thing or not. Either he's extremely understanding or he was expecting your most embarrassing story to be something of the sort. You hope for the former but suspect the latter.

In reality, though. Namjoon found himself trying to figure out just what could've been going on in your life that you felt like any of that would help. He now knew with you there was always something hidden, a reason to your behavior that you oftentimes liked to brush off. Must've been bad. You probably had a hard time.

The highlight of the night, though, was hands down the play. You're not even sure if he knew what it was about when he chose it, but you were falling in love from the moment the current went up. Characters so vivid and engaging, dealing with real-life shit all while living in fear of the darkness that looms over their tiny village.

It wasn't hard for you to get totally immersed in the show, laughing along, getting upset, crying. And Joon stays seated by you the entire time, holding on to your hand. Not so sure when he picked it up, but he hasn't let it go in a while. Not that you were complaining. You liked the tiny shocks that followed every brush of his fingers.

He smiles when you laugh, laughs when you get upset, and wipes your tears when you cry. You're so sure, he missed the entire show.

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 21:20

“You know, my best friend's an actor. Kinda a big deal at his agency... I could talk to him?” Joon throws in casually as the two of you make your way out of the theater, talking as he tosses his empty popcorn carton into the garbage. As if he didn't just drop some life-changing news.

You've heard of his friend, Kim Taehyung. Was an extra in his very first big drama role, a historical one where he faced an untimely death. The two of you never crossed paths and shared zero scenes together, but it was still pretty cool. To you. He didn't know you from a hole in the wall and the last thing you'd do was act like anyone's biggest fan.

But, this? What Namjoon was offering... that could be huge. The start that you needed and you wouldn't even have to go through your father. You could do it all on your own... kinda. “Oh! That would be amazing, Joon!? Why didn't...”

As quickly as the excitement hits you, it's being knocked right out of your body. The job that you already have and everything else that surrounded it. No way could you accept this. “Actually,” You're forcing a smile for Namjoon to see, “Let's put a pin in it. I want to focus on the company,” You wonder if it sounds as robotic as it feels.

“Why? You hate that place?” His hand has found yours again, arms swinging slightly as you walk. There's this curious look on his face like you're not making any sense. And you're not.

Why wouldn't you jump on the first chance to ditch that hell hole? The opportunity was right in front of your face, so why wouldn't you take it? You must be an idiot. Stockholm Syndrome? “Can I tell you a secret?” You're whispering despite the fact it's just the two of you on the street.

“Sure,” Gently, he's pulling you just a bit off of the path. Figuring whatever you have to tell him might be something he wants to sit down for, so he's getting comfortable on a bench, tugging you down beside him.

Not once letting go of your hand. “Hoseok is putting out an album in a few months. He's been juggling that and work-work. The time when my dad came down to talk to me... about the whole Hyungwon thing, he said he'd tank the album if I didn't start acting right,” That actually does surprise Joon, eyes going wide as a barely audible gasp leaving his lips.

You can just about guess what he's thinking, 'what kind of father...?'. And the easy answer was, yours. Your type of father would. Your type of father has. “That's why I need to stay focused. I can't screw up, he's been working so hard. I wouldn't be able to live with myself I ruin everything for him. Again.” That was a story for another time.

“Yn. That's fucked up. Does Hobi know?”

Scoffing, your eyes roll automatically. “Of course not and don't tell him. He thinks our dad is the best. 'Strict, but the best'.” Your tone changes slightly to mock his deeper voice. “Thinks he's hard on me only because of how I act and while I know that doesn't help, that wouldn't change anything. We're all just pawns in his game. His stupid Legacy.”

It's weird because you don't even sound sad. Just numb. Like you've accepted that this was how the way things were and this was how they were going to be. He wished there was something he could do, stand up to your dad for you, tell him all the things you're afraid to. But that would be stupid, for him and for you. It wasn't his place and he'd only make it worse. No matter how badly he wanted to just step in, there was really only one thing he could do.

Your hand is much smaller in his, soft and cute. Nails painted a pretty deep blue to compliment the yellow of your dress. Squeezing softly, he's lifting his lips into a smile for you to see. And since he's been trying to take your advice and stop thinking so much, he's lifting your hand. Pressing feather-like kisses against your knuckles.

The gesture so sickeningly-sweet, you're not sure if you should puke or cry. Or both. He's looking up at you, smiling really wide before he's moving closer, lips finding your forehead making you feel warm all over. Butterflies holding a wrestling match in your stomach and you might just burst into tears.

“I can't interfere with your family. Especially when you're not asking me to. Just know, if you ever want to start doing what you really want I'll support it. I'll support you.” You feel the pressure building behind your eyes, the thickness in your throat. All over three stupid words that you had no idea you've been waiting to hear.

It's overwhelming. Desperately fighting back the wetness that teases your waterline. With a hard blink and a huff of air – you're pushing a smile onto your face. Aware of how fake it looks, but it'll have to do as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” You're grinning, hand patting his knee before you're hopping up from your spot beside him on the bench.

A hand extended down to him. “Come on, dessert on me!” You giggle because it feels right. And he takes your hand, allowing you to pull him from to his feet. Tugging him along behind you with your face pointed to the night sky. Not saying anything until you're sure your voice won't break.

And even then it's a quiet mumble, “You've earned something sweet.”

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 21:59

Your hair has gone up. Revealing the slope of your neck and the shimmer on your collarbones. And as you predicted, Joon watches you through the entire process. Lips wrapped around your ice cream cone, holding it in place as your hands move quickly to pull your hair out of your face. His gaze dropping to your mouth as you lick mess the treat his left from your lips.

Hook. Line. And sinker. 

“Do you have any weird kinks?” You don't even look at him when you say it, focus on creating a peak on your ice cream cone.

Joon's choking a cough out around his shaved ice, eyes blinking hard as he clears his throat, lifting his gaze up to you. “Excuse me, what!?” An easy laugh falls from your lips, shoulders shrugging slightly. Taking pride in how easily you could fluster. “You know... weird kinks. Things that get you going, but are kinda weird,” 

“Like a fetish?” You're shrugging, barely interested in the choice of word. “I'm sure there's a difference, but for the sake of this. Sure,”

He had to have something, there was no way he didn't. Everyone had something and you refused to believe that he was even composed and well thought out in that area. There had to be something that made him lose his cool. Had to be.

“Uhm,” He's clearing his throat, cheeks seeming to grow darker the more time you spent staring at him. “I wouldn't say it's weird, but I like...” His attention falls to his dessert, twirling his spoon around in the frozen shavings. Would you think it was too weird? Consider it a deal-breaker and decide to not talk to him again. You probably wouldn't even care, there wasn't much that you cared about he was finding.

But, you could surprise him. And what if... wait, why was he even stressing about this in the first place!? “Why are you even asking me this?” Such a random topic interrupting your peaceful silence staring at the water.

Again, you lift your shoulders in a shrug. “I'm curious. Here, I'll tell you mine.” You pause to flash a breathtaking grin up at him. “Put your hand up,” Joon doesn't even hesitate to lift his palm, heart stuttering when you're pressing yours against his. As if you're comparing sizes and he can't help but curl his fingers down into the space that's left.

“See that? What you just did? Drives me crazy. And also...” Hand dropping from his to lay flat on his chest and on reflex his muscle is tensing, pecs jumping underneath your touch. It's actually so sexy you contemplate dropping to your knees right then and there. You suppress the urge, but don't make any moves to lifting your hand. “Big hands? And muscles. Phew. Throw in a pair of cute dimples and it's over,” 

It's obvious at this point that you're literally referring to him, not intentionally of course. He just happened to check every last one of those boxes. “Why's that?” He's staring at you with these eyes that you've never seen before. Dark and filled with want.

You liked it.

“Makes me feel cute and small, I guess. Like if you... or any guy, but let's just say you, were to use your big hands to pick me up and hold me there while we-” His eyes go wide when he catches on to the end of your sentence, rushing out a frantic, 'Oh okay, I get it!'. Watch as you bursting into a fit of giggles.

He ignores you, taking to peering around the bridge, checking for anyone within earshot that might've heard what you were about to say. Only to find that you two were the only people out here. Unless he was worried about judgmental glares from the birds, you were fine.

“So...” He's starting only after he's done his full scenery check. “You like feeling small, then? That's interesting,” Forever impossible to read, no idea what he meant by interesting, but as always you were running with it.

Steering this night, which had been an amazing date, in a direction that was a little less PG. Brow arched and a smirk playing on your lips, you move into his space. Hand sliding down the front of his body, meeting his waist. Holding a soft grip on the fabric of his sweater, you rise onto your toes, nose just inches from his.

“And? What do you plan to do with this information?” Could swear a small gasp falls from his lips, feeling your free hand tug on the long drawstring of his pants.

There are a million and one thoughts running through his mind right now. Every last one of them revolving around you. How good you look underneath that skirt, how good you smell standing this close to him. The way he could see the faint freckles on your cheeks, faded from your makeup. Yet, through all of his mangled thoughts, there's one that stands out amongst all of them.

You're so beautiful.

And not in the ways that you'd think. Yes, your face fit the standard, and the confidence you carried yourself with was more than deserved, but there was more. Beautiful underneath all of that and he could see it and even with this new stiffness tenting at the front of his jeans, it's all he can focus on.

Soft giggles fill his ears, coming from you realizing the way he was staring at you. Not saying a single word, just looking. “You're stalling. What's yours?” Taking a step back, you allow him a chance to breathe. Just barely noticing the twitch of his arm, ready to pull you close to him again.

“Okay, fine.” Joon's saying with a roll of his eyes, not the annoyed one that you've grown used to. It's playful, cute paired with the smile on his lips. “I like...” Large hand reaches out, landing firmly on your hip, effectively catching you off guard but he doesn't even give you a second to react before he's twisting your back toward him.

A shiver dancing down your spine as the tips of his fingers gently trace the link in the middle of your back. Actually having to bite down on your lip to keep from any noises slipping out in response to his light touch. “That. It looks sexy,”

Now you know how he feels when you tease him. Breathless and flustered all because he touched your back!? Come on, it was about time you got your shit together. Turning in his grasp, your features morph feigning confusion. “You like backs?” 

“No! Not just backs. I Mean the dip... and if there's dimples back there. That's always a plus,” He says with a shrug, but you know exactly what he's doing. It was your game, basically invented it.

But judging from the flutter in your chest, he was better at it. “I have dimples back there,” It sounds dumb to your ears, like 'duh, he knows that stupid.. that's why he said it,' but you can't think of anything else to say. Thoughts clouded with how good being touched by him felt and coming up with ways to get more of that.

And he's moving as if he's read your mind, arm wrapping around your waist. Pulling your body to him with this newfound boldness that has a shocked gasp falling from your lips. “I know you do,” His voice is so deep and so sexy, only loud enough for the two of you to hear. You could spend hours just listening to him talk, no doubt. God, you needed to get it together.

“Oh, yeah? You've been sneaking peaks?”

He nods. Like, doesn't even bother to try and hide behind some half-assed explanation why he might've noticed, just owns it. He's so hot. “I'm very observant,” His words have you wondering what else he's noticed about you. How much time did he spend just 'observing', as he liked to call it.

You could figure that out later, there were much more pressing matters at hand right now. Kissing him. Through with the back and forth, you needed to feel his lips against yours. The fragmented memory of the first and only time was quickly fading, you needed something fresh.

With your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, you lean into him. Chin tilted up and eyes slowly falling closed, you're just inches from his mouth when that deep voice of his is breaking through. “Are you gonna kiss me?”

“Wow, you are observant,” Breathing out a laugh, you're nodding eyes lifting to find his. He even looked good from this close. “Wait.” His quick movements startle you, a not so cute squeal filling the night air as he bends to lift you, effortlessly wrapping your legs around his waist.

You're both laughing, like side aching chuckles. And you're certain you've never seen him like this before. Eyes forming crescent moons as loud snickers fall from his grinning lips. He's pretty. You're so dazed by that simple fact that you don't notice the way his laughter has died down into soft breaths.

Not until silence is falling over both of you and he's leaning up to press his lips against yours. Large hand lifting to tangle in your hair as he kisses you.

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 23:29

And he doesn't stop kissing you. Not on the train home where you sit on his lap and he swallows every last one of your whines. Not on the walk to your place where he keeps his arm around your shoulder, occasionally leaning down to press kisses against your cheeks. Even stood at your doorstep, you're still like teenagers who just discovered making out.

“Do you want to come up?” You're murmuring against his lips, sentences barely coherent through the push of your lips.

He's registering your words a few moments after you've said them, pulling back to reveal the worried expression on his features. Doesn't say anything, though. Like he's stuck between taking you up on your offer and whatever concern is plaguing his mind.

And then it's hitting you. “Hoseok's out with some girl. Just in case you're worried about that,” You don't miss the way his face relaxes, a sigh of relief leaving his lips. Pulling a blase expression, moving into your space again. “Why would I be worried about that?”

Eyes rolling, you let out a laugh. “Oh, my mistake.” You mock, turning to unlock your front door. Joon is following steps behind you into the house, no sign of Hoseok in sight. Not like he'd really care, on Namjoon's part. Just give you an ear full about how your actions would affect the company.

So, you're glad he's out. In no mood to hear any of that tonight. “Do you want a glass of wine?” Namjoon is following you into the kitchen, nodding along to your words.

He just can't seem to take his eyes off you. Followed your movements from the pantry to the cabinets all the way to the island where you poured alcohol into glasses for the two of you. Watched the way your lips tickled the neck of the bottle, sucking up the droplets that had spilled, dark eyes finding his the moment you're pulling back.

Daring him. To do something. Anything. Joon knew he needed to be bold. Impulsive. Throw caution to the wind and deal with the consequences later. It's how you got what you wanted all the time and right now, he wanted you.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he's rounding the island. Closing the space between the two of you. Hand cupping the side of your face as he wraps an arm around your waist. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your lips, rhythmically. “I don't want wine,” Your heart hammers in your chest.

“What do you want?” You ask, although, you already know the answer.

He takes to showing you rather than telling you, using the grip he holds around your waist to lift your body onto the counter. Stepping into the space between your legs before he's covering your mouth with his. 

This kiss is much different from the others, no longer testing the waters. There's determination behind each movement of his lips. Both hands gripping your waist, pulling your body forward until his hips are pressed to yours. His tongue slips past his soft lips to graze your bottom lip. And you're opening up for him without a moment of hesitation, fingers tangling in his messy locks, and pulling – a low groan emerging from the back of his throat.

He's pushing his body flush against yours, hips lifting rightly and you feel the twitch of his cock through his sweats. Sweet moans fall from your lips with every roll of his hips, deliberately pushing down desperate to feel more of him. Your senses are filled with him. The taste of his tongue, the sweet smell of his cologne, how good it feels to have him pressed up against you.

Strong hands roam around your body, gripping the fabric of your skirt tight enough to have it inching up the smooth skin of your thighs. Gently cupping the back of your neck to hold your head steady as he licks into your mouth. He can't seem to make up his mind, greedily wanting to touch all of you at once.

You're meeting everyone of his upward thrusts with a downward roll of your hips, moans growing louder between the two of you with each brush of your most sensitive parts. And you want more. Legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, you needed more.

“Fuck, princess.” He's gasping out, not leaving a moment to spare for you to marvel at the pet name that fell from his lips so easily. His mouth makes steady work on your neck, suck red blotches into your skin as the palm of his hand moves down the front of your body. Sneaking underneath the hem of your skirt, your body jolts when he's pressing the tips of his fingers to your slit through the soft fabric of your panties.

Pretty moans fill the room as he teases you, fingers tight in his hair. Heady becoming heavy for your shoulders as the pleasure he's ensuing washes over you. “Namjoon,” You're gasping, hips bucking up when he's pressing his fingers against your sensitive clit. Above the cotton, but each stroke has electricity cruising through your veins.

He chuckles as your whines become more insistent, hips following the movement of his fingers. “That feel good?” Head bobbing frantically, your legs spread wider for him. So sure, you're soaked all the way through from the way he's palming roughly at your panties. He's confirming your thoughts with a groan and a breathy, “You're so fucking wet,”

“Please, Joon. More.” Panting as your hips lift up toward him. He's grinning wide, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of your neck before he's nudging your panties out of the way. “So greedy,” He teases, at the same time his fingers find your clit. He's pressing lazy circles into the sensitive nub, taking his time despite the needy roll of your hips. “Tell me what you want,” Dark eyes travel up the length of your body to your face, you don't even bother to mask the moan that slips at the sight.

An experimental finger teases your entrance, sneaking in past the first knuckle before quickly pulling out and repeating the same action. If it wasn't for the solid stiffness pressed against your thigh, you'd guess that he was torturing you for the hell of it. But judging from the steady rut of his hips, he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

You couldn't wait any longer, though. This moment has plagued your thoughts since the first time you were meeting him. What it would be like to be with him like this. Have him fuck you. You'd surely die if it wasn't now. “Fuck me,” The words come out more whiny than you originally intended but, hey. “Please, Namjoon.”

