#ft. a headless

[dreamaze]

hyungu, a vlive summary: but i haven't warmed up my fingers... will I be okay? *noodles through one of the runs* kayy. *plays full montage solo requiring approximately 10% brainpower & zero effort* TOO EASY. it's so easy that i don't even need to look at it. ... heh. ☝️ "self-satisfied-gu"

[kumomist]

DURIN AND WANDERER FJKDBDKEJHHRHRHRJJKSNANAAAAAAAAHHHH

[celestiamour]

Would you do Peter and his spouse welcoming their first child to narnia if they had never left and gone back to the professors house

ft. pevensies & f! reader’s daughter (& peter x f! reader) — the chronicles of narnia

╰₊✧ welcoming the birth of the first heir of narnia┊0.7k words

setting: the golden age contains: mentions of labor & one of death

➤ author's note: i probably went off prompt because i assumed that you meant peter & the reader having their first kid in the golden age, but i didn’t focus it on them and focused it on the kid so feel free to send in something else!!

news that the queen had gone into labor spread like wildfire throughout the palace and spilled into the rest of the kingdom, becoming the only thing anyone could talk about for the day since the realm hadn’t seen the birth of a son of adam or daughter of eve in a hundred years after the reign of the white witch. all of narnia held its breath in anticipation for the safety of the queen and the healthy arrival of her child, knowing that the magic of the lands would protect her yet still nervous at the slim chance of a worse-case scenario. one half of cair paravel was bustling with maids running around like headless chickens to tend to their queen while the other half didn’t feel like they could even speak above a whisper for these hours out of nervousness, many simply loitering about instead of working and patiently waiting for an update since they didn’t feel like they could do anything at all until then.

oh, but when the first piercing cry of an infant rang throughout the hallway, it was like the entire world stilled for all the attention to be focused on the first heir of the prophesied monarchs: a daughter of eve with the same royal sapphire eyes as her father and the smile of her mother that shines brighter than the sun. the next high queen who will someday rule with the same grace and wisdom as her parents once did before they eventually pass, but for now, she is a little bundle of joy who doesn’t even know her own name, much less how important she is or the future she’s destined for.

peter couldn’t help but shed a tear of happiness at the sight of her, sitting next to you in the bed and gently holding her for the first time. a product of your shared love and devotion for each other through thick and thin, so frail and delicate placed perfectly in his arms and without a single thought in her little head as she stuck out her pudgy arms at him to touch his face. and just like your love that started out small, she will grow into something so beautiful and powerful that its power will be written into history books about the beginning of narnia’s golden age.

lucy is gushing over how cute she is and immediately runs over to pinch her chubby cheeks, so thrilled that she’s no longer the youngest in the family (even if she’ll always be the baby to her siblings) and to be the cool aunt that she’s always dreamed of becoming— the one who helps her sneak out of boring lessons for an adventure and the one who shields her from her father’s scolding once they get caught, she’ll always be your daughter's favorite relative because of all of the whimsical memories and helping her to always be a child at heart.

susan is calm as always with a glint of excitement and adoration in her eyes when she sees her new niece. she’ll act like a tutor of sorts for her as she grows older, teaching her about the ways of royalty and proper etiquette for young ladies (which are often the very classes that lucy occasionally assists in skipping). despite that, your daughter will deeply appreciate her older aunt for everything she does for her: for helping her out when she fights with you, for teaching her that a lady doesn’t always need to be submissive, and for all the knowledgeable advice that she will carry with her for her entire life.

edmund is just in awe at the very fact that he is an uncle, knowing that this day would have come inevitably and still in disbelief that it happened. he’s a bit of a bad-influence uncle, accidentally teaching your child swear words, helping her prank her father on occasion, and swinging her around on his shoulders when she’s still little, but he always means well and teaches her that being nobility doesn’t mean that you need to give up your sense of humor.

mr tumnus was the one to announce to the people that the queen safely delivered a healthy heir, a daughter named aurora which has latin roots meaning “dawn” to represent the dawn of her generation of rulers. she will be a beloved monarch who will look over narnia and its inhabitants with the same love that her parents raised her with, eventually receiving the worthy title of “high queen aurora, the gracious.”

[yerimbrit]

here's the mistletoe (so go on and kiss me twice) : p. hanni

synopsis: it's last minute christmas decorating with your friends, and, as always, anything and everything is an opportunity for you to tease your girlfriend.

