bbymochiiiiii

[bbymochiiiiii]

It Was All Yellow🌻

TWO

The room was cooler in here. Muted. Taehyung stood in front of the white backdrop, Bruno adjusting his collar with careful fingers while humming a jazzy tune under his breath. Oscar hovered near the camera setup, sharp eyes flicking between settings and cables, muttering something about “visionary lighting.”

Bruno had barely let go of Taehyung’s wrist before someone was already adjusting the lighting.

“We’ll bring in the female lead in a second,” someone murmured.

Female lead?

Taehyung didn’t have time to ask. Sejin was at his side again, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You okay with this?” he asked under his breath.

Taehyung gave the smallest shrug. “Too late to back out now, isn’t it?”

And then the door opened.

She stepped in with the calm precision of someone used to eyes on her—waist-length, ashy-blonde waves curling softly over her shoulders, pearl-drop earrings catching the light like tiny chandeliers. Her eyes were a stormy blue, too light to be safe, and when they landed on Taehyung, something flickered behind them.

A pause.

He forgot where his hands were.

Bruno bounced forward like a proud matchmaker. “Siae! Darling! This is your partner—Taehyung. Taehyung, this is Siae. First time meeting, but I already feel the chemistry, don’t you?”

Siae nodded once. Not dismissive. Just… focused.

“I’ll be gentle,” she said, eyes still on him. “Unless Oscar tells me not to be.”

Taehyung blinked. “Good to know?”

She cracked the tiniest smile. It vanished almost instantly.

Oscar’s voice cut in: “Positions. No flirtation. Not yet. Save that for round two.”

Bruno stage-whispered, “There is no round two.”

Taehyung moved to the mark, every step suddenly conscious. When Siae stood beside him, it was like stepping next to fire wrapped in ice. Her skin was dewy under the lights, barely any makeup but still glowing like glass.

They hadn’t touched. Not yet.

But when their eyes met under the flash of the first shot—

—it felt like something started.

[bbymochiiiiii]

It Was All Yellow🌻

ONE

"Please, I know it's probably a lot to ask, but would any of you fill in for our male model? He hasn't shown up, it's been nearly an hour and we can't postpone any longer!" The man with electric blue hair exclaimed, ringed fingers clasped together in hopeful prayer.

Sejin looked to the boys, equal parts weary and exhausted. "How long?" he asked, hearing their low murmurs as they debated who had the energy to step in.

The now ecstatic man clapped his hands. "The models are naturals! It shouldn’t take more than an hour—maybe an extra fifteen if we need touch-ups!" He thrust a hand out, bangles clanking wildly. "Bruno. Call me whatever you’d like!"

Sejin looked back at the boys again—and Taehyung stepped forward with a smile. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sejin opened his mouth to decline, to spare them, but it was too late. Bruno was already bowing gratefully to Taehyung, then gesturing him toward the far end of the room, away from the elevators.

"You’re all welcome to stay!" Bruno chirped. "We’ve got refreshments, warm towels, and just installed an AC! Let me know if it’s too chilly—we’ve got blankets. We’d shut it off, but the models run hot from all the posing. That, and well… the main photographer thinks cold temp is best temp for his ‘visions.’”

Two of the boys snorted at Bruno’s air-quoted "visions."

"Oh no!" Bruno suddenly exclaimed. "I didn’t get any of your names!"

That surprised Sejin. A glance at the boys told him it surprised them, too.

"Ada always says classical is out of season, but I refuse to let it die! And jazz! You can’t go wrong with jazz, I tell you!" He struck a proud pose. "Who says you need to be hip to be a fashionista? People would kill to wear my brand!" Then, softer, with a smile, “Now… names?”

Namjoon was the first to recover, smiling with a trace of relief. "Namjoon," he said, then gestured to the others.

"Seokjin!" Jin winked with flair. Bruno laughed delightedly.

They passed through an open doorway into a bustling room, soft R&B playing through overhead speakers. Yoongi gave a tired but polite smile. "Yoongi."

"Hoseok. I’m your hope, you’re my hope, I’m J-Hope!" Bruno let out an impressed "Ah!" "I need a catchphrase like that. Bruno’s so plain."

"I’m Jimin," came the next cheery voice, a mochi smile to match. He nudged the maknae beside him.

"Jungkook." Bunny smile and all.

The duo shuffled toward Taehyung, who flashed a peace sign. "I’m Taehyung," he hummed. "Or V."

Bruno returned the peace sign. "Cute!" he beamed. Weird, yes, but Sejin figured that wasn’t the worst thing—especially since the boys seemed at ease, if only tired.

They moved like bees around them—stylists, assistants, runners—none paying the boys any special mind as Bruno guided them beneath a tall archway. A man held the curtain aside as they entered a much quieter room, where camera flashes flickered and orders were barked in tight, professional voices.