“Soon, princess.” He promises, sinking his middle finger into your tightness. Eyes flickering between your bodies so he can watch the way the single-digit disappears within your walls. So fascinated with the movement of his own fingers and egged on with your pretty moans, he's quickly pushing another finger in.

Namjoon's mouth finds yours, swallowing every last one of your hushed moans as he fucks into you. Scissoring you open with his long fingers, free hand tugging at the bottom of your top until it's around your waist, tits spilling out. He's groaning against your lips as his palm cups you from underneath, thumb lifting to brush against your nipple.

His head is lowering until he's able to latch his lips around the hardening bud. His sharp teeth graze over it slightly, gentle tongue washing over the slight pinch of his bites. You're whimpering at the feeling of his thumb pressing into your clit, back falling against the cool countertop as your hips move in tandem with his fingers.

It's not long before he's nudging a third finger past your walls, lips moving to mouth on the other side. Thumb moving expertly over your clit while his fingers provide such a delicious stretch, you're squirming beneath him. Searching for something to grip onto as the pressure begins to build in the pit of your stomach.

You take to tugging his hair, pushing his face against your chest as your back arches off of the counter. Wanton moans filling the room, you're being so loud but you can't find the strength to quiet down. Not while he's making you feel this good. And then all at once, he's pushing in deeper, fingers curling and brushing against that rough patch of skin hidden deep inside of you.

“Oh, fuck! Don't stop, don't stop.” You're chanting over and over, hips rocking into his palm and Joon has no plans of stopping. Not when you sound like that, each whine and whimper shooting straight to his cock. He feels the way your walls flutter around his fingers and he's quickly lifting his head to watch your face.

There's a sheen layer of sweat on your forehead. Eyes rolled back as your lashes flutter, lips slightly pursed. Jaw falling slack, a breathless gasp slipping at the same time he feels a gush of wetness surrounding his fingers. Incoherent mumbles of thanks fall from your lips as your body shakes. He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, thrusting slowly until your words are dying down to soft breaths.

Opting to give you the time you may need to regain your composure... which only lasts a few seconds before you're sitting up. Arms and legs pulling him toward you. “Fuck, that was so good.” You say through a laugh, mouth finding his in a sloppy kiss as you work to pull his sweatshirt from his body.

Joon follows your lead, working on tugging his sweats out of the way. Your soft hand meets his, gently pushing it out of the way and dipping into the front of his boxers. Palm closing around his thick shaft and your eyes are going wide, fingers not being able to meet around the base.

“Holy, fuck...” Your hand drags over his length, more so measuring him than anything. Excitement igniting in your chest the longer it takes for your hand to meet the tip. Which is leaking with precum at this point, you feel it when your palm finally covers the tip and then use it to make moving your hand back down easier.

His hips follow the movement of your hand, attempting to fuck into the opening your palm created. Spaced out as the pleasure slowly clouds his mind. He looked so good. Chest and stomach flexing as he moves, shining underneath the dull kitchen lights. Brows furrowed and jaw clenched, making dimples appear at the sides of his mouth.

Your free hand slides down the front of his body until the tips of your fingers are brushing against his balls. Massaging them underneath the slight pressure while your wrist twists over his cock. “Yn, baby. Wait... fuck,” His hips are stuttering to a stop, hand reaching down to still the movement of your palm.

“I won't last,” A soft pink dusts his cheeks as he looks up at you, eyes glossed over and barely focused. He's letting out a breathless laugh before he's leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. “I wanna fuck you first,”

The admission is waking up something entirely different inside you. Something you can't easily place and are in no mood to decipher. Instead, you grin, returning the kiss to his lips before grinning. “Fuck me, please.”

That's all he needs to hear before he's taking a step back from you, not giving you a moment to feel his absence before he's sliding you from the counter. Hands on your hips to turn your back to him, his large hand resting on the middle of your back. “Bend over,” Voice deep in your ear, you'd very much walk off the edge of a cliff if he was asking you like that.

You bend forward without any protest, the cool granite pressing against your exposed nipples. Joon holds a hand just above your ass, the other wrapped around the base of his cock – guiding himself toward your aching core. His thick head nudges against your tight hole and you both gasp as you swallow him in.

He takes his time, allowing you to feel every inch as he slips in. And you don't miss the way his thumb has moved to rest in the indent just above the swell of your ass. Pulling your body toward him with his grip. His huffed breath tickling your back the moment he's bottoming out.

Palms formed fists beside you, concentrating on your breathing as you get used to the feeling of being stretched this way. Slowly, he's pulling out until the head is catching at your entrance then he's pushing his way back in, your body sliding up on the counter with the movement. The stuttered movement of his hips slowly shifts into a steady rhythm that has a string of moans falling from your lips.

Strong, bruising thrusts into your backside paired with the gruff groans that escape his throat. He's so deep, the tip of his cock nudging against your g-spot with each thrusts forward. “Fuck, look how perfectly you take my cock, baby.” He groans, eyes glued to the way your lips are wrapped around him.

All you can muster back in response is a weak whine, a garbled cry of big he was... or how good he feels. Mind nothing but mush at this point, the overwhelming pleasure from the way he was fucking, softening your brain. Either way, he takes the incoherent noises as a compliment, speeding up the snap of his hips.

You all about lose it when he's reaching down to grip your hair, lifting your body onto his, keeping a steady movement of his hips as he reaches around you to find your clit. Rolling it between his knuckles until he's feeling that familiar squeeze around his shaft. Soaking up every whimper and every cry as he brings you closer and closer to release.

“You gonna cum again for me, baby?” Gasping out, your head bobs up and down, back arching in hopes to steal more than what he was willing to give you. “Please, make me cum.” He can feel the way your walls flutter around him, the whine in your voice. And since he's inclined to give you whatever you want, Joon's angling his hips in a way that he knows will make you cum.

And it's not long before the pressure is snapping in the pit of your stomach, loud cries filling the room as your hips lift into a shake. Walls clenched so tight around his cock, it's enough to nudge him over the edge. He fucks into you with great fervor, leaning your body back onto the counter as his hips snap against yours.

Thrusts becoming sloppy and untimed as he feels himself falling apart, an odd mixture of curses and your name falling from his lips as he feels his body tense. He's pulling out as a hurried afterthought, hand acting as a lame substitute for your wet core as he strokes himself to completion. Spilling onto your back with a strained groan.

And then the kitchen goes silent, nothing but the sounds of your heavy breaths and the hum of the fridge filling the room. Neither of you says anything, both trying to come back to your senses. A few moments pass before he's hearing the soft sound of your giggle, body rising off your stomach to turn and face him. He looks so dazed and fucked out, cheeks flushed and eyes blown. Hair a mess and breath ragged. He looked so hot.

A hand finds the back of his neck, fingers tangling into the soft hair there. Joon's grinning when his eyes find yours, an arm wrapping around your waist. Pulling you closer, because it never felt like you were close enough. “We just fucked,” You state the obvious, can't find it in yourself not to.

It was nice. You liked it. You liked him. Everything about him, you just found yourself liking. His laugh. His smile. How easily he was annoyed. The cute dimples. The sound of his voice. You liked him.

“Yeah, we did.” He's replying, a little breathless but he still manages to lean down to capture your lips with his. A short kiss that has you leaning up, silently asking for me. He denies you with a cute shake of his head. “Let's go upstairs. I wanna go down on you,” Okay, bold Joon was something you were definitely going to have to get used to. 

He's twirling you around when you don't move to lead him, large hand dropping to tap against your ass cheek, pulling a giggled squeal from your lips. “Ah!” You're laughing when he's reaching to do it again, instead taking hold of his hand. Fingers easily intertwining as you tug him behind you.

His back pressed to yours, cock growing hard against your backside as you lead him up the stairs and into your room. The sound of laughter only growing between the two of you.

Yeah, you liked him a lot.

MAY 10TH, 2020 | 23:58

Your body is warm against his, back pressed to his chest. Soft moans filling the air as he holds you close, pushing into you, chasing yet another release. This time in your bed. With you in his arms and it feels different. It feels nice. It makes him wonder... what's next? If there's something more for him to hope for.

He wanted to be with you, to put it simply. Never would've imagined it'd be you, but now he can't imagine it being anyone else. But things just sometimes worked out that way. Namjoon wanted to be yours, but in turn, he wanted you to be his.

Somehow, he felt like that might be the tricky part of it all.

— daughter of the ceo of the biggest record label, it’s obvious she’d get whatever and whoever she wants. but what happens when she’s meeting the one person that refuses to play into her spoiled brat act?

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Clouded judgement [Loki Laufeyson x Reader] - Challenge

Title: Clouded judgement Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Asgardian!Female!Reader Word count: 4.8k Published: 25 May 2021 Author: Heloise Daphne Brightmore Warnings: Angst and fluff Summary: After years of living in his brother’s shadow, Loki feels as though he is an equal finally as things seem to fall into place. That is until he sees you with his brother, enjoying his company. His emotions start to cloud his judgement and in fear of having to go back where he was, he makes a decision he soon regrets. Challenge: [x] [x] This is for @sventeen-daybreak's 600 followers writing challenge and I used the overall vibe of the song.

“What would it feel like if you tore me apart? / Come on chew on my heart” [Chew on my heart by James Bay]

Marvel Characters Masterlist | Masterlists

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Thor has always been a brother figure to you, you grew up together after all. He was someone who was always there for you when you needed him, but mostly got on your nerves intentionally. He found enjoyment in your grimaces and child-like sulking. Regardless of how irritating he was at times, you loved him dearly. However, Loki was different. You never looked at him as a brother or a friend. You pretended to see him in that light, of course, not wanting your secret to be revealed, but your feelings for him were deeper, rooted in a romantic interest.

You tried to hide it and treat them equally, but at times you found it rather difficult. Sometimes you wished to run up to Loki to give him a hug, whilst you fist bumped Thor, but you knew if you differentiated them, your secret would be at risk. So, you pushed your emotions aside and used a logical part of your mind to make decisions that would ensure the safety of your secret.

Though you carefully planned out how to go about your feelings, others had different ideas. Loki always voiced how he just wanted to be an equal to Thor, someone who had just as much opportunity, someone who received as much love and care, someone who was no different, but when it came to you, he wanted to be above his brother, he wanted to be first and more important to you. He wasn't happy with your carefully concocted plan to be stuck on the same level as his brother, especially because he didn't feel he was.

Loki was growing tired of being a shadow of his brother once again. He wanted you to look at him differently, to treat him as though he was more important to you. He had to admit he was jealous and though the word itself made him enraged, he tried to conceal it. He envied the relationship you had with Thor. Even though you thought you were careful and treated them equally, Loki's genius mind was clouded by his emotions, his jealousy.

Thor and Loki's relationship had been a rollercoaster, but finally they were at peace with each other and even Odin was proud of his younger adopted son. Everything seemed finally calm between the brothers, but it didn't matter how proud his brother made him and how supportive he had been towards Thor, Loki found himself taken over by an envious storm once again.

He leaned against the door frame of your room in the Royal Palace of Valaskjalf, his arms folded in front of his chest, his body language screaming indifference. He acted as though he couldn't care about the loud laughter that left your lips, the small crinkles appearing beside your eyes or the way you threw your head back as another fit of laughter erupted from your lungs. Loki tried to pretend that it didn't affect him, that his heart didn't ache from the sight of another man making you laugh wholeheartedly as he watched from the side-line. But deep down he was burning in jealousy, eating him up from the inside. He knew he should have been happy for you as a friend and he tried, many times before, but he couldn't control the little demons that discouraged him from ever expressing his feelings to you. He believed, if it came to making a decision between him and his brother, the mighty Thor, the God of Thunder, you would choose his brother without a hint of doubt. The feeling of not being equal, only a second to Thor once again messed with his head and as he stood in the doorway, watching you laughing at something his brother told you, he made a decision he felt was long awaited.

"Why do you keep standing there? Come here," you smiled softly as you patted the golden couch beside you, offering him a place to sit. But instead of taking up on your offer, he just shook his head with a solemn expression. "Is everything okay?" You asked, slightly worried about the look on his face. Instead of a reply, he just nodded. With a heavily beating heart, you stood up from the sofa and walked up to him, placing a hand on his face, gently caressing his cheek with the tip of your thumb. "You look troubled. Is there a way I could help ease your worries?" You asked, eyes filled with hope to help the man you loved so dearly.

Loki wanted to lean into your palm, enjoying your soft touch against his skin, the connection making him feel as though your mere presence radiated safety, a feeling he only felt with you. But he had to remind himself of his plan. He grabbed your wrist and with a harsh movement pushed your hand away from him. His actions surprised you, making you slightly jump at the unexpected reaction. The coldness in his eyes was unfamiliar, your concern for him greatly growing. "I don't need your help," he replied firmly, a chill running through your spine at the emotionless tone. Even when you did something silly, he was always there to reassure you that it was all going to work out, because whatever you wanted, you were capable of achieving. He was always there to encourage you and offer you his endless support. He was the one who always kept you in one piece, even when you were going through hardships. But as he stood in front of you with his gaze empty, his jaw tightened, his tone cold and emotionless, something felt off and you weren't about to let it go.

"You are acting strange, Loki," you spoke with a deep frown across your brows, your eyes studying his face, trying to understand what could have gone through his mind.

He raised a questioning brow as he tilted his head. "No, I'm not. Perhaps you just don't know me well enough," he shrugged nonchalantly, his whole demeanour making you feel as though there was an invisible wall between the two of you.

"That's ridiculous. I know you, Loki. We have been friends for long enough," you scoffed at the absurdity of his words.

"You are no friend to me," he spat the words filled with hatred. A silent gasp left your lungs, his words painfully piercing through your chest, as though a dagger stabbed you in your heart. Feeling your chest tighten, your air cut off for a mere moment, you stumbled back in your place, your knees weakening as your brain processed his words. Loki didn't mean what he said, the words he spoke weren't the ones he meant to say, but they escaped involuntary and regardless of how painful it felt, he couldn't take them back.

"Loki!" Thor raised his voice warningly at his brother, but both you and Loki ignored him.

"What are you talking about? I don't understand you," you grabbed his arm desperately, but he just shook it off. He could see the pain in your eyes, the tears threatening to escape. His only wish was to wrap his arms around you and apologise repeatedly, to tell you that he didn't mean a word he said, but he couldn't do that. His pride stood in the way, the thought of being a second again enraged him.

"Wasn't I clear enough. Must I explain everything in detail?" He spat in anger. He didn't want to hurt you, but before he could have even thought of the words he wanted to say, they escaped him without a warning.

"But Loki, what have I done?" Your voice was tiny as though it wasn't even your voice. It was weak and desperate, somewhat needy. None of what Loki said made sense and the cold look in his eyes, the firm stance he took up on, it wasn't the Loki you knew.

"Nothing," he replied with a straight face. "You are simply no use to me anymore," he spoke, his words even surprising him. He didn't mean to make you feel as though you were a toy, he grew tired of. He realised it was time for him to not say another word. He knew what he had done, he knew you hated him and that it was too late for him to take it back. Opening your mouth, you were ready to strike back, but no sound left your vocal cords. You stood in front of him as if you were a fish out of water, suffocating. Tears fell down your cheeks, streaming down heavily as the words finally reached you. You were of no use to him anymore.

The sight of your tears, the devastation he saw in your eyes made Loki internally scream. It reminded him of the last words he spoke to his mother, breaking the heart of the person he loved more than anyone else. And now as he stood in front of you, intentionally hurting you, he just wanted to travel back in time and take it all back. The look on your face terrified him, the thought of causing you pain made his heart churn in agony. He couldn't bear to watch your heart shatter right in front of his eyes, all because he was a coward.

But you weren't a fool, you knew something was wrong. The unshed tears you desperately tried to keep from escaping blurred your vision as you stood in front of him unsteadily, wiping away the remaining evidence of your silent cries. Grabbing his arm once again, this time you didn't let him shake you off and you purposely changed your whole demeanour. You knew him, you knew who he really was, and you decided you weren't about to give up on him.

Your strong hold around him surprised Loki, he didn't expect you to cling to him after he treated you so disrespectfully. Once again, he tried to shake your hand off, but you didn't give in. There was a raging fire of determination in your eyes that Loki couldn't place and certainly couldn't understand. You caught his facade crumble for a mere moment only, wavering under your stubbornness, but it was enough for you to know there was something behind his nasty behaviour. "You can't fool me, you dumb man. It doesn't matter how hard you try," you hissed in anger as his cold exterior once again trembled at the sight of your firm stance against his ruthlessness, but he quickly rearranged himself as though he realised his slip-up.