# : pairing ! nonidol!pham hanni x fem!reader

# : tags ! fluff fluff and more fluff, would you like a side of fluff with your order of fluff? yeah?, christmas decorating, short jokes (directed at hanni wbk), ft newjeans

# : wordcount ! 1.5k

# : warnings ! none

for the first time ever in the two years that you've been living with each other, all members of your friend group are home for christmas. obviously, you guys want to make it special, right? decorating the moment it hits midnight on the first of the jolly month?

...except everyone's been busy with finals and whatnot, and the only day that all six of you are free is the 23rd. two days before christmas, and a day before christmas eve.

early this morning, minji and haerin went out to go buy a tree. and you'll give it to them, it's a damn pretty looking tree. it leaves just enough room to spare for the topper to breathe, and it's body is the ideal shape for a christmas tree—like the ones you'd see on those holiday cards. putting those two on tree-hunting duty was a good idea, even if they were decided from losing a game of slapjack.

(that day still gives you the shivers. the air around haerin as she chose her victim to accompany her on her expedition was absolutely chilling.)

the rest of the jobs were decided by first come, first served. unfortunately, danielle and hyein called dibs on baking all of the sweet treats and pastries for the party, so that left you and hanni for decorations.

look, you love hanni. she's a wonderful friend and an even lovelier girlfriend. it's just... you know, with all the decorating... how are you supposed to resist making short jokes targeted towards her when everything gives you a chance to? and that's exactly how your trip to home depot went. every other aisle would have you lightly teasing your vertically challenged girlfriend, and every other aisle would have her scolding you or landing a half-hearted punch on your shoulder. ouch.

"you guys sure are late," hyein jokingly crosses her arms upon your arrival. her mask breaks almost immediately, and she has to stifle a giggle. there's spots of flour on her face, and danielle, who is beaming next to her, has pink frosting smeared on her cheek. looks like their baking session went a little haywire.

hanni huffs, swinging a horridly orange home depot branded bag over her shoulder to set down next to the freshly installed tree. "do you know how crowded home depot is on christmas eve eve?"

"must've been hard reaching for the last box of ornaments," minji snorts, leaning over from her spot on the couch to try to peek inside the reusable bag. hanni swats her hand away and proceeds to point and laugh at the ugly christmas sweater that the taller has donned.

you giggle at their interaction before placing the rest of the orange bags next to the one hanni put down and make a beeline to the open kitchen, where a tray of warm and decorated cookies lay. there's a broken snowflake-shaped cookie with unsightly neon turquoise frosting pasted messily on top, and you decide to put it out of its misery by plopping it in your mouth. "mmh, warm, buttery, and sweet. as expected, you two."

the baker pair share a proud look and a fistbump, and then a voice sounds out from right beside you alongside a crunch. "these are good."

startled, you look to your right and haerin's staring right at you with a gingerbread man—headless, because she bit off its head—pinched in a hold between her pointer and her thumb. you press a hand to your heart, "when did you get here!?"

she ignores your question, instead walking away to peer into the products you and hanni reaped from the warehouse. if you listened closely, you could hear the feline quietly hum the home depot theme song. unbelievable.

minji tries to start something, likely about how haerin got to look before she did, but danielle interrupts before she can even let a second word of complaint escape her lips. "let's get decorating!"

with the sunshine's interruption, the group breaks into laughter and minji takes the three orange bags to the dining table where their contents can be spilled out. ornaments, string lights in both tacky rainbow colors and the neat white ones, and other little trinkets and decorations—you really just grabbed everything that was left, not that it was a bad thing! it's just... really random compared to everything else.

"whoever's last has to decorate the tree," danielle calls out, a small smile settling on her face, and she places her finger on the tip of her nose, "not it!"

you got caught off-guard, and that ultimately leaves you as the last one standing. even haerin's in on it, the little devil—she's developing her own characteristic shit-eating grin and it's starting to piss you off.

"you're out, y/n," minji laughs, and her eyes subtly snap between you and hanni, "pick someone to work with you."

your gaze trails over to your girlfriend, who frantically shakes her head in distress. 'no,' she signals with her eyes, 'please don't pick me.'

hyein waves a swaying hand in front of you, a teasing glint in her eyes, "don't take too long picking, unnie, or else the beautiful tree they picked will be all for naught!"

well, you didn't have to be told twice. "hanni."

"nooooo!"