"This way," Bruno said, gesturing more tightly now. He led them to a side area where a soft bench couch sat beneath a refreshment table. "You can rest here. I’ll take Taehyung and Sejin to meet the head photographer." His voice dipped to a more respectful volume. "Help yourself," he added, and set off again with Taehyung and Sejin in tow.

Sejin looked back—Namjoon gave a thumbs up.

The manager gave a reluctant nod before catching up to them.

"Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything," Bruno reassured, then leaned in as they neared two people at the center of the chaos. "That’s Lei Daiyu—she oversees the models. And next to her is our lead photographer, Oscar Mason." He wrinkled his nose. "To be honest, I probably won’t hire him again. Too picky. Too controlling. Don’t be afraid to push back—he answers to me anyway."

Taehyung nodded once, calm and unreadable.

“Daiyu! I found a substitute!” Bruno called out, waving. “Isn’t he pretty?”

Daiyu jumped, spinning on her modest heels with a look of instant exasperation.

She was short—her name and sharp glare suggested she was Chinese—and the complete opposite of Bruno. "You complete buffoon," she hissed under her breath, loud enough for both Taehyung and Sejin to hear.

She grabbed Bruno by the ear with practiced ease. He whined dramatically.

"But I found a model!" he insisted, nose upturned. “He’s prettier, too! Just look at him!”

Daiyu finally turned—and her eyes widened at the sight of Taehyung. He bowed respectfully.

"Oh," she murmured, clearing her throat. "It’s a pleasure to be working with—"

"Kim Taehyung?" A new voice cut in. Smooth, too smooth.

Oscar.

Blonde, tall, ocean-blue eyes and a grin like he knew secrets he shouldn’t. Sejin didn’t like him immediately. He instinctively stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Taehyung.

"A pleasure," Oscar said, smile still firmly in place. "Where should Taehyung get ready?"

It was clear Oscar wanted to say more, but Bruno—bless his chaotic soul—slid between them like a practiced peacemaker.

"Right this way, V!" he said brightly, gripping Taehyung’s arm and steering him toward a set of double doors in the back.

He waved his free hand behind him, sing-song: "Do get along! No drama in my building, please and thank you!"

NOTE

Honestly a bit cringe in some parts but this is an old fic that I loved the concept of, a bit modified and definitely taking place before recent tatted JK - he's still a baby lol. Erratic updates.

[bbymochiiiiii]

It Was All Yellow🌻

“We only worked together once.”But the camera caught everything it wasn’t supposed to.”

When Taehyung fills in for a last-minute photoshoot, he expects nothing more than a few stiff poses and an early exit. Instead, he meets Siae—quiet, radiant, and the kind of presence you feel in your bones.

Their chemistry is effortless. The photos are too good. The internet loses its mind.

And Taehyung? Can’t stop replaying the moment she smiled at him between takes.

CHAPTERS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

Old fic deep in the drafts of cringe - minor edits. Pre 2022ish I think? It's been a while.

[bbymochiiiiii]

BANG!

✦ CHAPTER ONE: Porcelain Girl, Steel Spine

you wear privilege like perfume. expensive. suffocating. sweet to everyone but you. but inside? you're a knife in velvet.

Your world smells like imported roses and vintage Chanel.

The scent clings to the drapes, the marble, your skin. Every morning, your nanny—still on the payroll even though you're twenty-three—places breakfast in bed on a gold-rimmed tray: fresh fruit, almond milk, your vitamins arranged like jewels.

You ignore the fruit. You flip the tray.

Your father hears about it an hour later. He chuckles. “My daughter has spirit,” he tells his boardroom. “She takes after me.”

He doesn’t know what that really means.

You are the only legitimate child of Woo Hyun-Il, and he loves you in the way a man like him knows how:

With diamonds instead of apologies. With security details instead of affection. With arranged meetings instead of freedom.

There’s no one else. No sons. No competition. You are the heir—whether the world accepts it or not. But your last name isn't the one that will run the company.

Your husband’s will.

Hence: the suitor parade. Hence: the endless, curated, pre-screened introductions with sons of CEOs and lawmakers and men who smile like snakes wearing silk ties.

You play along. Because you're good at playing.

You smile. You flirt. You make them feel like they’re winning.

And then, when the cameras are gone, you turn to your father with glossy eyes and say:

“Appa. That one’s boring. Try again.”

He laughs like you’re a jewel. A puzzle. A spoiled thing. And maybe you are.

But you are not stupid.

Not when you’re trading stocks under fake names.

Not when you’re texting Namjoon under the table during dinner.

Not when your secret lover is the youngest CEO of the only company your father hasn’t been able to touch.

Tonight, the newest suitor arrives at the penthouse. You don’t bother to remember his name.

He talks numbers with your father. You twirl pasta on a fork and pretend to care. Every move is choreographed. You’re the prized doll in a glass display case. Pretty, poised, priceless.

But glass breaks.