He roughly removed his arm from your hold, your gaze capturing his stunned look once again, long enough for him to know you weren't hurt anymore, you were mad. Your eyes held anger as you looked up at the man and you didn't plan on hiding it. Loki knew he had gone too far and seeing your heart broken and enraged wasn't his plan. He just wanted to distance himself, never to feel like a second behind his brother, but he had gone too far. Before he could have made another foolish decision, he turned around with his jaw tightly shut, his fingers curving into a fist as he left you without a reply.

"Loki!" Thor shouted after his brother, but he didn't turn back. "I will talk to him," Thor shot up from the sofa and squeezed your shoulder reassuringly with a pained smile across his face.

"He is too stubborn to listen. There is something else behind his behaviour," you replied through gritted teeth, wanting nothing but to punch his younger brother.

"Then I shall bring him back so you can talk to him," he offered, earning a nod from you as he hurried after his brother, his heavy steps still audible from a distance.

You couldn't understand what had gotten into Loki, you couldn't pinpoint where this absurd behaviour and disrespectful manner came from, but the way he talked to you, the coldness in his eyes were ones you have never seen from him before. At least not towards you. His distanced behaviour lit a raging fire within you, wanting to confront the mischievous god, giving him a piece of your mind. He hurt you, it was terrifying to hear those words leave his lips, but the anger you felt towards him overpowered the initial aching in your heart, the heavy weight sitting on your chest.

Loki rushed through the corridors of the Royal Palace in haste, not being able to look at you any longer. He didn't mean for things to happen the way they did, he didn't mean to hurt you. When he realised what he had done, the only thing he could do was run. He knew he was a coward, but the pained look on your face terrified him and as soon as he realised you weren't having any of his foolish play, it scared him. His whole plan was reckless and stupid, he knew, but he couldn't find it in him to walk back to you and apologise. Loki thought if he was to go back, he would have to watch you growing closer to his brother and he couldn't bear the thought of you and Thor together.

So, he fled Asgard.

It's been a week since Loki disappeared and you couldn't handle not knowing where he was, what he has been doing, why he acted the way he did. You thought after all this time your anger would subside, but it weighed on you heavily just like on the day Loki decided to hurt you. A part of you was enraged, wanting nothing but return the pain you felt, however another part of you was worried about him, concerned for his safety. Walking up and down nervously in your room didn't help your case. Thor's letter about finding his brother awoke hope in you, but not the kind where you wanted to jump in his arms anymore. The kind that gave you the opportunity to tell him what a coward he was for running away.

A guard knocked on your door, pulling you out of your thoughts. He didn't need to speak, you knew Loki and Thor were back. You gave clear instructions to the guards to inform you upon their arrival. In haste, you headed to the entrance that led you to the Rainbow bridge, a storm of thoughts swirling around in your mind, scenarios upon scenarios playing every possibility of your reunion.

As you stepped outside the arch of the entrance, you caught sight of the brothers. Thor pushed on Loki's back as though he was a prisoner. He even wore a pair of handcuffs to stop him from trying anything. Frowning at the sight, you tilted your head innocently, Thor's actions seeming a bit much for your liking. You wanted Loki back, but if he didn't come on his own, did it really make a difference? You knew he would only listen to you because he had no other options.

Whilst Thor's extreme measures slightly bothered you, the anger that you have been harbouring screamed louder in your mind than to care about how he returned Loki. Whether with or without Loki's consent, you were to lash out on him, because he deserved it after the way he treated you.

"Well, well, well, look who found his way home," you arched a brow, but he didn't look at you. His gaze was fixed on the ground, not daring to meet your eyes. "Uncuff him, please" you instructed Thor, who did as he was told, knowing he had no place to join your disagreement. He helped as much as he could, he brought his brother back, but whatever was going on between you and Loki was none of his business, so after a reassuring nod, he left you.

Loki massaged his wrist where the handcuff cut into his flesh, but still didn't dare to lift his gaze. Everything seemed more interesting to him, but you. It angered you even more, but instead of losing control, you tightened your jaw and squeezed your lips shut. You patiently waited, though you didn't know for what. An apology maybe, an explanation, even an annoyed groan, but Loki was silent. Silence wasn't his strength, the man loved to talk, and this side was certainly new to you. For a mere second it occurred to you that he might have changed, and you just misinterpreted him the last time you met. But those thoughts quickly disappeared as you remembered his facade fall for a second, seeing him vulnerable even if for a mere moment.

"So, is this how it's going to be?" You asked with a straight face, hoping to earn a reply, some words maybe or even a sound. But Loki kept his lips sealed. "Look at me!" You raised your voice, but he didn't lift his gaze, he avoided meeting your eyes at all costs. There was a certain hopelessness you felt, a part of you burning in anger to know more, to have some sort of an explanation, but he didn't give in. "Talk to me!" You shouted at the man, but he just tightened his jaw and kept quiet.

Loki wanted to talk, he wanted to apologise, he wanted to look into your eyes and see what he had done to you. But he didn't have the courage to see the damage he had made. He was afraid of what he would see, the raging hatred in your eyes, the pity for the pathetic person he was, the anger his cowardness lit within you. It was all his fault, and he knew he had no right to speak, not even to apologise. His words would mean nothing to you, he let himself treat you so rudely after all.

"Talk to me! Open your mouth! You could never shut up, why are you starting now?" You asked, enraged at the silence. Walking up to him, you started hitting his chest, each blow harder than the previous one, but Loki just took it diligently. "Why are you doing this?" You shouted as you pushed on him, desperately trying to get him to say something, the silence driving you mad. Loki though he didn't have the right to stop you, each blow you struck at his chest was well deserved. He would have taken even harder punishments, he deserved it after all, but if that was what made you feel better, he would let you keep hitting him.

Your next blow halted in mid-air, tears collecting in your eyes, ready to escape. "Do you really hate me that much?" Your voice barely a whisper, a weak voice you have never heard from yourself. Loki's eyes found yours for the first time, swallowing visibly at the words you used. The thought of him ever hating you felt impossible for him and as he watched your desperate gaze, he knew he needed to say something.

"I could never," he replied finally, earning a shaky sigh from you.

"Then why are you doing this?" You asked, hoping that the barrier he so carefully pulled up between you would finally crumble. But no other words left his lips. He was silent once again. He didn't know what to say to you, he couldn't possibly be honest. He knew you would look at him as though he was a pathetic man and he never wanted to see you look down on him. He was better off being hated by you than to ever feel like you pitied him. He knew he deserved it, what he had done was unforgivable in his eyes, though he couldn't get himself to tell you that. "Speak!" You shouted once again; your desperate tone shook him out of his thoughts. He locked his eyes with yours, searching for more than rage, but you were harbouring so many emotions, he couldn't possibly read you.

You had no idea what was going through his mind, the only thing you could see in his eyes was a mess. Swirling emotions and thoughts, you could barely read the man. You needed answers, but as you looked into his eyes, you couldn't possibly find them. You needed words, confessions, explanations, apologies, it didn't matter, but the only way you could understand him was spoken words and he denied them from you. His silence made your head spin, feeling hopeless in your situation. Once again you hit him on the chest as though that was the only reason, he replied to you.

"You big, old, man-child, open your mouth and speak!" You shouted at him, striking another fist full of blow against his chest. "Say something!" You screamed, filled with rage. "After all you've said, you had the audacity to run away, flee from all the problems you have caused. How could you do that? Do you realise how worried I was? Not knowing where you went, what you were up to, if you were even in one piece," you cried. You thought he didn't care, but you had to say it, you had to let it all out. "Your words hurt me and I'm so mad at you, I want to hurt you as much as you hurt me, but I was still worried. I'm as much of a fool as you are," you breathed in a calmer manner. Loki's eyes grew in astonishment. He expected your anger, lashing out on him, but he never expected you to worry about him, to show such affection. Not after all he has done to you, not after he has broken your heart.

"I'm sorry," he breathed weakly against his better judgment. The desperate need in your eyes, the anger building up, the tears collecting, he knew he needed to say it. He didn't want to be a coward anymore and as hard as it was to accept it, he couldn't care less if he was only a second to his brother. If he could only remain beside you as a mere friend, he was to do everything in his power to earn your forgiveness. "I'm so sorry," he repeated himself. Your eyes grew wide at the apology, if anything those were the last words you expected to hear from him. His head fell forward, his gaze fixed on the ground. Loki was never one to apologise, let alone seem so guilty. You felt as though you had entered a completely new territory. But it didn't make you feel less hurt or upset.

"Do you think an apology can erase it all? Do you really think a simple sorry is enough?" You asked with a straight face, arms folded in front of your chest. Of course, Loki knew it wasn't enough, but it was a start, however minor it seemed to be.

"No, it's not. I know I've gone too far," he spoke as he lifted his head, searching for your eyes. His voice was heavy with emotions, his cold demeanour falling into pieces. "I didn't mean anything I said to you, I didn't mean to hurt you. It was not my intention," he took a deep breath as though he needed time to carefully plan his words. "I'm a fool and I don't expect you to forgive me, but I am sincerely sorry for what I have done," he breathed, his shoulders falling forward, his usually self-confident appearance now seemed weak and vulnerable. You had to stop the urge that wanted you to wrap your arms around his frame and tell him that it was alright, because whilst you felt bad for him, it was all his fault. He hurt you, he spoke those words that felt like daggers twisting your heart.

"Why, Loki? Why did you talk to me like that?" You asked, needing an explanation. The Loki you saw that day was indeed different from the person you knew, but the reasons behind his behaviour were beyond you.

"Because I thought it would be better," Loki debated to be honest with you, but as he looked into your eyes, your gaze desperate for the truth, he couldn't deny it from you. He knew you would look at him differently, he knew you would be even more enraged, but you deserved the truth. "I didn't want to be a second again. Finally, everything fell into place with my father and Thor. I felt equal, which I wanted to be for so long. But once again I found myself in my brother's shadow and I couldn't handle it. I was a fool and I thought if I pushed you away, I wouldn't have to repeat the same mistakes again, but I did," a heavy sigh left his lungs as he searched for the right words. "I never meant to hurt you, but I couldn't bear to be stuck in my brother's shadow again," you furrowed at the man, his words making no sense to you.

"I always treated you the same. Why would you think you were in his shadow? I love you equally," you attempted to convince him, but he just shook his head.

"Maybe you think you did, but I was envious of your relationship with him. I know, I'm the worst, but I couldn't control it," he scoffed at his own words. "I didn't want to be a close second, I didn't want to be an equal. I wanted to be more important to you, but I knew it would be impossible," your eyes widened as the words left his lips, a silent gasp escaping your lungs.

"More important?" You asked with a stunned expression. "Why?"

"Because my feelings for you aren't platonic," he confessed, his chest feeling lighter as the words finally left his mouth. He wished to say it for so long, regardless of how terrifying it seemed. Whether you felt the same or not, he felt as though the heavy weight previously seated across his chest was now finally gone.

You stood in front of him in utter shock. You longed to hear those words since the very first time you realised your own feelings, but you could never imagine hearing them. It felt like you were in a dream, a blissful moment. As the puzzles finally started to make sense, you walked up to him and wrapped your arms around his neck. "You are a fool," you breathed against the skin of his neck. Your sudden affection surprised Loki, but his arms involuntarily wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. "Did you really push me away for this? Couldn't you just say something?" You asked as you tightened your arms around him.

"I was afraid," he confessed, his words weak as though he found them hard to declare.

"If you were just honest, this whole situation could have been easily avoided," you replied as you pulled back to be able to look at him. You placed a hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. "If you asked me, if you had spoken to me, I would have told you the truth. I haven't seen you as a friend for years. My feelings for you grew a long time ago," you confessed as Loki's eyes grew wider. "You were never a second or an equal to Thor in my eyes. You were always more important," you spoke as you brushed his hair behind his ear.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed as he finally found his voice and pulled you closer, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, enjoying your embrace around him. "Thank you," he murmured against your skin.

"What for?" You asked with a deep frown.

"For your existence," he replied, earning a loud chuckle from you.

"You're welcome," you snickered playfully. "Though I'm still mad at you," you warned him as you pulled back to establish eye contact. "You will have to make up for all the mess you have created," you spoke with a straight face, your words strict, but holding no anger.

"I will do anything in my power to earn your forgiveness. Anything!" He declared. He knew he was a fool, but he wasn't stupid enough to hurt you ever again. He needed you to forgive him, because he knew he couldn't forgive himself until you had done so.

"You could start by declaring your undying love for me," you giggled with a mischievous smile across your face.

"Excuse me?" He asked, eyes wide in surprise.

"You could start asking for my forgiveness by kissing me," your voice was less confident than the first time, fearing you have been too bold. But as soon as Loki processed your words, a heartfelt laughter escaped his lungs.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied as his laughter died down and placed a hand behind your neck, meeting your lips halfway, kissing you in haste, wanting to pour all his feelings in that kiss. He needed you to understand all those feelings he has been harbouring silently and he was ready to give you anything you ever wished, even after he has finally earned your forgiveness.

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[lord-explosion-baku]

Lying Is A Formal Pleasure

Yandere!Hawks x Pro Hero!Reader

Forced into a “relationship” to better your image, you agonize through the night as you pretend to be head over you heels in love with a douchebag. 

warnings: non consensual touching, light violence

A/N: I posted this a few months ago, but after a bad mental health night, I deleted it like a day later. But now I’m screaming over my oneshot inactivity and the 80 WIPs that remain unfinished, so I figured I’d post something that’s done fhjfv. :’D

Blinking flashbulbs and whispering onlookers flood your audio and visual spaces, forcing you to pause while you take a moment to gather yourself, swaying uneasily in the too-high heels you’ve been forced into. You’re close to being overwhelmed when Hawks places a smooth hand on the small of your exposed back, ushering you closer to his side. He waves to a camera flickering with a red dot, the one that tells the two of you that you’re live on air. The warm impression of his fingers on your skin offers you an insincere sense of security. You’re not as used to being on screen as your ‘lover,’ so you let him take the lead. It’s easier this way, as resentful as you are to admit it.

A thin woman in a red dress holds a microphone up between the two of you and asks if the happy couple has high hopes in regards to their award nominations. Hawks, always quick to flash a charming grin, leans into the mic and says, “we’re both just very honored to be here.”

It’s not like him to be so humble, especially not when he has an audience, but your publicist recently advised you that although his pride is fitting for his singular image, nobody quite likes a power couple who, in her words, “thinks they’re the shit.” People want to see bashful, blossoming love. They want to see you be together, grow together, and develop together. You have to be shy—show that you’re excited to be by his side, and he has to be supportive—happy to introduce you to the sensational side of being a hero. It’s all a facade, even your relationship, but if you stay true to your new role, your popularity will see a serious incline.

Hawks runs his hand up your spine and you get a chill when you realize that the reporter asked you a question: how long have the two of you been together?

“Oh-” you start, shifting to look up at your partner. Amber eyes bare down on you and you swallow dryly, trusting that you look enchanted, rather than sick to your stomach. If you were to be honest with her, you’d say, ‘too long,’ but it’s not your job to be honest tonight. You have to be delightful and charming, cute and coy. So instead, you timidly blink up at Hawks, cover your shy grin with your elegantly gloved hand while leaning into him, and say, “nearly two months.”

The number two hero chuckles, moving his hand over to your side to squeeze it a little harder than necessary. He’s telling you one thing: wrong answer.

“Well, she says two months, while I say three.” Hawks is all confidence and little to no self-doubt. In a way, he’s everything you want to be, and every time you think about it in that light, the more you seem to detest him. You hate that you virtually need him in this respect to get you where you want to be in your career. You hate that he’s living this farce up. “It took my little angel a while to finally agree to go on a date with me. Even then, I knew that we were meant to be together.” His eyes slide back to you, and his tone takes a dark edge that nobody besides you will be able to pick up on. “From the very first moment I laid my eyes on her.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Hawks had barrated you to go out with him for about a month before your publicist told you it would be good for your public image to have a pro—the number two pro—by your side. Apparently, you and him work well because of your quirk: siren. Her reasoning is that you sing just like birds sing. Hawks is a bird. Therefore, you and him should go hand-in-hand. The public aptly named your relationship birdsong and you’ve already done a photoshoot where you had to pose behind a golden birdcage where Hawks sat inside, gripping onto the cage’s bars, staring up at you while you had your lips pursed subtly, pantamiming a song. The irony of your situation is that there is a metaphorical prison in your fake relationship, but it’s not Hawks who sits in the cage. The second irony of your situation is that hawks don’t sing at all; they prey.

“Awwww,” the reporter whines in a shrill, albeit melodramatic voice, looking adoringly from you to Hawks, “I couldn’t imagine how anybody could ever say no to you! That must’ve put a damper on your ego! Poor thing.”