"i can't believe you chose me. i mean, couldn't you tell i didn't want to be picked? my own girlfriend betraying me, how could you?" the shorter girl grumbles, handing you an ornament to hang on a higher section of the tree. the two of you have worked through almost all of it after hanging four sets of string lights, two multicolored, two white.

"it's not that bad, han," you chuckle, expertly looping the red ornament's string around a branch. the leaves brush against your skin and it's electrifying—in a good way, of course. "besides, this way you don't have to complain about what kind of placement minji or hyein decided on, yeah? plus, you're the perfect height to reach those bottom branches."

hanni gasps in offense, her jaw dropped. "i'm not that short!" and she hands you the last ornament to hang: an otter with a santa hat.

you grin, taking it from her hand and pointing at the small plush, "this one looks like you."

"really?" she furrows her eyebrows.

you hold it up next to her face for comparison. "definitely."

after putting the otter plush in an empty-looking spot in the middle of the tree, you pick up a star topper and present it to your girlfriend, who looks at you with a deadpan stare. "you're not actually asking me to put it on, are you?"

"i'm deadass," you smile, "take it, i'll help you up."

hanni stares at you for a bit longer, as if she were waiting for you to break your expression and claim that it was a joke. unfortunately for her, you don't, only pushing the topper into her hands. "how are we even going to—ah, what the hell!"

you've gone and easily lifted your girlfriend up by the waist, just enough so that she could reach the top of the tree. she squirms in your hold, and you giggle at her struggle. "hurry up, han!"

"okay, okay! move forward a little, will you?"

with your help, hanni manages to perfectly place the star on top of the tree and returning her to the ground earns you a satisfied hum and a hug, which you reciprocate. out of character, but not unwelcome.

now done with the tree, you can finally look around to your surroundings where the entire house has been christmasified: string lights, plushies with santa hats, a winter village on the windowsill on top of a white cloth resembling snow, and a train track on another windowsill. there's shuffling from below you, and you lock eyes with haerin who gradually rises from her brief squatting position on the ground. a smirk slowly takes over your face. hanni tilts her head in confusion.

the feline stands on her tiptoes to dangle the mistletoe above you and hanni's heads, and once the smaller girl realizes what the plant was, her face explodes into a multitude of reds and pinks.

the others, witnessing this scene unfold, start chanting and playfully raising their fists. "kiss! kiss! kiss!"

you press your forehead against your girlfriend's. "looks like we have no choice but to kiss, hanni."

her eyes soften. "you're saying it like it's a chore."

you shake your head slightly in disbelief, scoffing. "i'm just saying, it's an honor to ki-"

before you could finish your sentence, you feel the fabric of your shirt get tugged forward, and soon you feel a soft pair of lips pressed against your own. the kiss is soothing but exciting, and you lean into the familiar warmth. nothing else mattered in that moment, all you can focus on is the way she tastes like mint—it's only a bit embarrassing that you might taste like the sweet buttercream cookie that you had earlier.

a burst of cheers erupt from around you, causing you to break away from the kiss. but you don't pay any mind to the others—instead, you pull hanni closer into an affectionate hug. you lean forward to brush your lips across her ear, smiling at how quickly it turns red from her blush.

"merry christmas, han."

hanni buries her face into your shoulder. "merry christmas, y/n."

a/n : MERRY CHRISTMAS it's still technically christmas for me so i'm not late I SWEAR ok i know that I said i wouldn't write any more fluff but that was a lie... i would be a devil if i ruined the holiday spirit with angst happy holidays!!

[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ surrounded by stone ]❜

ft. yu. q wilson x f! reader — krisis, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ while out exploring with wilson, you find yourselves trapped in a 1x1 hole with no tools to escape┊2.6k words

contains: smut!! switch wilson, reader┊takes place on a hardcore krisis server, reader is a member of krisis & shorter than wilson, minecraft mechanics, forced proximity & awkward sexual situations, begging & some teasing, mutual masturbation (fingering & handjobs), willy overthinking & being cute, implied polykrisis at the very end, his clothing actually might be innaccurate idk how all that works from the reference sheet, very very rushed ending

➤ author's note: i love this picture of willy, he looks so cute and shocked. i really went back and forth about how to go about this piece, but i hope that the finished product is okay!! this piece was long overdue and should have been finished months ago…

₊˚ʚ 💌₊˚✧ dedicated to the wonderful @vezalust, i didn’t forget!! i just struggled with motivation, but it’s finally done & i hope you’ll still enjoy despite how long it’s been since i promised it!!