[1 New Message: Joonie 🍷]

Bet he’s wearing navy. They always wear navy. Smile once. Say "oh, interesting" twice. Then tell me where you want to be picked up.

You read it under the table, thigh pressed to the edge, barely suppressing a smirk.

You glance up at the suitor. Navy suit. Check.

“Oh, interesting,” you say sweetly.

Twice.

An hour later, you’re barefoot and running across the back lawn barefoot like a feral heiress in silk and diamonds.

Namjoon’s already there.

The car door opens before you reach it. He’s inside, hoodie up, wrist draped casually over the steering wheel like a god playing chauffeur.

“You’re late,” he mutters without looking.

“And you’re always so needy,” you shoot back, sliding in beside him, the smell of leather and aftershave swallowing you whole.

He leans in, finally looking at you. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m pissed.”

“Same thing.”

He drives fast. Not out of recklessness, but control. Namjoon doesn’t do anything without thinking four moves ahead.

He built an empire from nothing, rose up in a world that never planned to let him in. He’s brilliant. Dangerous. Precise.

And he’s so in love with you it might ruin everything.

“You’re gonna get caught,” he says as city lights blur by.

“You’ll protect me,” you hum.

“Not if your father finds out it’s me.”

You don’t answer.

Because he’s right.

But you’re not scared.

You’re starving.

For something that isn’t handed to you. For something that isn’t wrapped in pearls and obligation.

For him.

Back at the penthouse, your father pours brandy in silence. The suitor has gone home. The guards say you “needed air.”

Your father stares out at the city like it belongs to him.

Soon, he thinks. He’ll choose someone worthy. Someone strong enough to lead beside his daughter. Someone he can trust.

He doesn't realize yet.

That she’s already chosen a man who plans to burn this empire to the ground— and build her a new one in the ashes.

[bbymochiiiiii]

BANG!

💥 "Let the World Burn if We Can Dance in the Ashes." 💥

YN was born with everything—wealth, name, influence. The only daughter of a powerful chaebol magnate, she was raised like glass: admired, protected, and above all, owned. So when her father begins arranging suitors like business mergers, it’s no surprise. It’s just tradition.

What is a surprise?

She’s already taken.

By Kim Namjoon. The youngest self-made millionaire in the country. Brilliant. Calculated. Merciless in boardrooms. A rival her father would never approve of.

But Namjoon didn’t ask for permission.

Their love is a game of midnight rendezvous and high-speed escapes, whispered threats and stolen kisses behind closed doors. With every passing day, the risks grow higher—the paparazzi closing in, the corporate wars heating up, and the question neither of them wants to answer: What will they sacrifice to stay together?

In a world where power is currency and love is a liability, YN and Namjoon don’t plan to survive the flames.

They plan to set the fire.

✦ CHAPTER ONE: Porcelain Girl, Steel Spine

-Spontaneous idea, like most of my stories. Won't be getting to much attention tbh but heeeere it is

[bbymochiiiiii]

DAUGHTER DAUGHTER

THALASSA - DAUGHTER OF ODYESEUS

In the crumbling marble halls of Ithaca, princess Thalassa is more weapon than woman—sharpened by betrayal, raised beneath watchful gods, and bruised by a mother who no longer sees her as daughter, but as leverage.

When the court erupts in violence, all eyes turn to Thalassa—wounded, unbending, and standing beside the wrong man: Antinous, a suitor with a history of cruelty and a grin carved from sin. His intervention saves her life. His presence ruins her reputation. And his silence promises war.

With marriage looming like a blade, Thalassa and her brother Telemachus begin to unmake the kingdom that raised them. Cold, calculating, they dismantle the suitor ranks from the inside—sacrificing names, alliances, and whatever softness they once had.

The gods are watching. Ares laughs. Aphrodite plots. Athena whispers.

And in the shadows, Antinous waits—dangerous, devoted, and untrustworthy. He does not ask for Thalassa’s hand. He dares the world to try and take her from him.

A court of liars. A girl turned storm. A love that tastes like blood. Welcome to Ithaca. You were never meant to survive it.

CHAPTERS -

THALASSA

PROLOGUE - THE DAUGHTER OF WAR

ONE - THE DAUGHTER OF WAR

TWO - THE DAUGHTER OF WAR

THREE - THE CALM AFTER THE STORM

FOUR - THREADS OF WAR

FIVE - THE SLOW POISONING

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

FIVE - THE SLOW POISONING

✦ DAYS LATER — IN THE QUEEN'S HALL

The air in the council chamber stank of fear masked as urgency.

Penelope sat straight-backed on the throne-like chair at the head of the long table, her fingers laced tightly in her lap as her advisors circled her like hounds scenting blood.

"You must act swiftly, my Queen," one of the older men insisted, palm slamming against the table for emphasis.

"A husband would solidify your position," another said, nodding fervently. "Or better yet — marry the girl."

The words hung heavy.

Penelope's gaze sharpened like a blade unsheathed.