Hawks shrugs like he does—another thing you despise. You can smell the smugness wafting off his chest that seems to puff up as he speaks. “I knew she was just playing hard to get.” He winks at you, sliding his hand down to sit not so obediently at your hip. You feel him drifting towards your ass cheek, and you struggle to not change your fraudulent smile into a full on sneer. “And she knew I liked the challenge.”

The reporter’s eyes aren’t even on you when she asks, “really, how could you say no to this dreamboat? I certainly wouldn’t be able to!”

If you want him, you can take him, you think tartly as you maneuver your arm around Hawks. He makes a sort of low, sort of grunting noise when you lace your fingers through his heavy feathers, and you realize that this might be the first time you’ve actually touched his wings. You’re bitter to admit that the feel of them in your hands are soft to the touch—enjoyable, almost. They might be the most redeeming thing about him.

You tighten your hand into a fist and tug, softly at first, but when you feel him tense next to you, you pull a little tighter, enjoying the brief sadism break you allow yourself.

“I must have been too darn shy at first!” Your words are syrup dribbling over glass. You wrench your hand, twisting into Hawks’ wings. He clears his throat in an attempt to cover up a groan, his hold on your side worsening infinitesimally. “Or maybe I just couldn’t believe that the number two hero was actually interested in me. Honestly? I was starstruck! I thought I was being used for some kind of joke!”

“Hah…” Hawks’ thumb rubs circles in your back when you guide your hand along the stream of his wings and grab at a different bunch of feathers. He whispers, “take it easy, chickadee…’

But you don’t want to take it easy. Hawks’ cheeks redden a bit more every time you move your fingers through his wings. He must be incredibly uncomfortable and you take pride in the fact that, for once, it’s not you who’s suffering. You lean into his shoulder, offer the reporter woman a smile so sickly sweet, you can practically feel sugar coating your gums when you say, “now every day I get to spend with him is a dream come true!!”

One of Hawks’ eyes twitches when you give the tuft of feathers in your hold a final twist. He spreads his palms wide on your back, and slowly curls his fingers inward, pulling on your skin.

After a few more questions, the reporter notices Hawks glancing down to the large hall being used as the ceremony venue, and thanks the both of you for indulging the public with information about your relationship. Sending a final wink to the camera, Hawks guides you through arched doors and nods at a few other well-known heroes attending the ceremony. You sneak away when you think Hawks is about to get lost in another conversation, but when you slip into an empty lounge reserved for award nominees, he’s right on your heels.

Ignoring his presence completely, you fix yourself a drink at an unattended minibar. You swirl the ice around in your glass and finally turn to scowl at your partner. He looks off, or not very present, still smirking, but dazed. Maybe he tied his tie too tightly, and he’s blocking the blood flow to his brain. You grin at the thought of choking him out while you sip on your beverage. Hawks grins back.

Engulfing and consuming the space around you, he takes a confident step towards you. You feel nothing short of a shadow to a tree with his wings puffed out and spread proudly like they are.

“Nervous?” He asks, placing a hand on the bar as he leans closer to you. You give him a half-hearted shrug, trying to be nonchalant. Even if Hawks knows you're uncomfortable, you aren’t willing to show him an inch of fear.

“You shouldn’t be,” he goes on, staring at your lips. He watches you suck down your drink and clears his throat. “You were great out there.”

“Believable?” You ask sarcastically, licking your bottom lip. You reach out to stroke the inside of his wings, running your hands along his feathers teasingly slow, enjoying the sight of each row of his crimson plume twitch down along with your touch.

“Believable,” he chuckles. “I had no idea that I was your dream come true.”

You scoff and place your empty glass down. “Mhm, my everlasting, waking nightmare.” You bring your arm back to your hip. “I’m truthful when I can be.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a goofy half-grin. It’s off-putting. He isn’t any less sharp than usual, but there’s something about him right now that has goosebumps raising on your arms.

“C’mere,” he coaxes, grabbing your wrist. You snap it back immediately.

“Oh, please.” You push past him, intentionally brushing into his wings, and begin strutting away.

“You’re such a goddamn tease,” he rasps, hooking you sideways. Both of his hands curl around your hips, and you’re immediately pulled back against him. “Have I ever told you how sexy your back is?”

“Get off of me,” you say without enthusiasm, because it’s not the first time he’s gotten handsy with you in closed spaces. Call yourself jaded, but it’s something that you’re semi-used to. So, when he doesn’t let up, all you can do is roll your eyes and fetch your compact mirror out of your clutch. While you fix your lips, Hawks lays his chin on your shoulder. His eyes find yours, and though they’re looking straight at you, they are, at once, incredibly ambiguous and eerily hyperfocused. He squeezes his arms around your torso, then brushes his lips across your cheek. Against your stubborn will, your stomach flips when he plants kisses on your jaw and trails down to your neck. The scruff of his beard tickles your skin, making your shift around in his embrace. That's when you feel a stiffening behind you.

“Hawks, what the hell are you doing?”

“Shame on you-“ his breath is hot on your ear- “touching me like that on camera, baby? Who knew my angel could be so naughty…”

You jerk your elbow back into his gut.

“I never touched you,” you seethe, ready to actually throw hands, when he rushes you forward, pushing you against the bar so that you’re lodged between it and him. Hot blood floods your face when you feel him pulse against your ass, and it doesn’t help when he snakes a hand through the back opening of your dress, sliding around to cup your stomach. He pulls you back so his bulge rubs between your cheeks.

“You’re seriously crossing the line right now!” You push against the bar, trying to bump him back, but he crowds you with his wings, shrouding you just like the metaphorical birdcage you’ve been stuck in for two—three months. You grasp a fistful of his feathers and yank on them hard, but he only snickers in response.

“Oh, little dove,” he groans, rocking his pelvis against your ass. It’s like he doesn’t even hear your protests. “Fuck. How’d you know I like it rough?” He kisses the hollow of your throat and hums appreciatively when you reluctantly shudder in response. “You have no idea how badly I wanna slip my cock into you right now. Finally wipe that sour look off your face as I drive myself in, inch by inch.” His fingers move down to pet your pubic bone. You want to scream in defiance when you feel a flash of liquid heat pool between your thighs. He dips in between your folds and he croons. “Bet you’d hug me nice and tight too. You don’t spread your legs for just anybody, do you babygirl?”

“Certainly not for you,” you rebuke. You grasp your abandoned glass, smash it against the bar, and spin yourself around, swiping your makeshift weapon across the number two hero’s face.

There’s a moment of shocked silence that falls between you two. A streak of red falls from the cut on Hawks’ cheeks and falls in spots on the whites in between his tuxedo coat. He dabs at the wound and examines the blood on his fingers, then his chest.

He snickers.

“Oh man, I wonder what they’ll think about this.” He shakes his head, grinning. “What do I tell ‘em: we were getting a little too frisky in the lounge, or do I lie and say it was an accident?”

“You can tell whoever, whatever you want,” you mumble. You know you should apologize for the sanctity of your status, but seeing his blood is cathartic to you, in a way. At least, until he speaks again.

With a clever fox smile, smug as the king of hell, Hawks drawls out, “the rising hero, Siren, is unstable and shouldn’t be trusted by the public.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. Hawks’ grin crawls wider, contented by your reaction to his threat.

“I was telling her not to get her hopes up about the awards ceremony. ‘There are a lot of other promising heroes gunning for The Best New Hero award,’ is what I told her, and she lost it…”

“Hawks—“

“She came at me with a glass she broke on the bar. Honestly, I’ve been worried about her drinking habits since day one, but I didn’t do enough to help her with the issue. In a way, it’s my fault this happened.”

“It is your fault!” You stomp your heel and throw an accusatory finger into his chest. “You attacked me!”

“Who do you think they’ll believe, sweetheart?” Hawks takes your hand in his, brings the back of your wrist up to his mouth, and kisses it. “The new hero with a pretty face, pretty voice, but is otherwise unknown, or me? Hero numero dos: Japan’s most trusted.”

You glare at him and he loves it. He enjoys every minute he puts you through mental turmoil.

“I could tell them it was an accident,” he sings, looping an arm around your waist to briskly pull flush up against him. You let him, but keep your head turned so you don’t meet his gaze. He continues—“but you’d have to make it up to me, little dove.”

His wings fall over you, shrouding you closer to him. He presses his lips to your temple, but doesn’t kiss you—doesn’t even speak again. He’s waiting for you to ask how.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” you say into his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he hums, the vibration of his voice buzzing down your neck, “we can just end your career tonight.”

“Hawks.”

“Don’t act like you’re not soaking wet right now. I felt that cunt, babe. Turns out, I’m not the only one who likes it rough.” He turns your head to face him. “You want me-“ he sneers-“and I didn’t even have to stroke your feathers to get you there.”

You close your eyes when his lips greet yours. The kiss is quick, but it lingers like old faith. If you let him in, he’ll stay there. You know that. But he’s backed you into a corner.

“You’re my girl,” he coos, “and I wanna be civil—I do, baby. You know I only want what’s best for us. But you’re gonna have to meet me halfway in order to get us where we need to be. Do you understand?”

Us...we…He throws those words around as if they matter. Then again, they do matter. They must, to him at least, but not to you. The only thing you really care about is me. Still, you nod.

“I’m gonna need you to say it, Siren.”

You sigh. “Yes, Hawks. I understand.”

“Good!” He chirps enthusiastically, any dark tone he previously took vanished. He spins you around to face the door that leads back to the hall. At first, you think he’s going to continue where he left off, but his hand finds its place at the small of your back, and he guides you forward.

“Now, let's go win us some awards,” Hawks says, bringing his hand down to pat your ass, “then we can make sure both of our dreams come true.”

#yandere bnha #yandere!Hawks #yandere!hawks x reader #tw yandere #bnha x reader #bnha reader insert #reader insert #hawks x reader #yandere male

[satellitesunset]

favorite romance tropes? 👀👀

did i make the post hoping someone would ask me this? maybe dbhbbdh thank you cloey my love for giving me an excuse to just ramble about love, i have so much to say. ps take a shot everytime i bring up the concept of choice. (don't you'll die of alcohol poisoning)

strangers-to-lovers

i don't think people give this trope the love it deserves, for me it's all about the choice, choosing to get to know someone, purposefully loving someone even tho there's nothing there's tying you together, no shared history, no sense nostalgia. it's falling in love intentionally AHHH

love as a vehicle for character development

this is my shit!! two people improving each other!! not changing per say, but allowing each other to blossom. the idea of being in love with someone and wanting to be better, because they're so good and wonderful and they make you want to be good and wonderful too!!! being loved so unabashedly and having your hope in life reignited because if such a kind soul exist then the world must have some kindness??? C'MON

healing

sort of related to the last point, i hope my explanation isn't too vague. the type of love mentioned in begin again, daylight, new year's day. meeting someone new, and you like them, and you yearn for them, but being afraid, anxious because you've been hurt, but maybe this time would be different, and it is. makes me go INSANE. finding someone who will stay, who sees your flaws, and choose to love you, not in-spite of them, not because of them, but because they're part of who you are!!! the type of love that balms the soul, the type of love that's constant and warm, and Just!!

single parent au

kids??? do i need to say more?? i love them!!! i think single parent aus tends to fit into the above tropes so yeah.

re-falling in love

i love established relationships, i love when lovers grow old together and they just keep falling in love more each day. this could v much be a miss, but if it's done right, i think it's so rewarding?? i adore when it's rooted in communication and a foundation of trust and respect. especially with how society treats growing older as this things to be feared, the idea that you lived a a lifetime with a person, and you actively choose to not just still love them, but so much more?? acknowledging that they changed, that you changed, and FALLING IN LOVE WITH THIS VERSION OF THEM. TOO!!

bakery / flower shop / tattoo artist au

immaculate vibes?? i just like AUs tbh.

fluffy shit

baking together, existing in the same space, doing random gestures, cuddling, fucking, going on a date. a glimpse, a lil something that tells you so much about how much they actively love each other, how much they know each other, once again, it's choosing to love someone, over again and again!!!!

summer fling

i only love this one if it has a sad/bittersweet ending, i die for the short-term love, one that's not infinite. the knowledge that your time with someone is limited, and choosing to adore them!! we put so much pressure as a society on love being this forever thing, that the only love that matters is the one that lasts, that love is only worth it if its permanent. AND I HATE THAT. love may be a moment in time, a stranger that took your breath away by their beauty, an artist you don't know but what they created managed to touch your soul. in ly opinion love isn't meant to lasts and there's something so beautiful about that. knowing that that this relationship is doomed from the beginning and still choosing to love someone with all your heart because getting to love them by itself is a wonderful thing?? they will leave, and they'll probably take a bit of you with them too, and in your heart they left their prints and this part of you will always love them even tho they're no longer their?? hits different.

hurt no comfort - hurt/comfort (depends on the mood)

i like pain, i like to be hurt, i like to cry, i may as well have masochism kink. in middle school i used to have elaborated fantasies of one of my parents dying because i was touch starved, and i wanted someone to comfort me and tell me it'll turn out okay, we're not gonna talk about that, you get the vibe tho.

dumbasses being in love

i'm a sap, i love chessy gestures, i adore silly pick up lines, I LOVE SERNADES, doing the stupidest shit because you love someone and it make them smile, i also believe in the inherent romance of dancing, you know that thing when one of the character ask the other to dance and there's no music, so they say cliché shit like "let's dance to the beat of our hearts"??? and they just dance together with no rhythm but they're in love so who cares??? KILLS ME IN THE BEST WAY

symbolism or love as an act

i believe that love is something that is offered. and while gift giving isn't my primary love language, stuff like they give each other flowers and they look up the meanings of the flowers, candles and how their scent have some significance, a piece of desserts that they know the other love so they bake it?? love is stored in actions. (i say far too confidently for someone who's number one love language is words of affirmations and hates acts of service)

forbidden romance (bonus points if it's historical au)

...i like angst?? like they want to be together but they can't.

infidelity

this one v much depends on the context, there's two main conditions, firstly a bittersweet ending and secondly i don't want the cheating to just be conflict for the main ship. i want guilt, i want knowing you're hurting the people you love but not being able to stop this thing, i want the doubt, the fear of why would someone who loves you cheat on you, you know on a fundamental level it's not you, but you can't help feeling as if you aren't enough, i want the yearning, my favorite perspective to read from, "the homewrecker", the knowledge that you're a mistake, and that's all you'll ever be?? but still accepting that!! because what's the alternative. i think it says so much about the human nature, how we long for love, and we're willing to accept the bare minimum, it's fucked up for sure, but it itches my brain in the best way.

toxic dynamics

same as before, i need the awareness that they're mutually toxic to each other, i don't want abusiveness. i want two people who's love is destructive, they ruin in each other, there's bitterness, passion, love as this primal need. it's raw and unrefined, it's sharp edges, and the rush of adrenaline, a roller-coaster of emotion that you can't escape. an addiction. you know it's tearing you apart but you can't leave. or if you want to make it more heartbreaking, think of the quote "we accept the love we think deserve". and knowing something is hurting you but it's the only love you ever known and on some level you think you deserve it. *chef's kiss*

#asks #my love #myle mumbles answers #this shows my versatility i think truly #myle's ranking

[demonologist-in-denim]

Okay, let’s get into this, because I have put off talking about Crowley’s cut monologue from 12x23 for long enough. If you haven’t already, you can read it here, or in this great gifset.

I absolutely see why this was cut. And I’m only acknowledging it here to talk about why I not only think it doesn’t add anything to Crowley’s story or our understanding of him, but how it actually detracts from it. After that, I intend to ignore it and let it fade away into the ether of the spn fandom. That being said, deleted scenes and cut scripts live in a sort of canonical limbo – you can choose for yourself whether to accept them as canon, consider them glimpses from some alternative universe, or do away with them entirely. I’m choosing the latter in this instance.

(This was meant to be a post, but it turned into an essay.)

Whomever wrote this was either unfamiliar with Crowley as a character, or was intentionally twisting the character in such a way as to fit into the convenient narrative that removed him from the show. Blame it on Chuck in text, blame it on the showrunners outside of text, whatever your preference – this doesn’t read like Crowley.

There are very few parts of this monologue that felt in character, that read like something Crowley would say. Not just in the tone or the choice of words, but the openness of it. And that’s coming from someone who writes reformed and/or human Crowley, with his admittance to remorse and shame and love. In this cut script, he is uncharacteristically vulnerable, sharing self-reflections he would never have shared aloud at this point in his character development. His dialogue lacks the layers of meaning or deflection that Crowley would normally employ, that he employed everywhere else in the show, even when being emotionally vulnerable.