“AHHHHHH FUCK GET ME OUT OF HERE!!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU ARE TOO CLOSE TO MY EARS FOR THIS!”

this was just supposed to be a simple adventuring trip to map out new territory and gather the necessary resources to progress through the world, but it all went horribly due to rotten luck. really, what are the chances of discovering three zombie spawners within a hundred blocks of each other? finding something like that would be next to impossible and would even be a great find for an experience farm if you were well-equipped, but unfortunately for you, it wasn’t as impossible as fighting off such a large wave of the undead. even if you two were heroes, you only had iron tools and partial armor and getting swarmed by the horde made combat extremely difficult. the rest was a blur, running around like headless chickens and blindly swinging at enemies that got too close while screaming various swear words.

by the time all of the action, you found yourselves trapped in a one-by-one crevice that wasn’t even tall enough for him to stand up straight, making him slouch so that he wouldn’t bump his head on the ceiling. since neither of you could get close enough to light up the dungeons, you resorted to digging into the side of the cave wall instead and wilson followed you as he placed blocks behind him to shut them out… except he wasn’t looking in your direction, continued until he backed up into you and realized that you were both stuck.

your tools were one block away from crumbling in your hands and you frantically began to search through your inventory, looking for something to fix your pickaxe with or to make a new one entirely, but it was just filled with treasures you gathered up to this point. truly, you were blinded by greed to collect new riches and completely forgot to grab extra essentials like wood. (although now that you think of it, you would need to break at least two blocks to place a crafting table and work on it, such an unimportant thing that is now inconceivable to get out of this cave.) “wilson… please tell me that you still have your pick on you…”

“so i… uh…” with how close you were to him, you could hear him gulp and shuffle around to tug on his collar. “i sort of freaked out and… threw it at a zombie… with my phone too… i don’t have any crafting materials either…”

your device lit up the dark space as you squinted and quickly sent the other two your coordinates, but it died in your hands before you could send the text explaining what happened. “well… it looks like we’re stuck here until vanta and zali wake up since it’s way past midnight,” you groaned. “we told them that we would be back in the morning, so they’ll probably figure out that we’re lost and will look for us then…”

the rough wall of stone was nothing if not uncomfortable to lean against, but you were barely a few inches away from the blonde with your hips still pressed together despite your best efforts to give the other a shred of personal space. it was getting uncomfortably warm from the shared body heat and you could only imagine how hot wilson must be getting in his hoodie, but the stifling silence was honestly a worse fate.

krisis have known each other for a little over a year and were one of the tightest-knit groups, yet here you and the hitman stood like complete strangers stuck in an elevator. it’s safe to say that neither of you could get a second of rest like this despite the long day of traversing uncharted lands, so this awkward position would remain until you two were saved. the idea of starting a conversation crossed your mind but was quickly crushed by the possibility of it falling off and making everything worse, so you decided to just keep your mouth shut and sort through your inventory.

although it had only been a day, the loot piled up in your pockets was impressive now that you were properly tallying it up with stacks of iron and dozens of various gems of ores— this would certainly be able to gear the team to travel across the fiery nether once ready and might even help go towards finding the end portal. you could already picture the gang full-clad in shiny diamond armor with the slain ender dragon at your feet, but maybe you were getting a bit ahead of yourself. for now, building a proper home and creating the gateway to what was essentially hell would be massive accomplishments.

you paused for a moment when you felt wilson shuffling around and realized that his breathing had steadily been getting heavier. peeking over your inventory screen with eyes that were now more adjusted to the dark, you could faintly see him biting onto the thick fabric of his outerwear’s hood. he seemed to be trying to suppress himself in a way, but was struggling terribly and sweating like a sinner in church even though you two had been still for nearly an hour. you tilted your head in concern, “wilson… are you alright? did you injure yourself earlier?”

“i-i’m fine… just…” he let out a shaky breath, his ears burning with embarrassment as he hoped to whatever god there was out there that you haven’t noticed anything. “could you m-move your leg?”