"The girl," he had said. Her daughter. Thalassa.

"She will soon be past her prime," another chimed in, voice oozing false sympathy. "You should have married her off the moment she was old enough to...bare heirs."

The word was spoken carefully, but the filth of it clung to the walls.

Penelope's jaw tightened. Her silence was not agreement — it was fury so sharp it could not yet be voiced.

Still, the men pressed on — parading names, dowries, alliances — offering her children’s freedom as if it were mere currency.

And Penelope, queen of a crumbling house, sat still, calculating — because the storm was already at their doors.

✦ LATER THAT NIGHT - THALASSA

The night was heavy with salt air.

Thalassa stood on the balcony of her bedchamber, the silk of her night-robe ghosting around her in the sea breeze — slit sides and open skirts that kissed against the curve of her thighs, fabric whispering secrets against her skin. Jewelry had been discarded; her neck bare, save for the remnants of gold dusted along her collarbones. Her hair, usually tightly braided or twisted into warlike knots, now fell in loose, damp ringlets down her back — unguarded, wild.

The moon painted her in silver and shadow, and her father’s blue eyes burned fierce beneath it.

A motion caught her attention.

Across the courtyard, at the base of the old stone pillars, someone leaned lazily against the marble.

Antinous.

His arms were crossed, the smug weight of his stare crawling across the space between them.

He was all dark silhouette and coiled insolence, his mouth crooked in something too lazy to be a smile, his body still tense with the aftertaste of their last encounter.

Their eyes locked.

The air seemed to thicken — something ancient, something violent, something neither of them dared name yet.

For a long moment, neither moved.

He looked at her — truly looked — at the silk clinging to her, the war burning in her gaze, the unspoken warning laced through every inch of her posture.

She tilted her head slightly — not a bow, not submission. A predator’s acknowledgment.

And then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her back to him.

The soft swish of silk was the only sound as she disappeared into her chamber.

The balcony doors closed with a sharp, final click. A boundary drawn.

Across the courtyard, Antinous straightened — pushing off the pillar with a grunt barely more than a breath. His jaw flexed.

And though he made no move to follow, his eyes lingered on the darkened balcony long after she was gone.

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

FOUR - THREADS OF WAR

The silence stretched taut between them — a rope fraying at the edges.

Penelope’s mouth tightened as if she would say more — another warning, another plea. But instead, she stepped forward.

Slowly. Softly.

She reached for them — first Telemachus, then Thalassa — her palms cool and dry as she cradled their faces, her thumbs brushing lightly over Telemachus’ bruised brow, the split lip, the cuts he wore like unwanted medals.

She hesitated at Thalassa — studying her daughter’s face. No blood. No bruises.

Only a steely, burning defiance that needed no tending.

Penelope’s sharp gaze lingered a moment longer — searching, maybe, for the child she had once soothed to sleep — but found only the woman war had begun to forge.

She said, voice thinner now — strained beneath the weight of unspoken things:

"I'm glad you're both still standing."

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was what she had left to give.

Her eyes flicked downward, taking in the sight of them — Telemachus’ bloodied tunic, Thalassa’s ruined dress dragging tatters of silk and crushed fruit behind her like a fallen banner.

A dry, almost laughless breath escaped her.

"Gods save us," Penelope murmured. "Look at you both. A pair of warriors dressed as lambs."

She straightened herself — the queen once more — and nodded, a small, precise gesture:

"Go. Rest. Tomorrow will come soon enough."

The siblings bowed their heads — a rare, silent show of deference.

They turned and left.

✦ OUTSIDE THE CHAMBER

The halls were dim, flickering with the last embers of torchlight.

Their footsteps echoed quietly — companions to the blood still drying on Telemachus' skin and the stubborn set of Thalassa's jaw.

After a long stretch of silence, it was Telemachus who spoke first, voice low:

"Mother’s right." "They’ll retaliate."

Thalassa didn’t glance at him.

Her fingers grazed the knife still hidden at her side — a simple blade, plain and deadly.

Her voice was soft. Measured.

"Let them come." "We'll be ready."

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even anger.

It was simply a truth.

Telemachus exhaled, heavy with the weight of it.

They walked on — two shadows woven from the same bloodline, from the same inevitable war.

And in the dark, without speaking again, they began to build their quiet plans — contingencies, emergency signals, escape routes through servant tunnels, hidden blades tucked into belts sewn with false seams.

Not rebellion. Not yet.

But readiness. The kind only born from children who had finally learned that no one was coming to save them — only themselves.

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

THREE - THE CALM AFTER THE STORM

The hall was silent now, save for the faint dripping of spilled wine from the feasting tables. The gods had retreated, and mortal wounds needed tending.

Telemachus sat at the edge of a stone basin, his tunic stained with blood, his hands clumsy as he tried to clean the split in his brow.

The torchlight caught on the tremble of his fingers. Not fear — not exactly. The aftermath. The cost of standing tall.