That’s not to say that Crowley didn’t think or feel these things – I will argue to the end of my days (in spn fandom) that after the cure, Crowley hated himself. He hated that he was alone and unloved. Some part of that was due to being a demon and the horrible, evil, messy things he’d done, and some of it he believed was due to his inherent lack of worth. And I think this monologue was written in part to have Crowley make that final confession out loud. Final because, if that’s the case and he’s willing to admit it – to his former enemies and now the only people he really has in his life – his story can only take one of two directions: redemption or death. Embrace the desire for change and move forward as a reformed demon and full Winchester ally, or dramatically (and unnecessarily) sacrifice himself.

And there is a way to write that, but with Crowley properly in character and with the emotional complexity we know him to possess, not this blatant declaration. Maybe the line would have worked depending on how Mark Sheppard played it, and it only falls so flat because it’s just a script – I’m willing to allow for that. But this moment, facing down the boys after letting Lucifer loose, in front of an audience of Mary Winchester that he doesn’t know well and isn’t comfortable with, it doesn’t feel like a moment for Crowley to be this open, this vulnerable, about something so personal and so monumental.

I’ve no doubt that Crowley expected the Winchesters would one day kill him, “for good this time.” He was a demon working alongside a pair of hunters; there was always going to be that risk. Crowley was intelligent, one of the smartest characters on the show. He had to know that was how things would play out – either that, or he would die on their behalf, or because of their actions, even if he had ended up leaving Hell and joining Team Free Will. That was what happened to people around the Winchesters. Crowley warned Kevin of that himself. “They use people up, and leave them to die bloody.” Crowley knew. And as he internalized more and more of his blood-born conscience, Crowley had to believe on some level that he deserved it, especially if he hated himself and what he’d done.

But once again, if Crowley was going to say something like that, that’s not how he’d say it. It would be as a dismissive aside, or a knife in Dean’s gut in a moment of intense emotion between the two of them, or as a rebuke that the Winchesters badly deserved. Or better yet, as something remarked between himself and Cas, who Crowley likely suspected would outlast him but also ultimately die in service of the Winchester cause. Words like those have power. And it’s unlike Crowley to lay them down in supplication like this. It doesn’t even feel like a heart-felt confession, like his monologue in 8x23. It reads like someone wrote what was meant to be under Crowley’s words, the intention behind his dialogue, the much-exalted subtext, but failed to add all the layers on top of it, to put it in actual character.

I’m just going to bundle the whole beginning of the monologue together and toss it out entirely. Firstly because I’ve argued more than once that Crowley is an unreliable narrator when it comes to his human life. What we know of it from Rowena comes with an agenda, and what we know of it from Gavin comes from a man who had a difficult relationship with his father. It’s about as reliable as young Dean telling stories to Sammy about their parents’ time together. And there’s canonical errors in this monologue to back that up – we know Crowley wasn’t buried in a pauper’s grave, because we saw it 6x04. The “dying in a puddle of his own sick” is a great detail in terms of storytelling, but it’s almost directly repeated from Rowena, who said it as a belittling comment to a young Fergus. It’s too forced. And we know at least Gavin came to the funeral, because he tells us so in a deleted scene in 12x13 (remember what I said about getting to pick and choose when it comes to cut scripts and deleted scenes?).

But more importantly – and this is the part that really grates – Crowley’s iteration of his human life reinforces the narrative of absolute morality in the spn universe. It supports the argument that if a character becomes a demon, it must be because they were a terrible person. There is no room for human flaws, for characters to have made mistakes – and that doesn’t just hinder characters in terms of backstory, but in character development and emotional growth moving forward. It’s a stance spn takes more than once, and especially with non-human characters, though never in regards to the Winchesters. The Winchesters can become soulless or demons, but they were “always good” before that, so they are deserving of redemption. If Crowley or other non-humans were “always bad,” that absolves the Winchesters from seeing them as people deserving of help, or of their ability to change, or even to be seen as beings deserving of any level of respect or agency. And it absolves the showrunners from writing a character capable of development, of being able to grow beyond their previous flaws.

That’s not to say that Fergus MacLeod wasn’t some or all of those things. But if he was a complex character – if he was a person, as all stories should aim to present their characters – then he was all of that and more, just as the Winchesters are their virtues and their faults all wrapped up in an individual person. And if Crowley had brought this up some other time, in reference to his human life, none of this discussion would be necessary. It would be easy to say: he’s an unreliable narrator, and this provides us with insight into how Crowley feels about himself, and it would be interesting and valuable. But here, it’s used in justification for Crowley’s status as irredeemable – which is not true – and as part of justification for what happens next.

Crowley’s death was written by the showrunners as an excuse to remove him from the show – attribute that to budget costs for the show, or running out of story ideas for Crowley, or creative laziness, whatever you want. And within spn, it can be attributed to Chuck not wanting another character like Cas muddling up his Winchester Brothersᵀᴹ grand narrative. I’ve written before both in posts and in fic about how Crowley’s character-central instinct for self-preservation crumbles into depression after losing Hell and the seemingly-irreversible depletion of his and Dean’s friendship in 12x23. And that this ushers in a desire to End in such a way that achieves revenge against Lucifer (not a significant motivation, in my opinion, you’ve got to outlive your enemies to win against them), earns him the appreciation of the Winchesters, saves the world (proving his capacity for good), and brings about an end to his waiting. Glory through death, redemption in death – tropes that are hard to associate with Crowley unless you buy into his character’s devolvement in the latter half of season 12, but which the writers do their best to smooth into place and the fandom was forced to choke down.

And I won’t argue that Crowley didn’t wanted an end to his waiting – I’d argue the opposite in fact. This blatant preference for suicide, however, is antithesis to everything Crowley. What Crowley wanted in that End wasn’t an end of himself, but an end to existing in a state of perpetual limbo. Be accepted by the good guys, embrace his more human aspects, or return to the full dark depravity of demonkind. An end to the emotional rollercoaster, to continuous and destructive self-doubt, to striving to be both the king Hell needed and the ally the Winchesters refused to admit they benefited from having. That’s entirely different than wanting to end himself. As much as Crowley hated himself, he would never have considered death to be a preferable option – not unless some outside force, be it Chuck or the spn showrunners, decided otherwise for him.

Even if that had been the case, and I am wrong about Crowley’s characterization and his motivations, I still do not think he would have been as open about that motivation as is written in this cut script. It is just not like him. It is too vulnerable, too self-pitying. Crowley was always concerned about the others around him, and especially the Winchesters, thinking less of him. He never would have said something like this to them, not as this is written. Nor would Crowley have gone to the Winchesters with the intention of them killing him. He might have known it was a possibility, once he confessed his actions, (and from his perspective, there was the chance the Winchesters didn’t know of his involvement in Lucifer’s escape anyway), but it would never have been his intention. It’s not unknown for Crowley to encourage abuse from those he’s wronged, and to revel in the attention and emotions of it (here I’m thinking specifically of Kevin beating him in 9x02), maybe considering the punishment just and due. And Crowley at this point likely suspected he would eventually meet his end in some way involving the Winchesters. But death by their hands in this moment would have involved none of the justifying benefits of death by his own hand only a few scenes later – glory, revenge, redemption, a sense of closure.

Compare this cut monologue and its potential death – at the hands of the Winchesters after confessing his role in Lucifer’s escape – to this cut line of dialogue from later in 12x23. “Tell Dean he was right – you bloody fools have rubbed off on me.” This is Crowley. This is emotional complexity, admittance to a change of heart, self-awareness, and a brave act of equal defiance and sacrifice, with his usual smug, snarky dismissal. This isn’t suicide brought on by depression, by an uncharacteristic vulnerability. It is resolved, determined, if reluctant. This is Crowley choosing the greater good and the boys, even if it means sacrificing himself.

For me, this small addition smooths over much of the unevenness in the showrunner’s attempts to justify Crowley’s death. He has lost Hell, he believes he’s had an irreversible falling out with Dean – all of which could be overcome, grown beyond. But then a rift opens, and Lucifer is an immediate danger, and it requires a life to save the day. Crowley knows it can’t be either of the boys – that tends to have world-ending effects – and it can’t be Mary Winchesters or Castiel, because of “Winchester man-pain.” So that leaves Crowley. And having exhausted all immediate alternatives, Crowley does what internalized Winchester logic and conscience tells him is right. It would still require a moment of hesitation, a moment we see him combatting his deeply imbedded trait of self-preservation. But at least that would have been in character and show definitive character growth on Crowley’s part.

So yes, I completely agree with the decision to cut this monologue in 12x23. It doesn’t tell us anything about Crowley that we don’t already know, and is uncharacteristic of him, and provides out-of-character justification for his actions that wasn’t needed. You don’t have to agree with me, obviously. And I’ll end this rather long rant of an essay by saying what I always say: that Crowley deserved better. He deserved better than the mangling of his character’s motivations in the latter half of season 12, and he deserved better than this monologue. I’m glad it was cut from the final script.

#crowley #character analysis #spn season 12 #spn script #crowley deserved better #happy sulphur saturday #this has been your pre-scheduled lunch time rant #not back to your regularly scheduled postings

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 26

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25

Wei Ying, courtesy name Wei WuXian, the direct descendent of the Immortal Empress, the Divine Ruler of the Shan Dynasty, the rightful Guardian of the Immortal Mountain, has been standing at the Peach Blossom Pavilion gate for entirely too long.

Arranging the short trip from the Jade Sword Palace to the Peach Blossom Pavilion had taken nearly an hour. Wei WuXian could have flown across the rooftops in a tenth of that time, and already accomplished his task five times over. But the Emperor requires an escort. The Emperor requires five layers of black and gold cloth, which is already proving unbearable in the midday heat. The Emperor requires a heavy gold hair piece, and a fan, and a parasol to protect him from the sun’s glare, servants who will carry the parasol and the excess material of his robe, ten Imperial Guards at the minimum, and four more servants to stand at attention, in the event that the Emperor finds himself in need of them.  

Lan Zhan had asked him to use the door. Wei Ying is going to use the door. He is the Divine Ruler of the Shan Dynasty, not some rogue cultivator without a copper in his pocket, begging for favor. He has never been intimidated by Sect Leader Lan, and he is not intimidated today.

He should not care if Lan QiRen hates him. Wei Ying is very much aware that he is already hated by Jin GuangShan, Wen RuoHan, and another half dozen sect leaders. Between the memories of YanLing DaoRen’s tyranny, and his mother’s forbearance so often mistaken for weakness, the hatred of their direct descendent was always an inevitability. Years of unsuccessful assassination attempts have made the animosity pretty difficult to ignore.

But Lan Zhan loves his uncle. And Wei Ying cannot bear the idea of being hated by someone Lan Zhan loves.

“Your Majesty,” Nie MingJue says, “would you prefer to stay out here?”

“No,” Wei Ying says, “I just-- need a moment.”

Nie MingJue nods, and goes back to standing at attention.

There are times that Wei Ying hates being the Emperor.

The Lan Sect Leader has never shown the Emperor an ounce more deference than what is absolutely necessary. In the past six years, he had arrived at the Immortal Mountain City each time he was summoned. He never asked for a single favor, never spoke unless he was addressed, never attended a single outing, event, or a banquet, unless his presence was specifically required. Wei Ying was accustomed to the world in which sect leaders flattered him endlessly to his face, then tried to stab him the moment his back was turned.

He is not accustomed to men like Lan QiRen.  

“Make the announcement,” he says.

His palms are sweaty and cold. How stupid, that his hands are freezing, while the rest of him is boiling under the bright, midday sun.    

A-Sang’s plan is already in motion. The rumors of the Emperor’s agenda for the day have been carefully spreading through the Immortal Mountain City for the past two hours. They are false rumors, intentionally whispered into the wrong ear by one of A-Sang’s servants. Jiang Cheng will be taking Wei Ying’s place in the Imperial Gardens, pretending to participate in a clandestine meeting. Shijie has already extended a gracious invitation to the Jin Sect leader, Madam Jin, and Jin ZiXuan, an invitation that cannot be declined. Twenty trustworthy members of the Nie Sect have departed for YiLing on the pretense of participating in a night hunt.

All the pieces are falling in their place. All Wei Ying needs to do is speak to Lan QiRen.

The three Lan Sect members are in the courtyard to welcome him, their postures identical.

Wei Ying motions that they should rise. Lan Zhan is wearing a simple set of robes, utterly unadorned, the cloth light and appropriate for the heat of the day. His hair is free of ornaments; it is restrained by a plain, white piece of cloth, matching his robes. In the sunlight, the layers of his hair shift from black to amber, his eyes from brown to liquid gold. His face is soft and open. He looks as if he may smile.  

The escort is ordered to remain in the courtyard. A-Sang had decided that their circle of trust cannot extend to the Imperial servants or the Imperial Guards. Even so, Wei Ying had forgotten how small the Peach Blossom Pavilion actually is; even five people in its receiving hall appears to be two too many.

In the past, Lan QiRen had never made use of the Imperial servants placed at his disposal. He is not the only Sect Leader to be wary of unfamiliar help, and Wei Ying had never given the man’s preferences much thought. However, he had assumed that this visit, requiring the presence of both Young Masters, would have incited the man to bring his own. Instead, Lan Zhan and Lan XiChen excuse themselves to perform the task of preparing tea, and any other refreshments that need to be served.    

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Lan QiRen says after all the courtesies have been observed, his voice unfailingly polite, “To what do we owe the honor of Your Majesty’s visit?”

“There is to be a small outing to YiLing this afternoon. I had hoped that the Young Masters would grant me the pleasure of their company.”

“I was not aware that the Emperor was planning on an Imperial Procession through YiLing during the festival,” Lan QiRen says.

“The Emperor is not planing to hold an Imperial Procession,” Wei Ying says, “in fact, the details of this outing must be kept secret. Our intention is to draw out the person responsible for the assassination attempts. Rumors intended to misdirect the assassin and their accomplices have already been spread throughout the court. A trap has been set in the Imperial Gardens. In the view of this, removing the targets of the assassination attempts from the Immortal Mountain seems the preferable course of action.”

Lan QiRen is silent for long moments, his face unreadable.

For the first time, it strikes Wei Ying that the Lan Sect Leader is not a young man. He had been born during YanLing DaoRen’s reign, into a world already rife with chaos. Lan QiRen’s grandfather, Lan XuYun, had been one of the first Sect Leaders to pledge his loyalty to the Immortal Empress.

Lan QiRen is not stupid. The man had understood how the Emperor’s attachment to the Wen in the Immortal City was adversely affecting the Lan Sect long before Wei Ying himself had come to the same conclusion. Lan QiRen had known, and he had said nothing. All these years of suffering resentment and humiliation, he had resolutely refused all assistance offered, without ever showing an ounce of bitterness or ill will towards the Wen Sect, or the Emperor. Instead, he had shouldered the ever-increasing burden with dignity, and then taught both of his nephews to do the same.

Wei Ying does not need this man to like him, but being hated by him no longer feels like an acceptable outcome.

“Sect Leader Nie,” Wei Ying says, “I would like to speak to Sect Leader Lan in private for a moment. Please see if the Young Masters require any assistance with their task.”

Wei Ying will need to make Nie MingJue’s title particularly grand, in order to compensate for sending him to the kitchens to watch tea being brewed. But he must speak to Lan QiRen of sensitive matters, and he must do so now, while he still feels brave enough to do so.

The moment he can be certain that they will not be overheard, Wei Ying takes a deep breath, and dives under, “Sect Leader, I understand that you do not like me, do not trust me, and disapprove of of my continued association with your nephew. I cannot be someone you approve of, and any attempt to meet your expectations will doubtlessly prove to be unproductive and frustrating for both of us. Let us simply acknowledge that you will never see me as being worthy of your nephew, and that in this, at least, we may find a common ground.”

Lan QiRen leans back slightly, his expression registering a hint of surprise.

“Regardless of your disapproval,” Wei Ying says firmly, “I intend to ask Lan WangJi to take his place by my side as the Emperor Consort. I will not list all the reasons why I personally prefer him to every person I have ever met, as I am sure that this conversation would become unbearably uncomfortable for both of us. However, I am very well aware that destiny saw fit to place me into a position of power regardless of my qualifications, and that I have often failed to meet the challenges this position presents. Therefore, you cannot begrudge me the wish to share that seat of power with someone who is infinitely superior in every way.”

“Your Majesty,” Lan QiRen says, his surprise shifting to cool politeness once again, “the Lan Sect is honored by your attention. We serve at the pleasure of the Emperor.”

Wei Ying cannot stand the man’s politeness right now. He would rather have Lan QiRen pull out his sword, and attempt to skewer him to the floor. At least in that, there would be some honesty.

“Sect Leader, we have a small window of time in which we may converse openly. If I must, I will order that you speak plainly, and without hesitation. But I believe no such order is necessary.”

Lan QiRen’s expression hardens, and Wei Ying braces himself for an attack.