“oh, sorry! wait, let me…” you tried your best to scoot away from him, but the space was so tight that there wasn’t anywhere to escape you. pushing your hand against the course-textured ceiling, an attempt was made to push yourself back from his personal space, but to no avail.

all this while, wilson felt like he was going to explode. yes, he didn't want to realize that he had a raging hard-on— who would be able to bear the humiliation when he couldn’t run away from the situation? however, oh god, your lack of awareness was going to be the death of him, he really needed you to stop unknowingly rubbing your thigh against his crotch and making the problem worse. he’s so fucked (as vanta would say, he’s so cooked that he’s fried a crispy golden brown). what kind of depraved pervert he is getting a boner from being so close to one of his friends— you were never going to talk to him again after this if you find out!

he didn’t want it to happen this way, he wanted to confess his feelings to you in a proper way like a gentleman and go on a few dates before hopping onto anything like this. to jump onto you like a dog in heat before you even know about his feelings was so humiliating and would definitely dash any of his hopes of ending up with you because of how pathetic he was, but he wasn’t in the right mindset to think any more than a minute into the future. “i-i’m sorry…”

before you could ask him what he was talking about, you felt him cup your face in his hands and pull you towards him for a hungry kiss. your eyes widened at the sudden action, feeling him kiss you like a parched man wandering a desert finding an oasis. once you felt the prominent bulge protruding from his pants, you didn’t cringe in disgust like a normal person but rather became dizzy with want. you didn’t start this with any sinful intentions, however, you certainly weren’t going to take it back and reject the advances of someone you’ve fancied since the very beginning.

his hands wandered around your body, tracing over your skin and leaning into your warmth as his tongue darted out to explore your mouth. you couldn’t see a thing, but it only heightened your other senses from the vague smell of his cologne mixed with sweat and the heat burning in his fingertips. it felt unreal, the lines of reality and dreams getting blurred with every passing second. you didn’t want it to end nor did you want him to stop, you just wanted him to ease the aching pain in your cunt and to kiss you like it meant everything to him.

it did mean everything to him, but he was just too horny to focus on the sentimentalities that he was robbing your first time together of in a lust-induced haze.

he parted his lips from yours first, resting his forehead on yours and trying to catch his breath, yet continuing to press kisses onto you in shorter, more frequent intervals. he held you so close to him, it was almost like he was about to implode if he didn’t have his way with you right now, pleading and whining like a little puppy for your permission to escalate the situation further to chase his own high and hopefully yours too. a simple nod would suffice, anything would suffice, and hearing your soft pleas was more than enough to knock over the already tipped scales.

in his rush, he didn’t even bother to try taking off your top. he would only pop off the buttons by accident and ruin the garment without light or night vision of any sort to see just how beautiful your naked-upper form was, so there wasn’t much reason to do so. he would just have to make do with his vivid imagination reinforced by his other senses until next time (if you decided that you would still associate with him after this, that is…), running his hand over your naked skin and gently groping your soft chest. he’s so clumsy in his movements, like a high school boy who is going through his first time with another, but it really just a result of nerves from his affection for you.

you grabbed his wrist to stop him in the act, making him flinch in worry that he did something wrong, but you led it to where you wanted him most. “please,” you breathed, “i know we’re gonna be stuck here for a while, but i need you now.”

oh, if only you could see the expression on his face, you would tease him so badly for it! he just had to blink a few times to process that and got to work, pulling down your pants along with your underwear to finally access your heat. his throat became dry as the overwhelming desire to have you on his mouth and to taste your arousal washed over him, but there wasn’t enough room for him to kneel even if your legs were tossed over his shoulders, so he could have to settle for the next best thing as he circled your clit with his thumb and adding more pressure when you asked him to press on it harder.

“mmhh, fuck…” you threw your head back at his fingers beginning to work you open, slow at first, but steadily became erratic as you wrapped your arms around his neck to cling onto him. he seemed so shy about doing this despite initiating all of this, but hearing your cute little moans of pleasure gave him more confidence about his actions. your hands slipped under the material of his hoodie and managed to find the zipper of his bodysuit, capturing the metal between your fingertips and undoing it before he could notice until the fabric fell a bit below his waist.

he isn’t very built and on the slimmer side since his job is more reliant on speed and agility rather than strength, but you felt as if it balanced the playing field for you to have an equal opportunity to dominate him as he could with you. you traced a line down his torso and pulled at the elastic of his boxers, his breath hitching as your wrapped your fingers around his throbbing cock and experimentally started to jerk him off. if he wasn’t already, he was now putty in your hands and immediately bucked his hips into your hand in an almost desperate state while the pace of his fingers faltered.

you couldn’t help but smirk at his state just from your touch and tease him for it, “god, you’re so needy— how long have you been waiting for something like this to happen?”