He hissed quietly as the linen cloth bit into the wound.

And then— a rustle of skirts.

Thalassa moved into the room without a word, her ruined dress dragging behind her, already stiff with dried wine and dirt. She knelt beside him, carefully easing the cloth from his hand.

For a moment, neither spoke.

She worked in silence, her touch gentle but sure, dabbing away the blood, her brows furrowed in concentration. When she spoke, it was low — a murmur made for him alone.

"Idiot," she chided, but without heat. Soft. Fond. "You should have kept your guard up better."

Telemachus managed a shaky laugh, leaning slightly into her touch.

"He said things," he murmured. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the rest of it. "About Father. About Mother. About Ithaca."

Thalassa didn’t flinch.

She only wrung the cloth tighter, wringing her anger with it. And said, just as softly:

"Words are only blades when we hand them the hilt."

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of her — smoke, iron, sea salt — the smell of home.

Before either could say more, a servant appeared breathless at the doorway, dipping into a hasty bow.

"My lady. My lord. The Queen… requests your presence."

They exchanged a glance — weary, but knowing there was no refusal.

✦ LATER — IN THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER

The heavy doors shut behind them with a muted thud.

Penelope stood by the high windows, silhouetted against the dying light, her figure regal and severe in the fading glow.

She turned slowly, eyes sharp — scanning them over head to toe.

Telemachus stiffened under her gaze. Thalassa only folded her hands neatly before her, unreadable.

"What happened?" Penelope asked, voice calm, level.

Telemachus opened his mouth first — eager, stumbling, the words tripping over themselves as he tried to explain, tried to defend, voice rising with each attempt:

"It wasn't her fault — they — they mocked us, and — Antinous, he—"

Penelope lifted a single hand.

Silence.

Telemachus flushed, biting the inside of his cheek.

Penelope’s gaze shifted — cool, assessing — to her daughter.

Her tone sharpened, edged with the iron stress she rarely revealed:

"Well, Thalassa?" "What did you do?"

Thalassa lifted her chin.

No fear. No apology.

"I put them back in their place."

Penelope’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

"You’ve angered them," she said sharply, stepping closer, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor.

Thalassa didn't waver.

"They scorn us," she answered simply.

Penelope’s fingers tightened at her sides. "We counter. Politically. Strategically. We survive by outthinking them — not outbleeding them."

A long beat of silence. Thalassa’s voice, when it came, was low — not rebellious, but certain:

"Sometimes, Mother... we only need to act."

Telemachus watched them — his mother and his sister — locked in a silent war of wills he did not know how to fight or fix.

He saw the grief behind Penelope's eyes. He saw the iron growing in Thalassa’s spine.

And he realized, with a pang that ached in his chest, that childhood was over.

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

TWO - THE DAUGHTER OF WAR

Thalassa did not lower the knife. Not immediately.

She left it poised at Antinous’ throat — left the whole hall holding its breath, left every drunk, gaping suitor frozen in place, waiting — trembling — for her to decide when it was over.

The daughter of Ithaca, and the gods were watching.

Only when she was sure the message had branded itself into their bones — Do not touch what is mine. Do not think I will bleed easily. — only then did she pull back.

Slow. Controlled.

Telemachus, battered but unbowed, moved to her side, the limp in his step barely noticeable. He reached for her hand without speaking — a brother’s bond, steady and instinctive — and helped her down from the table.

As she stepped off, the ruined silk of her dress trailing behind her like a banner of defiance, he murmured just low enough for her ears:

"Mother will be furious about the dress."

It was almost enough to make her smile. Almost.

Their handmaidens scampered to her immediately, skirts brushing the floor, one still clutching the empty space where the knife had been. They glanced nervously at the suitors, eyes wide and fearful.

The hall was a pit of tension — a single spark away from erupting again.

Antinous hadn't moved.

He never broke eye contact with her. Not when she descended. Not when her brother rejoined her side. Not even now, as the blood on his neck dried sticky and slow.

Thalassa lifted her chin, tilting her head just slightly — like a queen regarding a pitiful court. Her voice, when it rang out, was clear and cutting enough to slice through stone:

"I've seen dogs with sharper teeth... and better manners."

It hit the room like a slap. The suitors flinched. A few scowled, but no one spoke.

Antinous' jaw flexed — tight, furious — but he stayed silent, his chest rising and falling like a man who knew he could not act without damning himself further.

Somewhere at the edges of the world, the gods watched:

Athena stood at Telemachus’ back, shadowing him, her mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. At Thalassa’s shoulder, Ares grinned wide and bloody, arms folded lazily across his broad chest, exultant in the chaos, his silent stare at Athena burning with the wild pleasure of a claim made clear.

"This one’s mine," his smirk seemed to say, gloating, feral.

And Athena — wise, endless — simply turned away first, her blessing given, her silence loud.

At a sharp, barking command from Antinous — "Enough. Move." — the other suitors finally stumbled to motion, gathering themselves like drunken cattle.