“WangJi will never compete for Your Majesty’s attention,” he says coldly, “He is ill-suited to a life of frivolity and stagnation. He will surpass Your Majesty in cultivation, if he has not already done so, and he will never make himself less for Your Majesty’s sake. The petty rivalries and empty flattery of the court will make him wretched. And he is certainly incapable of providing an heir to the throne, which will serve as a continuous reminder that he can be easily replaced. In short, Your Majesty, I am finding it hard to believe that you have thought your decision through with care that it deserves.”

“Lan Zhan will never have to compete for my attention,” Wei Ying says, “It is more likely that the Empire will need to compete with him, and may often find itself on the losing side. I am certain that he has already surpassed me in cultivation; a fact that has only inspired admiration, not resentment. The petty rivalries and empty flattery of the court are inevitable, but he will have the power to deal with them in any way he sees fit. And the throne already has an heir.”

The last bit seems to take Lan QiRen off guard, and he is studies Wei Ying carefully for a few moments, as if unsure what to make of him.

“In the interest of full disclosure, I am not unwilling to share the name of the heir to the throne with the Lan Sect,” Wei Ying says, “However, I do believe that this information should be shared with Lan Zhan first, if he chooses to accept my proposal.”

“If he refuses?” Lan QiRen says.

Wei Ying meets Lan QiRen’s gaze with all the composure he possesses, “Lan Zhan is the best judge of his own happiness. If he refuses, I will respect his decision.”

The silence that follows is not long, but it is the most intolerable silence of Wei Ying’s life.

Just when he thinks he cannot bear it any longer, Lan QiRen nods.

His expression seems to reflect resignation rather than outright approval, but this is an acceptable outcome. Wei Ying wonders if he should offer to let the man stab him once. He is sure this would make Sect Leader Lan much more amenable. It is not an ideal solution, but Wei Ying has been stabbed before, by men a lot less worthy of his respect.

Luckily, the tea is finally ready, so that decision, at least, can be postponed until later.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #wangxian #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #poor lan qiren #i think we're finally closer to the end of this fic than the beginning #i would say another 10 chapters at most #ily guys #thanks for putting up with me

[on-literal-mars]

The Narcissism of Wilbur Soot: Ghostburs real unfinished business.

Wilbur Soot effectively manipulated a bunch of children into fighting a war for him. This was the first ‘official’ arc of the Dream SMP and even though it’s been months and months since it happened, so many things still tie back to it. L’manberg: a country more power struggle than nation, Tommy’s discs and their importance, and Wilbur Soots selfishness. This post will be broken down into four parts for four symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder that fit Wilbur the best. There will also be a final section dedicated to Ghostbur and his unfinished business on the SMP.

Having an exaggerated sense of self importance:

Wilbur is a showman. He is useless unless he has an audience. It’s introduced from day one as he cultivates an army over the shared dream of freedom, again when he holds an election and reads out the results, and finally when he doesn’t blow up L’manberg until Phil comes. How many times does Wilbur go into the button room by himself? I think on stream maybe 3-4 times. That’s 3-4 times that he doesn’t do what he says he’s gonna do and it’s because someone like Wilbur needs an audience.

He can’t do anything by himself, he hates himself too much, the only time he achieves anything is when he manipulates others to get it done for him. Think about it. How many times has Wilbur sung out for his nation and called it “My L’manberg” like he built it himself? Like he actually fought in the battles instead of standing off to the side and urging his child army to ‘keep fighting’. He’s encredibly entitled. Which brings us to our next point:

Having a sense of entitlement:

Wilbur believes that everything is owed to him. Dream is a tyrant for telling him not to sell drugs on SMP land. People should be allowed to do what they want.

Wilbur should be allowed to do what he wants.

And he wraps this idea up with a bow and calls it ‘freedom’. He elects himself president without any hesitation and is surprised and insulted when Quakity runs against him. I’ve already touched on how he obsesses over L’manberg and destroying it. A narcissist looks at life with complete tunnel vision. The only thing they care about is what will benefit them and what will make them feel better. So the logic behind Wilbur wanting to destroy L’manberg was never ‘they took it from me, I want to destroy it so they can’t have it’(because even that requires some level of empathy) but more ‘It’s mine. If it isn’t mine, then it can’t be any bodies’.

it was always his L’manberg. His unfinished Symphony. It was his way of taking back control. Here’s one thing you have to know about Narcissists, they are rampant control freaks. And if they can’t control you or you are no longer benefiting them, they will destroy you.

Being preoccupied with fantasies about brilliance, beauty, or the perfect mate:

We’ve never seen Wilbur(Ghostbur is a different story) interact romantically but we have seen how he treats the ones he’s supposed to love. Fundy is a perfect example. I could go on and on about how Wilbur gave Tommy more attention because Tommy was always willing to stay under Wilbur while Fundy always tried to go against him but that’s a post we’ve all seen a hundred times(in all fairness, very good posts). I present you another outlook: Wilbur neglects Fundy because he sees too much of himself in him. Like, oh I don’t know, Fundys want for control and authority. He wants attention because he’s just as much of a showman as his dad.

And Wilbur can never share the stage. He is incapable of it, his thinking is too black and white. Regardless, his relationship with both Fundy and Tommy(towards the end) showcase how manipulative and abusive narcissists often are. Now notice how pretty Wilbur tries to make Pogtopia? I know towards the end he was fine to let all those buttons litter the place but think before that. You could argue that Wilbur worked so hard on it because he wanted a cosy place to stay for him and Tommy but it simply isn’t true.

We know this because when Technoblade tries to put railings around the stairs Wilbur breaks them down. He wasn’t intentionally being malicious, you’ve got to understand that narcissists just never think about anyone but themselves. He simply didn’t care if Tommy or Techno( or tubbo who eventually did)fell off the stairs and hurt themselves. It didn’t matter. The railing just didn’t go with his aesthetic. Wilbur made Pogtopia so nice so that he could feel in control.

He did it to convince himself that it was some nice vacation home instead of a stone prison being used as a fugitive hide out. He was absolutely delusional.

Inability to take responsibility:

Right away I bet you can see how this lines up with Ghostbur, huh? It ties back to black and white thinking, as well. His famous phrase ‘indepenance or death’, calling everyone in Manberg traitors because they hadn’t immediately dropped everything to join Pogtopia, and how he kept making destroying L’manberg the final option. He knew from the beginning that he was going to destroy it. The second he built the button room the countrys fate was sealed. Wilbur is never wrong.

He knows what’s best for his country. But here’s the thing: Wilbur has always done things indirectly or through someone else. He does this to avoid direct criticism. Criticism cripples narcissists, it is their worst fear. But blowing up L’manberg would leave no room for anything else. It would be Wilburs fault and no one else’s.

That’s why he has Phil kill him. It wasn’t out of regret or shame, it was one last act of selfishness. He left them with crater for a country and didn’t even say goodbye. And even in his final moments it was “they all want you to, look at them, they want me dead”. He was a coward and died like one. He died to try and escape criticism and responsibility. But death has a funny way of catching you off guard.

Some final symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder before we move into the Ghostbur section:

React with rage or contempt and try to belittle the other person to make themselves appear superior

Have difficulty regulating emotions and behavior

Experience major problems dealing with stress and adapting to change

Have secret feelings of insecurity, shame, vulnerability and humiliation

(This isn’t an official definition but Dr. Ramani Durvasula says that Narcissists are characterized by lack of empathy and deep insecurity. Keep that in mind.)

Ghostbur:

Ghostbur to me is very child like. Ghostbur pulls some pranks but is never intentionally malicious, just works his hardest to make everyone happy. He is innocent and playful and doesn’t like to talk about serious things. We could see him as Wilbur back when he was a little kid. Before the effects of abuse start to kick in. Everyone says that Phil is canonically neglectful, I’m not sure where this comes from but I believe it.

As childlike as he is, it isn’t like he’s the ghost version of kid Wilbur. Wilbur was an adult when he died. He’s so childlike because that’s what Wilbur was on the inside; a child who never matured properly. L’manchild takes a whole different meaning now lmao. Ghostbur is Wilbur without the walls he puts in place to protect himself. That’s why he’s cold all the time: he’s finally being exposed to all the things he tried to hide from.

Wilbur acts like a child throughout majority of his time on the SMP. He gets angry when he doesn’t get his way, expects everyone to kiss his ass and take care of him, and throws tantrums when all he should’ve done was compromise(the way people blame George or Quakity for Schlatt getting elected but Wilbur could’ve just taken down the American-ban). And doesn’t that sound just like the points I made earlier? Ghostbur isn’t the sad alter ego of Wilbur that some try to paint him out to be, he’s literally just Wilbur without the bullshit. He wasn’t the father of a nation he was an abused kid who never grew up. He ran from his problems to the very last second but now he doesn’t have a choice.

That is Ghostburs unfinished business. He must finally allow himself to be wrong. Only then will he be able to move on. And shit, with the way he keeps forgetting the bad stuff he’s done, perhaps he isn’t meant to. Perhaps this is supposed to be his hell and he’ll be trapped in constant pain for all of eternity. It would make sense wouldn’t it?

Death was like: hah, you want to act like you did nothing wrong? Fine, I’ll help you out.

That’s the problem with black and white thinking. Too much of anything will eventually become bad for you. Ghostbur is gonna realize that he can’t float around L’manberg for the rest of time and actually accept the fact that maybe everything is his fault. Atleast Wilbur actually got his wish, I suppose. Dead men can’t take responsibility. Dead men can only exist in hell forever or let go and move on.

#dream smp #fundy mcyt #wilbur soot #wilbur corruption arc #jschlatt #lmanberg #pogtopia #ghostbur #someone should pay me for this

[savageandwise]

As a somewhat new member of the fandom who's read a lot of old discussions here and elsewhere, I think I've fallen into the trap of assuming every Oasis/Liam/NGHFB song must be autobiographical in some way but I'm beginning to wonder if that's not the case. Do you have any thoughts on that? I've found myself listening to one song and thinking "That doesn't seem to fit his life, who could this be about?" and then I remember oh yeah, songs can actually be fictional in inspiration like poetry or novels. I feel like Liam's songs are more likely to be autobiographical to some degree because he likes to let us know how he feels about everyone and everything, while Noel is more guarded. That said, I think even though they throw the word "woman" or "girl" in the song, it doesn't mean it's not about his brother. "Gone" definitely sounds like it's about Noel to me.

I spent a lot of time analysing and over analysing Beatles and Solo Beatles lyrics before joining this fandom and I've put a lot of thought into it. I'd say not every song is autobiographical is certainly true. Noel has a lot of pretty standard rock and roll lyrics that are more about a vibe than expressing his feelings. Of course sometimes there's just a line here or there where you sort of think...that's such a specific line ...there must be some emotions in there. But that doesn't necessarily mean the whole song is about someone.

I think you're right. When it comes to Liam more of his songs seem to be specifically about his life and yes, about Noel. Noel certainly thinks so. And Liam often implies it/says it. Or at the very least says he Noel is in his head when he's singing the song. (Once) I'm sure Paper Crown is about Noel too. So yeah, the fact that the lyrics contain the words 'girl' or 'woman' definitely doesn't mean the song is about an actual girl or woman. (The Beatles had a lot of that too) the other thing to keep in mind is that when you're writing a song you have to make sure the scansion works so you might throw in a girl or a babe the make the verse fit. Yes, you could use boy too. But really, as a writer, you're not under an obligation to be truthful in lyrics you can change things for creative licence. (Noel's ocean imagery though he hates beaches and swimming) sometimes things just sound good.

With Liam you also have to keep in mind he has a team of songwriters. So the actual words are not necessarily his. (They are sometimes though like Bold) his song writers might intentionally put a thing in that's biographical or seems to be about Noel. They're also aware that's what fans look for. So yeah, agree. Gone seems to be about Noel for sure. (Liam also has to okay the songs so he's well aware)

I think the idea that Noel is much more guarded is only partially true. He gives that impression for sure. But at the same time he plays with the idea songs are about his brother and has done ever since Oasis. He'll say oh noo...that's not about him and then throw in comments about having to change the word brother to lover in You Know You Can't Go Back because he worried people would think it was about Liam (reverse psychology anyone? Now I'm certainly thinking it's about him) The amount of times he's protested Acquiesce isn't about Liam is interesting too.

Bottom line? They both know what sells and it's their relationship. (Of course that doesn't mean the feelings aren't genuine) Lennon and McCartney had a self proclaimed lyrical dialogue throughout the seventies where they admitted they wrote songs for each other/openly speculated which songs the other wrote for them. I often think Liam and Noel are following in their footsteps.

Welcome to fandom!!! Thanks for the ask!

#anon #gallaghers #songwriting #thanks for this! #it was fun

[rhosyn-du]

Never make a mess when a total catastrophe will do - Chapter Two

Pairings: Jimon, past Clace, background Clizzy, a bunch of other minor background pairings Rating: Explicit Art: @cor321​ Beta: @all-thestories-aretrue​ Tags:  Alternate Universe - College/University, fake dating, oh my god they were roommates, friends with benefits, idiots to lovers, pining, miscommunication, holidays, drinking games, mistletoe, symbolically significant Oreos, domestic fluff, brief mention of past character death, Jace’s self-worth issues deserve their own tag Summary: What do you do when you find out your sister is not only dating your ex and love-of-your-high-school-life but is also bringing her home for Christmas? Bring your annoying, hot, annoyingly-hot roommate as your fake boyfriend to show them you're totally fine with it, obviously! There's no possible way this could backfire. Link: AO3 , Tumblr Master Post

Chapter Two

They didn’t talk more about it later. Jace barely saw Simon at all over the following couple weeks, in fact. It’s not that he was intentionally avoiding Simon, but they both had final exams to study for, and Simon was wrapped up in guitar ensemble rehearsals for the winter concert on top of that. If Jace had spent a little more of his study time in the library than was strictly necessary and that just happened to prevent any further discussions of dispays of physical affection and practice dates, that was entirely beside the point.

What Jace hadn’t counted on was how unprepared he’d feel pulling up outside the Queen Anne style townhouse he’d called home for most of his childhood. He suddenly wished he’d let Simon talk him into driving together and using the drive as a last minute planning session, even if it meant they’d need to coordinate their trip back to Boston. As much as he’d been avoiding talking about their plan, it really only occurred to Jace on the drive how much he wished they actually had, you know, a plan.

“Wow,” Simon said, hopping out of the hand-painted van he’d parked right behind Jace’s car. “Is that an actual turret?”

“Yup, gotta love those late 19th century architectural fads,” Jace answered as he pulled his suitcase out of the trunk. “The house belonged to Maryse’s grandparents, and I’ve never been able to tell how much she actually likes the style and how much is just childhood nostalgia, but she hasn’t even changed much of the interior except for renovations and repairs.”

“I have a hard time imagining growing up in a place like this,” Simon said as he joined Jace with his own suitcase in hand. “And it’s not like my mom’s house is tiny or anything, but this is just...” He waved a hand vaguely at the house. “A lot.”

He didn’t ask why Jace was sharing a tiny apartment furnished entirely secondhand if his family lived in a house like this, and Jace didn’t offer an explanation.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Jace said, even though there was plenty to be nervous about. “I promise the house doesn’t bite.”

“Yeah, less worried about the house than the people in it,” Simon told him.

“I thought you were, like, the parent whisperer,” Jace teased. “Isn’t that why you offered to come with me? Because you make a great boyfriend? Trust me, as long as Alec and Izzy think you make me happy, they’ll love you, and you know more about comics than anyone I’ve ever met, so Max will love you regardless.”

“Okay,” Simon said, releasing a heavy breath. “Okay, thanks. You’re right, I just got a little intimidated by the house, but this is all going to be fine.”

“Maryse is probably going to hate you, though,” Jace continued, keeping his face carefully deadpan. “She hates everyone we bring home. It’s like a rite of passage. But you’re great with parents, so I’m sure you’ll at least avoid intentional food poisoning.”

Simon stared at him in horror, and Jace couldn’t keep a hit of a smile from breaking through.

“I hate you,” Simon told him.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Jace said, “I’m pretty sure the food poisoning wasn’t actually intentional.”

“Wait, there was actual food poisoning?”

“Come on,” Jace said, heading toward the door. “I want to get inside before we freeze to death.”

“You are such a dick sometimes,” Simon muttered, catching up to him.

Then, he slipped his free hand into Jace’s like it was a totally normal thing to do, and Jace had to catch himself from tripping over the steps.

“Careful,” Simon said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going to make a very good impression on your family if you fall and break your neck before we even get inside.”

And there was just nothing to say to that, to how uncomfortable it wasn’t to have Simon’s hand in his like this, to the way it made him want. So Jace simply rolled his eyes and pushed open the front door, letting the scent of home wrap around him like a warm blanket.