Antinous didn’t follow immediately.

He lingered a moment longer, his eyes tracking Thalassa’s every movement as she turned, unhurried, head high, leading her brother back toward the corridors beyond the hall.

Only when her figure vanished around the corner did he move.

One hand lifted — not to wipe away the blood at his neck, but to press lightly over the shallow cut.

His fingers came away crimson.

Antinous looked at them for a moment.

Then he hummed. A low, dangerous sound. Not a song. Not a laugh.

A promise.

He did not smile. He did not sneer.

He simply hummed, deep in his throat — a predator watching prey he had no intention of chasing too soon.

Because now he knew.

The son of Odysseus might fight. But the daughter — the daughter was the one they should have feared.

(these aren't proof red chapters - literally just my brain spewing so if you notice inconsistencies lemme know)

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

ONE - THE DAUGHTER OF WAR

Telemachus tried to call her name. "Tha—"

But his voice caught — ragged, stunned. He could only stand there, breathless, as his sister towered over the chaos, the blade trembling slightly in her grip, her white dress ruined with wine and filth and glory.

The suitors shifted uneasily.

They all knew the law: Penelope’s children were still royalty. Odysseus’ blood still ran through their veins, still bore weight, still mattered.

For all their drunken bravado, none of them truly dared lay hands on Ithaca’s heirs — not yet. Not without risking their own heads if fortune turned.

And Thalassa knew it.

She pressed the knife a breath too hard against Antinous’ throat — enough to nick his skin. A bead of blood welled, bright against the blade.

Antinous stiffened — furious, humiliated — but when he spun sharply around to throw her off, he hesitated.

His hands hovered in the air — clenching, unclenching, fingers twitching with the desperate, primal urge to grab her, to wrench her down. But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Touching her — truly touching her, harming her — would damn him in front of every eye in the hall.

Telemachus saw the flicker of violence in Antinous’ body, the war inside him, and stepped forward, voice cracking raw:

"Don't touch her."

The hall trembled with the weight of those words.

Thalassa didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

She only stared Antinous down, her chin lifted proudly, the kitchen knife still poised in her hand.

The message in her gaze was clear as any battle cry: Try me.

Antinous’ chest heaved with the effort it took to hold himself back.

Gods, he hated her. The shame she made him feel — before all these men. The blood trickling from his throat. The raw humiliation.

And yet— The fire in her. The way she stood there, drenched and wild, a lioness ready to tear him apart—

A shudder twisted through him, so deep it almost shamed him more than the blood on his neck.

She was radiant in her rage.

And something black and sharp and hungry inside him whispered, I want her.

Not with the easy triumph he wanted most things — not to conquer her like a feast or a crown.

No — He wanted her fury. He wanted her teeth and nails and all the broken pieces she refused to hand to any man.

And in that moment, Antinous understood something horrifying and electric: He did not want to break her. He wanted to be broken by her.

(drama man, i live for the yearning of love-hate)

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

PROLOGUE - THE DAUGHTER OF WAR

The crash of a body hitting the floor echoed through the stone hall. Telemachus staggered, blood dripping from his split lip, sword clattering from his hands.

Antinous circled him lazily, like a lion circling a wounded gazelle. "You fight like a boy," he sneered. "I'll teach you all the lessons your father never could."

The suitors roared with laughter — drunken, feral. A roasted pig slid off the feasting table with a wet thud. Wine spilled from overturned goblets, running down the table's edge in heavy, glistening streams — pooling on the stone floor like blood.

And then—

A sharp, echoing slap of sandals against marble.

The hall fell into a sudden, gasping silence.

From the archway, she appeared: Thalassa. Flanked by two handmaidens, the youngest gripping the folds of her gown as if praying to hold her back.

White silk dragged across the mess of the feast, her dress darkening with wine and crushed fruit. The dim torchlight caught on the gold chained at her throat, the glint of something unbreakable in her eyes.

Without hesitation, Thalassa stepped up onto the feasting table. Food squelched wetly beneath her heels. Her handmaidens hovered at either side — one wringing her hands, the other, bolder, slipping a kitchen knife into Thalassa's open palm without a word.

Telemachus, bloodied and panting, lifted his head — wide-eyed, stunned — to see her there.

A gust of cold air stirred the torches. For an instant — just an instant — a flicker of something shimmered at Telemachus' side. A figure: pale and tall, cloaked in glinting armor, her gaze steady as stone. Athena.

But her attention was not on Telemachus.

She watched Thalassa.

And behind Thalassa, half-shadowed at her back — another god lingered. Ares.

Blood streaked his hands and mouth, his grin feral, savage. His dark eyes locked with Athena’s across the room — a silent, possessive claim.

"This one’s mine."

The gods did not interfere. They only watched.

And Thalassa — blessed or cursed — moved.

When Antinous, still laughing, backed close enough to the table, she struck — a viper’s lunge.

Her fingers tangled in his dreadlocks, yanking his head back viciously. He choked in surprise, stumbling, crashing against the table's edge.

The kitchen knife kissed the curve of his throat, gleaming wickedly.

Thalassa leaned down, voice dripping molten iron: "Did you think Ithaca bore only one heir?"

A breath. A beat. The suitors stared — statues frozen in awe and terror.

Wine dripped from the edge of the table, dark as arterial blood.

And the daughter of Penelope — the daughter of Odysseus — stood ready to bleed the world dry if it dared touch her brother again.

[bbymochiiiiii]

Daughter Daughter

Thalassa (means "sea" — a nod to her father’s realm, but she masters it differently)

✦ Mood Summary ✦

“The girl who grew up in the ashes of a home under siege. The daughter of patience and wrath, sewn together by longing and the taste of iron. She learned early that a woman’s rage must be dressed in silk — but she never forgot how to draw blood.”

Age:

13 months younger than Telemachus (so if he’s ~20 in Epic canon, she’s ~19)

Vibe/Aesthetic:

Gilded rage masked by grace

Silk gowns hiding knives

Crowned with gold but sharper than any blade

“Built of blood, bone, and quiet fury”

✦ Core Traits ✦

Quick-witted — can hold her own verbally against any suitor (and does)

Fiery but calculated — anger burns deep, not messy; it's targeted

Protective of Telemachus — he is her shield and her sword too, emotionally

Sharp-tongued — not afraid to humiliate arrogant men

Unfolds with rage the longer she’s caged — the longer Ithaca decays, the sharper she becomes

Favored by Ares — but (plot twist) her way of battle is not pure slaughter — it's tactical.

She fights like a strategist, not a berserker — a nod to her being her mother's daughter too.

[bbymochiiiiii]

Me when y/n is acting like a little fucking child for male validation

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

TWO - WORK

BTS X FEMALE/OC

──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ────

Yongyi took one look at her new workstation and nearly committed a crime.

Whoever occupied the space before her had clearly been in a toxic relationship—with glitter, expired foundation, and no sense of hygiene. Her fingers hovered above a powder puff that looked like it had survived a war. The drawers were sticky. The mirror lights were uneven. A rogue falsie was stuck to the side of the vanity like a cursed talisman.

She exhaled through her nose.

Okay. Okay. We don’t cry. We conquer.

Rolling up her sleeves, she got to work. In under ten minutes, the clutter was gone, the surfaces sanitized, her brushes laid out in military formation. Her setting spray took its rightful throne at the center like a crown jewel. This was her battlefield now.

Then the door creaked open.

Jungkook shuffled in, looking like he’d crawled out of a nightmare and barely survived the journey. Sleep clung to his eyes, and his hair—his poor, beautiful, betrayed hair—resembled a haystack that had offended the wind.

Yongyi didn’t hesitate.

“Absolutely not.”

She was on him in seconds, brandishing a comb from her hip like a blade. “Chair. Now.”

Jungkook blinked. “Wait—hi?”

“You get one greeting. That was it. Sit.”

Startled, he obeyed.

The mist from her spray bottle hissed into the air like a warning. Her fingers moved through his hair with practiced ease, tugging through knots with no regard for his mortality. She was muttering under her breath—something about gremlins and revenge via texturizing shears.

“I don’t think I—ow—slept,” Jungkook tried again, wincing.

“Yeah? Me neither. Now stop talking. You’re disrupting the rhythm.”

In the doorway, Sin-jae stood frozen with a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

“...Is she already working?”

“She didn’t even take off her coat,” Geon murmured, impressed.

“She’s caffeinated and cleaning,” Eun-jae noted. “We’ve summoned a demon.”

Haru peeked in from behind a makeup cart, clasping her hands like she’d witnessed a spiritual rebirth.

And somewhere in the back, Bada whispered reverently—

“Let the girl cook.”

──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ────

Jungkook emerged from the prep room like a man reborn.

Hair perfectly tousled, not a single curl out of place. His skin looked brighter—like she’d willed hydration into his pores. Even his posture had changed. He blinked against the hallway light like he’d just come back from a sabbatical.

Taehyung, halfway through a lazy stretch, paused mid-yawn.

“…What happened to you?”

Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I think I got… handled.”

Yoongi squinted. “You let someone touch your hair?”

“I didn’t get a choice,” Jungkook replied, and then—with equal parts awe and fear—added, “She moved faster than my reflexes.”

Namjoon arched a brow and headed toward the prep room. “We’ll see about that.”

The team, still loosely gathered around the doorway, collectively held their breath as the leader entered the lion’s den.

Inside, Yongyi was mid-clean again—sanitizing tweezers with a kind of focused ferocity that suggested she was plotting her next war crime. Her coffee cup, now on refill number who-knows-what, steamed beside a lineup of serums and scalp oil.

“Choi Yongyi?” Namjoon asked carefully.