“Okay,” Simon said quietly as he surveyed the entryway, complete with antique chandelier. “Feeling a little intimidated again.” And it was so easy for Jace to just give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Hey, you made it,” a warm voice greeted them. “With as bad as traffic has been, we thought you’d be another hour at least.”

“Hey, man,” Jace said, dropping Simon’s hand so he could pull his brother into a hug. “People must be staying home for the holidays this year, because we barely hit any traffic at all.” He glanced around. “Where is everyone?”

“Iz should be here any minute, Max is holed up in his room playing video games with his friends, and Magnus is helping Mom with some last-minute grocery shopping for dinner tomorrow.” Alec held out a hand to Simon. “I’m Alec, since Jace apparently can’t be bothered to make introductions like a civilized person.”

“It’s okay,” Simon said, giving his hand a quick shake, “I gave up on the idea of Jace being civilized the first time I saw him eat pizza that had been sitting out on the counter for three days.”

“That was your pizza,” Jace pointed out.

“Yeah,” Simon said, “which I was going to throw away because I forgot about it for three days.”

“On the subject of uncivilized,” Jace said, turning back to Alec, who was looking just a little too pleased, “you really sent Magnus shopping with Maryse? Buddy, if you decided you don’t want to marry the guy, just break it off with him. You don’t have to throw him to the wolves like that.”

Alec’s tiny smile became a little less tiny and a whole lot softer. “Magnus and Mom have actually been getting along lately. She wanted his opinion on wine pairings, so they went to the store and left me here so I can pull the bread out of the oven when it’s done. It’s very weird, but also nice.”

“That does sound very weird,” Jace told him, “but I’m glad things are working out and Maryse has found some level of chill somewhere.”

“Hopefully that means I won’t get poisoned,” Simon said.

Alec snorted. “If you want to avoid it, you should probably avoid mentioning you know about that. Or any other embarrassing family stories Jace might have shared with you.”

“And don’t eat anything Izzy hands you,” Jace added. “Anything she cooks probably won’t kill you, but the taste will make you wish you were dead.”

“So, I should just fast while I’m here,” Simon said. “Good to know.”

Jace led Simon upstairs to drop off their bags while Alec checked on the bread.

“Just toss your bag anywhere,” Jace said, opening the door to his old room. “We can argue over who gets which side of the dresser later.”

“Sure,” Simon said cheerfully, “as long as we can be civil deciding who gets which side of the bed.” He stopped just inside the doorway. “Wow, okay. The apparently very small bed.”

And this really was something that should have occurred to him, Jace realized. It wasn’t that he hadn’t considered that he’d be sharing a bed with Simon. They’d even talked about it, briefly, and agreed it was no big deal. But Jace hadn’t considered exactly how much smaller his childhood bed was than the generous queen he slept in back home. It was technically large enough to fit two grown men, but only technically.

“Don’t worry,” Jace said, falling back on his trademark bravado, “I won’t get mad if you cuddle me in your sleep. I know you can’t help it if your subconscious recognizes that I’m irresistible.”

“I’m more worried about your freakishly sharp elbows,” Simon muttered.

“As long as you don’t snore or steal the covers, you won’t have to worry about my elbows,” Jace told him. He was planning to keep his elbows, and the rest of him, as far away from Simon as possible. Which, given the size of the bed, was maybe three inches.

“Dude, I do not snore,” Simon protested. “You know that; we live together.”

“You absolutely snore after your fourth drink.”

“I wasn’t planning to get drunk with your family,” Simon said, tossing his bag onto the bed.

“You say that now,” Jace said, leaving his own bag next to the door. “But wait until you get the full Lightwood Christmas experience before deciding you want to spend the whole thing sober.”

“If your family drives me to drink, you don’t get to blame me for snoring,” Simon countered. Which was probably fair, but Jace was saved from having to admit that by the sound of voices coming from downstairs.

“That’d be Izzy,” Jace said, “and we’d better get down there before she accuses me of trying to hide you from her.”

“Jace,” called a singsong voice, right on cue, “quit making out with your mystery hottie and get down here so we can actually meet him.”

“You should be careful making demands like that,” Jace called back. “What if I’m not wearing any pants?”

“We’ve all seen it. Get your ass down here “

“I like your sister already,” Simon told him.

“You say that now, but wait until she decides you count as family. She won’t be any better with you.” He took Simon’s hand. Because it helped sell their relationship. Because he could. Simon laced their fingers together, and Jace tried not to feel any way about that at all as he led Simon back down the stairs.

They only made it a couple steps before Simon came to a complete stop, almost causing Jace to trip the rest of the way down the staircase. He heard Simon mutter a soft ‘oh crap’ at the same time a bright, redheaded whirlwind came rushing up the stairs at them.

“Oh my god, Simon?” Clary grabbed Simon into a giant bearhug, effectively tearing his hand out of Jace’s. “You’re Jace’s mystery boyfriend? How did I not know about this? You didn’t even tell me you were dating anyone, you jerk! What happened to best friend gossip privileges?”

Clary pulled back from the hug, and now that Jace could actually see her face, he could see the hint of concern she was trying to hide under her wide smile.

“Clary. Hi,” Simon said, eyes wide. “I was going to tell you, I swear. It’s just, this is kind of new and so...” He trailed off, looking panicked. His eyes caught Jace’s. “But, uh, yeah. This is Jace. My boyfriend. Jace, this is my best friend, Clary Fray.”

“Yeah,” Jace said, looking between the two of them and feeling more than a little out of his depth. He’d planned for things to be weird, but not this weird. “We’ve met.” He flashed Clary a smile. “Fray, huh?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t keep his name. Not after...after everything. Fray is the name Mom used before she married Luke. It’s the name I remember her having when I was little, so.” She shrugged. “I filed the paperwork to have it legally changed the day I turned eighteen.”

“It suits you,” Jace told her, and let himself be pulled into a tight hug that he suspected was as much because she needed one as that she was glad to see him. Clary had never told him much about the biological father she barely knew, but she’d told him enough to know that Clary held him responsible for her mother’s death, even if the courts had cleared him of any wrongdoing.

“Thanks,” Clary whispered, before surreptitiously drying her eyes on his shoulder and pulling back to flash a smile that was less forced than Jace expected. “So, tell me how this happened without me hearing about it.” She bumped Jace with her shoulder. “And if it’s so new, what possessed you to subject Simon to your family holidays?”

“Hey,” Izzy said, walking up behind Clary and wrapping her arms around her girlfriend’s waist. Jace had to admit, they looked...well, right together. “That’s my family, too, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Clary said, offering a soft grin over her shoulder. “And the fact that I’m here should tell you exactly how much I love you.”

“Fair,” Izzy said, then looked at Simon. “So, how’d my brother convince you to join this circus?”

“We made a trade,” Simon said, straight-faced. “I put up with his family for Christmas and he puts up with mine for my cousin Rachel’s wedding.” He leaned in and told Izzy in a stage whisper, “Also, I’m weak for his smile, but don’t tell him I said that, because he will abuse it.”

“You say that like I don’t already abuse it,” Jace said, sliding his arm around Simon’s waist in a mirror of Izzy and Clary’s pose. “And to answer your earlier question, us being officially together is new, but we’ve been sort of on the verge of dating for ages. Practically since we started sharing an apartment last year.”

Clary let out a peal of delighted laughter. “Oh, you’re the roommate. It makes sense now.” Before Jace could ask what made sense, she was pulling the both of them into a tight hug. “I’m really happy for both of you.”

“If I’d known you were going to be this excited, I definitely would have mentioned it sooner,” Simon said, pulling back from the hug.

Jace tried to catch his eye, wondering what on earth was going on. He knew both Clary and Simon well enough to know he was missing something, but he had no idea what it was. Simon ignored him, and that just made Jace more suspicious.

“Come on,” Izzy said. “You can have your hug fest later. Right now, I want to help Alec get things set up in the kitchen and maybe surprise Mom by getting dinner started before she gets back.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a panicked look, and Jace frantically searched his mind for excuses to keep Izzy busy. He didn’t actually want a repeat of the food poisoning episode, after all.

“Actually,” Simon said, turning a bright smile on Izzy. “I was kind of hoping you’d be willing to show me your Lego Star Wars collection before we get too wrapped up in family stuff. Jace mentioned you have the deluxe Imperial Star Destroyer set from the early 2000’s, and I’ve never actually seen one in person.”

“Oh,” Izzy said, looking torn. “I’m not sure—”

“We can help Alec in the kitchen,” Clary said quickly. “You two go do your nerd thing. I knew this was inevitable when I finally introduced you two anyway. And this way I get the chance to harass my bestie’s new boyfriend without him in the way trying to keep me from learning the embarrassing details.”

“You know, on second thought—” Simon began, looking slightly panicked.

“Come on,” Izzy interrupted, smiling brightly and grabbing his hand.

Simon flashed Clary a betrayed look, then looked to Jace for support. Jace simply smiled at him.

“Don’t worry, love muffin,” he said mildly. “I’d never intentionally embarrass you.”

“I want you to know that I hate both of you,” Simon said before allowing Izzy to drag him back up the stairs.

“My collection is all still in my old room,” Izzy said. “Clary and I have been looking for an apartment big enough I can actually move the rest of my stuff out of here, but so far we haven’t found anything in our price range.”

Jace turned back to Clary. “Exactly what kind of embarrassing stories were you hoping for? Because I have many.”

Clary shook her head. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got more embarrassing Simon stories than you do. I’ve got almost two decades worth. But I was actually hoping to talk to you alone anyway, and this seems like the best chance we’re going to get.”

Jace followed her down the stairs and into the study. “Sounds serious. You planning to give me a shovel talk?”

Clary laughed, shaking her head. “No, I know you, remember? I’m not worried about you hurting Simon. Well,” she amended, “not any more than I am about him hurting you.” She met his eyes with a soft smile. “You might be the only person I know with a heart as big as Simon’s, as much as you try to hide it.”

Jace looked away. It had been two years since the last time he’d seen her, and she could still see right to the heart of him. He didn’t want to know what she’d see if she kept looking. “Clary—”

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” she teased. “But I didn’t actually bring you out here to talk about Simon. I wanted to apologize.”

Jace frowned, looking back at her. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” He was more than a little grateful not to have Clary grilling him about his entirely fabricated relationship, but he wasn’t sure where this conversation was going.

“No, I do,” she insisted. “I promised to keep in touch when you moved away, and I didn’t.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jace said, even if maybe it had been at first. Those first few months at school had been hard. Jace always thought he was used to being alone, especially after his mother’s suicide, but he found out just how much he’d come to rely on his new family when he didn’t see them every day. They’d kept in touch, of course, but with Izzy immersed in her studies and Alec all wrapped up in his new relationship with Magnus, it wasn’t anything like what it had been when they were all under one roof.

For a while, he and Clary had been in touch nearly every day, sometimes texting multiple times a day. Jace told her about his classes and how much he liked Boston, and Clary told him all about trying to narrow down which art schools she wanted to apply to. It was almost the same sort of easy friendship they’d had before he left, after they agreed they were better off as friends.

But after a couple months, Clary’s messages came less and less often, and eventually stopped altogether. Jace tried not to let it bother him, but he started drinking a bit too much and going to a few too many parties. Which was how he’d met Maia, his attempts at flirting somehow leading to him getting his ass handed to him at beer pong, and soon he found himself with an entire group of new friends. Although Maia insisted for almost a year that she and Jace were merely antagonistic acquaintances.

Clary gave him a look that told him she knew exactly how full of it he was. “It was a shitty thing to do, and I was a shitty friend,” she told him. “Especially because I did it on purpose. Izzy and I started getting close and I started to have feelings for her, and I didn’t know what to say to you about it. I didn’t know how to even talk to you about what was going on in my life without mentioning that she was becoming such a big part of it.”

“You didn’t actually have to hide it from me, you know,” Jace said. “I was surprised when Izzy first told me, but I’m mostly just glad you’re both happy. And seeing you together, I know you both are.”

“Thanks,” Clary said. “I didn’t want to hurt you or make things weird. For a while, I thought I could just ignore what I was feeling, but Iz is just... She’s not someone you can ignore, you know?”

“Oh, I know exactly how hard my sister is to ignore, believe me.” Jace stopped, considered, then admitted something he had never said—would never say—to another person. But this was Clary, and he knew she would never repeat it. And even if she did, he could always play it off as part of the act. “She and Simon have that in common. You know, I actually thought I hated him at first? He’s so enthusiastic about everything, and so sincere, and just.” He shrugged. “Not the kind of person I thought would ever do it for me.”

“But he won you over with his boyish charm?” Clary guessed.

“Mm,” Jace agreed. And the way he loved without reserve. Not just his family and friends, but his music, his favorite films, even the crappy nachos from the 7-11 down the block from their apartment. Simon loved every part of life, and being around him, Jace could almost imagine what that felt like. “Well, that and his abs.”

“Can’t forget those,” Clary laughed.