She looked up. “Oh. Namjoon.”

She did not bow. She did not stammer. She nodded once, already scanning his face like a puzzle she was halfway through solving.

“You’re five minutes early,” she said. “And your eyebrows are uneven.”

He blinked. “They are?”

“Mm.” She gestured toward the chair. “Left one’s lower. I’ll fix it.”

Namjoon hesitated.

“Unless you want to walk out there looking like one of those ‘find the difference’ puzzles.”

Sin-jae let out a strangled wheeze from the doorway.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose—amused, maybe. He stepped forward and lowered himself into the chair like a man preparing for battle.

Behind him, Geon gave a slow, approving nod. “She passed Jungkook and Namjoon. She’s either fearless or running on fumes.”

Eun-jae clicked her pen thoughtfully. “Six coffees and spite. Classic stylist fuel.”

Bada crossed her arms and smiled. “She’s ours now.”

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

ONE - THE GLAMFAM

BTS X FEMALE/OC

──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ────

📱 Group Chat: Name: ✨GLAMFAM (do NOT change this, Haru will cry) Icon: A picture of Sin-jae holding up a curling iron like a sword. Description: “We don’t do drama. We do eyeliner.” – Bada

[10:04 AM] Bada: someone tell geon that flannel is not a fashion statement

[10:05 AM] Geon: it is if i say it is

[10:05 AM] Eun-jae: Just coordinate it with the color board or I will set you on fire in front of the interns

[10:06 AM] Haru: peace and love on planet glam 🧘🏻‍♀️✨

[10:07 AM] Sin-jae: No peace. Only panic. Jung Hoseok just walked in wearing crocs.

[10:07 AM] Bada: WAR

[10:08 AM] Min-ji (admin): New blood arrives today. Be nice or I’ll take your espresso privileges.

[10:08 AM] Sin-jae: delete the chat. we start over.

──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ──── ──── ୨୧ ────

Min-ji grinned with the delight of someone not about to be trapped in a room with BTS for five hours.

“Everyone, meet your new chaos coordinator,” she announced, smacking a hand onto Yongyi’s back hard enough to dislodge a lash curler from her pocket. It clattered to the floor like a starter pistol.

“Choi Yongyi. She’s got the touch. Don’t scare her off—she’s the only one who agreed to handle all seven of them.”

A beat of silence.

Geon looked up from a rack of jackets, one eyebrow twitching in approval. Haru, mid-swatch with a shimmer palette, gave a soft two-finger wave without breaking eye contact with her mannequin head. Eun-jae’s eyes narrowed, not out of hostility—just the laser focus of someone already evaluating skin undertones and stress levels like diagnostics on a car engine. Sin-jae looked her up and down once, then let out a short laugh.

“Tiny,” he said, appraising. “Looks like she’ll fly away if someone breathes wrong.”

“I wish I could,” Yongyi replied dryly, “but I’m running on six coffees and spite.”

That earned a chorus of surprised chuckles—except from Eun-jae, who tilted her head.

“Espresso or drip?”

“Espresso. Double shots. One was… possibly stolen.”

“Promising,” Eun-jae murmured.

Geon shifted aside to let her pass. “Welcome to the fire.”

“Hope you brought a fan,” Sin-jae added.

“I brought setting spray.”

Bada strolled in late, sunglasses perched in her hair and a lipstick bullet in one hand. She stopped short, looked Yongyi up and down, then smirked.

“Well,” she said, uncapping the lipstick like a weapon, “let’s see if you can survive the group chat.”

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

BTS X FEMALE/OC

CHARACTERS

BTS as themselves

Choi Yongyi

Birthday: October 15th, 1995 Gender: Female

Kim Geon -

GEON - From Sino-Korean 建 (geon) meaning "to construct", 健 (geon) meaning "strong", 虔 (geon) meaning "respect" or other characters which are pronounced similarly. Birthday: January 8th, 1993 Gender: Male

Lee Eun-jae

EUN-JAE - From Sino-Korean 恩 "kindness, mercy, charity" and 才 "talent, ability". Birthday: May 21st, 1991 Gender: Female

Fuji Haru

HARU - Means "day" in Korean. Birthday: March 30th, 1992 Gender: Female

Park Sin-jae

SIN-JAE - From Sino-Korean 信 "trust, believe" and 哉 "final exclamatory particle". Birthday: December 18th, 1994 Gender: Male

Jung Bada

BADA - From the native Korean word meaning "sea, ocean," perhaps deriving from Goguryeo 波旦 (patɐrɐ) or 波豊 (patərə). Birthday: August 9th, 1991 Gender: Female

Hong Min-ji

MIN-JI - From Sino-Korean 敏 (min) meaning "quick, clever, sharp" combined with 智 (ji) meaning "wisdom, intellect" or 知 (ji) meaning "know, perceive, comprehend". Birthday: July 4th, 1987 Gender: Female