“Not with how often he eats breakfast shirtless,” Jace agreed. “Come on. If we aren’t in the kitchen by the time Izzy gets back downstairs, you know she’ll try to help Alec herself, and I was kind of hoping for dinner to be edible.”

~~~

Dinner was surprisingly painless. Maryse was more relaxed and happy than Jace had ever seen her, and he couldn’t help wondering how much of that was related to the very unsubtle smiles she kept exchanging with Clary’s stepfather. Even Max, who was deep in throes of preteen scorn, grudgingly admitted that Simon being in a band was “pretty cool” and joined in on some of Simon, Clary, and Izzy’s excited nerd talk that went entirely over Jace’s head.

After dinner, they retired to the living room for eggnog and carols. Jace limited himself to a single cup of Magnus’s infamous eggnog, knowing better than to let himself get drunk when he was putting on a show for his family. Or sharing his tiny bed with Simon.

As usual, Jace let himself get pushed over the piano to play. He felt something in him settle as soon as he rested his fingers on the keys of Maryse’s baby grand, the feel different and so much more familiar than the ancient keyboard he had back in Boston or the well-used uprights in the practice rooms at school.

When Jace had first come to live with the Lightwoods, he’d been afraid to touch the piano. His mother had put him in lessons as soon as he was old enough, but she hated to listen to him play and often chastised him for not being a better player, saying he should be better at it with how talented his father was. Now, he understood that it was just another manifestation of the combined grief and mental illness that led to Celine’s death, but at the time he’d hated how awful he was at playing, no matter how much he enjoyed doing it.

But Maryse knew he played and encouraged him to use her piano. She told him that it had been her father’s, and though she’d taken lessons herself as a child, she’d never really loved it the way he had. She said that the instrument deserved to be loved, and as long as Jace loved playing it, she didn’t care how good he was or wasn’t.

It was the first time he’d really felt like this could be his home.

“Okay,” Jace said after the third version of O Tannenbaum with ridiculous altered lyrics—this one courtesy of Simon rather than Max or Clary, about an ill-fated toad who chose the wrong moment to cross the street, “I think my fingers are done for the night.”

“Oh, come on,” Clary said. “Simon and I have at least a dozen more of these we came up with when we were kids.”

“When we were little, I only knew the lyrics to the Christmas songs they played on the radio, so Fray made up silly lyrics to the other ones and told me they were real,” Simon explained. “And it made her so happy that I went along with it even for the couple I did know.”

“There will be plenty of time for more singing tomorrow,” Maryse said. “But if I know this one,” she continued, smiling at Max, “we’re all going to be dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn for presents.”

“Mom,” Max whined, “I’m not a kid anymore. I know the presents will still be there whenever I get up.”

“I seem to remember someone who looked an awful lot like you waking us up before sunrise last year,” Magnus said with exaggerated confusion. “Perhaps you have a twin I haven’t met?”

Max fixed him with a withering look. “Last year, I was eleven. This year I’m twelve,” he said, as though that explained it.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve grown out of it,” Alec told him. “Because I intend to sleep in. And if you try to get me out of bed early, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

“Oh, no need for that, darling,” Magnus said cheerfully. “I’ll just barricade the door before we go to sleep so he can’t get to us.”

“Brilliant,” Alec said, giving Magnus a frankly sappy smile. “I knew there was a reason I loved you.”

“And on that note,” Jace said, “I think I’m going to head to bed before I die of sweetness overdose.”

“Oh, please,” Magnus said, giving him an unimpressed look. “We all saw you and Simon making eyes at each other over those cookies you were frosting earlier.”

“It’s true,” Izzy said before Jace could protest. “You don’t get to tease Alec about being a sap anymore, not now that we’ve all actually seen you with someone you love.”

Jace froze, his mouth half open, then quickly snapped it shut. It made sense that Izzy would assume. He’d brought Simon home for Christmas, after all. That was the story they were selling even if they hadn’t actually discussed it, even if it wasn’t something Jace had said or even implied. And whatever he did feel for Simon, it certainly wasn’t love. It was, at best, a friendly crush. A very intense friendly crush.

Izzy seemed to realize her mistake, glancing between him and Simon with a look of dawning panic.

“No, you’re misunderstanding how this works,” Simon said easily, because of course Izzy’s words hadn’t sent him into a panic the way they had Jace. “Jace gets to tease Alec, and you, and you both get to tease him back.”

“Yep,” Clary agreed. “Those are the rules, because that means I still get to tease Simon.”

“Please,” Izzy said. “Clary and I are too sophisticated to be sappy.”

“I’m pretty sure I heard you call Clary ‘cuddle bug’ earlier,” Alec said.

“And I definitely saw you laugh at that terrible joke she told at dinner,” Jace added.

“She ate one of the cookies you made,” Max accused.

“Yeah, sorry, cutie,” Clary said. “We’re really pretty sappy.”

“Fine,” Izzy huffed. “But I just think you’re all jealous because I’ve got the cutest girlfriend.”

“Yes, Izzy,” Alec said drily. “You’ve uncovered my secret. I’m extremely jealous of your girlfriend.”

“I knew it,” Izzy said smugly, as though Alec had been perfectly sincere.

“Definitely in danger of dying of sweetness overdose,” Jace said.

That set off another round of teasing, this time with Izzy throwing in not so subtle attempts to drag Maryse and Luke into it. Jace wasn’t sure why Izzy was so determined to make the two admit there was something between them. It was obvious there was just from the way they acted around each other. Maryse would tell them when she was ready, just like she had when she and Robert filed for divorce.

It was almost another hour before Jace finally made his way up the stairs toward his room. He was surprised when Simon rose to follow him, but didn’t say anything until they were back in his room.

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay to nerd out with Clary and Iz some more.”

“I get to talk to Clary all the time,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, it’ll be easier to keep up the whole fake boyfriend thing if I don’t let her get me alone. She’d definitely figure out something’s up if I let her start grilling me about our relationship. Also, you don’t get to call me a nerd when you know just as much about Star Wars as I do.”

“It’s impossible to grow up with Izzy and not know way too much about Star Wars,” Jace said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it over a chair. “Are you still sure about doing this? Neither of us counted on Clary, and I’ll understand if you want to back out.”

“Huh?” Simon said, sounding distracted. Jace turned to look at him and thought he detected the faintest flush on Simon’s cheeks when he met his eyes. “I mean, yeah, no, I’m not backing out.” He gave an uncomfortable shrug as he pulled a set of pajamas out of his suitcase. “The last thing I want is to have to explain this whole thing to Clary.”

“Good point,” Jace agreed, turning around to put on his own pajama bottoms. It was tempting to watch Simon change, but it was also a very bad idea. “I don’t want to think about what she’d have to say to both of us if she knew.”

There was a beat of silence before Simon asked, “So, do you, um, have a preferred side of the bed?”

Jace turned to look at him, only a little disappointed to find Simon fully dressed in his pajamas. As usual when someone asked a question he didn’t want to think about, Jace flashed a smirk. “In a bed this small, I usually just take up the whole thing.”

“Well, unless you want me on top of you, you should pick a side,” Simon said, unimpressed. “Because I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ll take the left,” Jace said quickly, trying and mostly failing to avoid thinking about exactly how much he did want Simon on top of him. “I’m just gonna hit the bathroom real quick.”

Which was how Jace found himself locked in the tiny guest bathroom, lip caught between his teeth as he frantically tugged at his cock. He hadn’t planned on jerking off, but he couldn’t get Simon’s words out of his head, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting into bed with Simon half-hard, which was really the only other option.

He could picture it far too easily. Simon pressing him into that ridiculously tiny bed, hands gentle but firm, mouth just a little bit desperate.

He came to the thought of rutting up against those ridiculous abs.

By the time Jace cleaned himself up and returned to his room, Simon was nestled under the covers on the right side of the bed. Seeing him like that made something in Jace’s chest clench, and he flipped the light off just so he wouldn’t have to look anymore.

“‘Night,” Simon said as Jace slid into bed, taking care to stay entirely on his side.

“Don’t even think about snoring,” Jace answered.

He lay in the dark for a long time, staring into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the city that didn’t quite drown out the soft breathing of the man beside him. He tried not to think about how easy and relaxed the night had been, how perfect it would have been if only half of it weren’t a lie.

#shadowhunters #shmb2021 #jimon #jimon fic #jace wayland #simon lewis

[fanfalc-616]

The Rights Of A Nindroid

Chapter Seventeen

(Previous Chapter Here)

@ablackswansweet once again helped me with Kyle, he’s basically her OC at this point-

So...

How much do you all hate me? (:

Upon realizing that he had slipped up and thought the way they had wanted him to, Zane redoubled his efforts at resisting.

He cannot fall victim to their lies. He must stay strong. His team is coming for him, it- it has been over six months, yes, but surely they will be here soon. They have not- they would not give up on him, it- they will come for him soon. He only has to hold on a little longer, yes, just a little longer, and then they’ll take him home, back home, back where he is loved and cared for.

Just a little longer.

He can last a little longer.

YOU OKAY?

Zane feels himself shaking, unable to honestly answer the question. He had not told Cryptor of the way he had internally referred to himself as an ‘it’, and he doesn’t plan to. Saying it aloud… acknowledging what he had done seems to make it more real. He would confirm that he is giving into their desires, he would no longer be able to ignore what is staring him in the face.

YES

It’s a lie, plain and simple. Zane is not okay, and he will one day have to come to terms with this fact.

But today is not that day.

Today, he will allow himself the luxury of ignorance.

Today, he holds onto a non-existent shred of dignity.

Today, he lets himself believe in the lie that everything is okay.

That lie is all he has left.

{ { { { { { { { { { ~ } } } } } } } } } }

Cryptor can see through Zane easily. Maybe it’s because he was based on his design, but he’s always known the white ninja better than he’d care to admit.

Zane is not okay, no matter what he says. At this point, it seems like he’s trying to convince himself more than Cryptor.

And that’s a bad sign. A very, very bad sign.

It seems that he’s resisting more, at least- it’s taking longer before they bring him back to the locker, so he must be putting up a fight.

But Cryptor finds himself worrying that it’s more of an extinction burst, a large amount of effort and defiance that happens just before he falls into learned helplessness.

He can’t lose Zane, he- he can’t. At this point, Zane is all he has left.

If he breaks, Cryptor won’t be far behind.

Every day is longer than the one before. It takes every ounce of effort and strength he has to prevent himself from giving in.

But he manages to keep a grip, to hold onto his sanity. He’s going to be fine, he’ll hold out as long as he needs to.

Because this won’t be how it ends. This won’t be how he goes out. He refuses to let himself be brought down, not here, not like this.

If he loses, it’ll be in battle, they will have to take him apart piece by oil-soaked piece.

He still has his dignity, damn it, and that’s one thing that they will never take from him. He might lose it at times, but he won’t give up entirely.

Cryptor isn’t a ninja. He never had been, and doesn’t want to be.

But he will never quit.

That is one thing that him and Zane have in common.

At least… something they had in common.

Now? Now, Cryptor’s not so sure. Zane isn’t quite right anymore. Zane isn’t… he doesn’t seem very Zane, as strange as it sounds.

He’s started to lose himself, started to succumb to the whims of their captors.

Cryptor can only hope that he’ll be able to hang on.

Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Cryptor is scared. Terrified, actually.

Terrified of their captors.

Terrified of losing Zane.

Terrified of being alone again.

He can’t… he can’t handle being alone again.

Closing his eyes, he realizes that the days he has left are numbered. It’s only so long until Zane breaks.

And when he does, he’ll take Cryptor with him.

Because he can’t handle being alone again. And if the only way to avoid that is becoming their pawn…

Then so be it.

{ { { { { { { { { { ~ } } } } } } } } } }

Sentry looks over at Kyle, who seems deep in thought as he stares at the blueprint for the way the neural net connects to different gears.

“You don’t need to memorize it or anything, you’re mostly just going to be working on some simple mechanisms for now.”

“No I know I don’t need to memorize it, but I was thinking about, maybe, a different design? You know, when you connect the gear mechanisms to the CPU, you should run them through the sensors first. That way it would let a nindroid feel more subtle things, and improve their sensory abilities.”

Blinking a few times, Sentry looks back at the blueprints, comparing the new design idea to the existing one.

“That’s… actually a good idea.” He looks back over at Kyle, impressed with the line of thought. “Granted, feeling things more intensely might cause pain if not regulated properly, but it would be easy enough for them to learn.” While the second part is more to himself than Kyle, the blond seems amused by it, chuckling to himself.

He then mumbles something under his breath that Sentry can’t quite make out, but he elects to ignore it- if Kyle wants him to hear, he’ll speak up. If not, it’s none of his business.

Taking another moment to think on how the different wires might connect, Sentry pulls up a blank blueprint on the screen.

“Could you show me your idea here? A visual model would be helpful.” It’s interesting how quickly Kyle had come up with the idea- it’s almost like he had prior knowledge about how nindroid systems work.

"Yeah sure, give me a minute. I'm just moving this here and…"

Kyle’s nose scrunches up in concentration and he carefully alters the digital blueprint, rearranging the location of the wires and how they connect.

Frowning, Sentry watches the way the wires cross. “Is there enough space to connect things? That looks like it might be painful if put that way.”

Kyle blinks, glancing back over at Sentry.

"Oh! My bad. Made a mistake, don't worry. We wouldn't want to hurt them, now would we?" For a moment, Sentry could swear that there’s a flicker of a smile, a smile that makes him uneasy. But that expression wouldn’t seem to fit what he knows of Kyle, so he shakes his head, brushing it off.

Still, something about the way the words are phrased and spoken puts him on edge. He feels like there’s something he’s missing, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

“No, we wouldn’t.” He agrees, ignoring the feeling. He’s only tense because he’s stressing about Cryptor, that’s all it is. He needs to stop reading into it so much; he has a job and he can’t get distracted so easily.

Kyle fixes the arrangement of the wires before turning back to Sentry with a blinding smile, nothing like the unnerving one that he had though he’d seen.

"Okay, all done! What's next, sir?"

Shaking his head, Sentry gives his own gentle smile. “Just Sentry is fine. And now I think I’ll run this by Dad and see what he thinks about it. Feel free to look around at the other systems while I do.”

"Don't need to tell me twice."

While the response is kind of odd, Sentry ignores the unfounded worry and copies the blueprints to his internal files, heading off to go find Cyrus.

There’s nothing to be worried about. It’s fine.

There- there’s nothing to be worried about. It’s all in his head.

Sentry once again pushes the thoughts from his mind as he steps into the elevator.

Kyle is just an intern. There’s no reason that Sentry should be worried about him.

Still. Maybe a quick background check wouldn’t hurt…

{ { { { { { { { { { ~ } } } } } } } } } }

The damn brat is trying to start up another conversation with him, but Cryptor really doesn’t care about anything he has to say.

"Hey General, you'll never guess what Sentry showed me." Kyle chirps.

Okay. He’s got his attention. “Wh- what who showed you?” A moment too late, Cryptor realizes that he should’ve kept the fear out of his voice.

The blond raises an eyebrow in interest. "The nindroid general, all in white. You must know it, right?"

Cryptor shifts in his bonds as he looks away. “We- we’ve met.” He admits.

"Met, huh. Like Original and its ‘friends’ met?" The amusement in his voice makes Cryptor bristle in annoyance.

“What?! No!” The way his power source heats up refutes his claims, but Cryptor is hoping that Kyle doesn’t notice that.

So maybe he likes Sentry as more than a friend. It doesn’t matter. The other doesn’t like him like that, anyway.

If he really did, he would’ve come to rescue him by now.

"Ow. You're no fun," he says, mockery and mischief in his voice.

Sighing, the nindroid gives in. “... what did he show y- wait.” Sudden fear sets into him. “H- how do you know him?! What did you do?!”

"Calm down, it's not like you personally know the guy, it's not important for you to know how I know it..." It's clear the blond is trying to make him admit something. His choice of words seems very deliberate.

“I- you- that's not…” Cryptor groans, giving in. “Okay, fine, I know him. Now what did you do?”

"Know it how?" He insists, not satisfied with Cryptor's answers.

There’s no getting out of this, is there? Looking down, he speaks up. “He- he saved my life. I owe him.” He admits, choosing not to mention the time they had spent together after the white nindroid had let him stay at Borg Tower.

A low, dangerous chuckle escapes the brat. "I wonder how it'd feel if it knew how useless that was, with you wasting that life here-" His smile grows even wider with each word.

“It’s not like I came here intentionally!” The nindroid snaps, glaring sharply. Does this brat seriously think he can shift the blame onto Cryptor? He’s not stupid.

"And yet the result is the same," he sighs in annoyance. Then, his eyes light up. A terribly unsettling shine, like the sparks of a match before a forest fire. "Oh, I wonder how Martha would like another test subject soon!"

Cryptor feels himself tense up.“Don’t.” He growls out.

The blond doesn't even seem fazed by his threats. "What if we released you in its place? We don't really need three subjects," he admits.

Cryptor feels unease take over him. He- he wouldn’t want Sentry to be stuck here- never in a million years- and he knows that any promise of freedom is a lie, but he… he doesn’t want to be stuck here anymore. He doesn’t want to be hurt anymore.

“I…” He trails off for a moment before managing to continue. “…that… you can’t…”

"Is the heartless and snarky General growing a liking to someone other than itself? Now that's interesting." He sounds amused again. It's really all just a sick game to him.

“Don’t. You can’t just…” Cryptor grits his teeth. “I- I have emotions. You should know this by now. But just because I feel things doesn’t mean I’m attached like that.”

"Then you shouldn't mind if Sentry went missing for a few days." The boy eyes him from the side. "I mean, you don't like it like that, anyways."

He gives his best passive-aggressive smile- or he tries to, before silently cursing at his lack of a faceplate.“You can have friends without romance. Also, fuck you.”

A sharp snicker escapes Kyle. "Always a pleasure talking to you, asshole." He breathes out, then stretches a little. "Anyways… I'm gonna go meet it- uh, him."

Sudden panic washes over him as he stares at the blond. “Don’t- you- you can’t bring him here! Don’t you dare touch him!” He snarls out.

Kyle’s signature psychopathic expression appears on his face. "Oh but I can, I will and I'll dare if it elicits this type of fun reactions out of you." He laughs before heading for the exit. "Bye, don't miss me too much!" He says mockingly, dramatically blowing him a kiss.

“Hey!” Cryptor shouts after him, mind racing as he struggles to figure out what in the name of the FSM he could possibly do in this situation. “Hey, you- come back here! You can’t-“

The voice becomes less and less audible. He can barely make out what the brat yells at him from the hallway. "I'm not listening! I can't hear you anymore! I'm under a tunnel or whatever-"

“No, I- you can’t- that’s not…” Cryptor hesitates as he realizes what he has to do. The only thing he can do that even stands a chance of working.

“I- Master, please! Hurt me! Leave him alone!”

A pause.

Then sounds of running footsteps echoing in the empty spaces get closer. Kyle's head appears at the entrance, a shiny smile on his face. "You called?"

Cryptor struggles to hold onto his pride, to his dignity- but he can’t. He can’t let Sentry get hurt.

“I… M- Master, please, don’t hurt him. Hurt- hurt me instead.” The words are breathed out softly; Cryptor being unable to hold onto his cocky facade. If he had tear ducts, his eyes would likely be watering.

A soft smile replaces the boy's previous expression. He seems… satisfied. That's a first. "Well, I can't say no to you when you beg like that." His finger lightly tapping on his cheek shows he's thinking as he slowly speaks. "And the looming threat of it getting hurt is enough pain on its own for you today, I suppose…"

“I… look, whatever you want.” Cryptor gives in, hating himself for it. “Just… don’t hurt him.”

"Behave and I'll think about it." Kyle's tone is hard, but not mean like before. It looks like he calmed down a little.

“I- I can’t… I…” He’s trembling, he’s shaking so much, but he looks down, admitting defeat. But still, his voice is nothing more than a whisper as he does. “I’ll… I’ll behave.” He breathes out weakly, hating the way he’s forced to let the brat win.

"Good. It'll be safe for as long as you don't cause trouble, alright?" The blond bends down to Cryptor's level, hostility seemingly gone for now. "I kinda like it. Don't make me hurt it."

Cryptor can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes. “I… I won’t cause trouble.” He whispers. “Just… just don’t hurt him.”

Kyle’s laughter is gentle, but it still stings.

They’ve figured out how to get to him, figured out his weakness.

Cryptor feels himself trembling, on the brink of beginning to cry.

He knows that they’ll use this against him. He knows that they’ll use this to break him.

But for Sentry…

He’s willing to break.

#the rights of a nindroid #trauma #torture #psychological torture #ninjago zangst #zangst