he couldn’t keep his voice still and kept stuttering, how could he sound any different when you were stroking him so sweetly like that? “i-i don’t even know—mmhh— it feels like f-forever…”

forever almost seemed to be laughable since it’s just been a year and a few months since you first met, but it really does feel like it’s been much longer than that. there’s always been chemistry between the two of you which was a bit stronger than the other members, one that always had you gravitating towards the other. you frequently got teased by vanta and zali over this special connection several times and had no doubt that wilson went through the same treatment, now realizing that they probably thought something like this where hidden affections boiled over should have happened earlier.

he was dripping so much that lube wasn’t even necessary, your hand able to slide up and down his cock with ease repeating the motions: massaging his shaft while running your thumb over the leaking tip and smiling whenever he let out a soft whine as the building pleasure released all over your hand. he would have been more embarrassed about climaxing so quickly and easily if he hadn’t already diverted his focus on making you do the same.

his fingers were still halfway inside of you from before, but you still gasped when he resumed his relentless pace like he had never stopped at all and igniting fire under your skin as you clung onto his shoulders. wilson isn’t the most experienced, but he quickly learns what feels best to you based on how loud you’re being: what makes you go quiet versus what makes you shudder and gasp until you finally gush on his fingers.

as the rush of euphoria reached it’s peak then began to settle, you briefly thanked this blocky world for not listening to the rules of your dimension and that this tiny little space somehow contained enough oxygen to last for forever seeing as both of you were completely out of breath. your bodies were sweaty and a bit overheated, but it somehow felt fine since it all happened with him. “let’s just… stay like this for a bit… i’m so tired, and this feels so nice,” you sighed as a spell of fatigue suddenly swept over the two of you, leaning into his chest and letting him wrap his arms around you while relishing in the sound of his rapid heartbeat.

“so, uh… does this mean we’re dating now?” he no longer felt scared that his feelings would be unrequited, knowing that you felt same (he would have to ask later how long it’s been…).

“yeah,” you said without hesitation and placing a more loving kiss on his lips before falling asleep, “we are…” the two of you remained like that for long after the sun rose, not even realizing when your other two teammates exposed you to the light after digging you both up. it didn’t require a rocket scientist to figure out what happened over the past six hours based on the mostly nude state of your unconscious bodies, giving them a good chuckle, something to bully both of you eternally over, and a new awakening of desire that wanted to join in on the fun lit inside of them.

[hoseoksluna]

SMOKE, ii. | myg

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

genre: angst, smut

word count: 9.6k

summary: everything that begins prolongs and deepens. 

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join

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

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

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

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

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

I wish I could do the same. 

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

And I know why. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not tender and dream-like. 

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

And I hope Yoongi didn’t see it. 

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

He would see a bruise. 

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

An inanimate object. 

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

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

His former struggle to fit in. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I exit out of the house. 

And I stride into the hall. 

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

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

I find Hobi. 

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

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

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

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

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

No Yoongi. 

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

He can be a doll, with looks like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not Jungkook. 

It’s Yoongi. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not just onto the ground. 

I fall for him, unable to stop it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the process begins. 

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

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

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

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

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

I sob. 

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

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

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

All me. 

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

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

And they change me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tell Jungkook, please.” 

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

He takes his hands off of me and nods. 

I mourn them. I mourn his touch. 

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

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

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

He holds out his hand. “Come.” 

Every muscle in my body spasms and I do. 

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

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

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

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

For me. 

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

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

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

I laugh, softly, through my nose. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish I had a matching red purse. 

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

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

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

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

He chuckles, awkwardly, and I bite my lip. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart constricts. 

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

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

Run, I hear from within, despite all. 

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

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

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

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

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

So cute.

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi only nods in response, avoiding my eyes. 

Interesting. 

Jungkook, then, turns to me. 

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

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

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

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

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

With mismatched steps and itchy palms. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come upstairs with me.” 

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

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

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

I swore Grookey smiled at me the whole time. 

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

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

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

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

A violet wisteria tree. 

A thing of violence—my arousal. 

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

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

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

“No.” 

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

I throw his jacket onto the floor. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can do anything I please without being held back. 

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

Does he want the same as I do? 

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

Just like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

I hold him, he holds me. 

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

“Are you needy?” 

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

A lightning strikes in me, smiting every negative emotion. 

“What would you do if I said I was?”

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

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

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

I begin to quiver. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I devour his lips and he devours mine. 

Left and right, left and right. 

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

I drip onto the tiles. 

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

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

I feel whole. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

My orgasm threatens to explode. 

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

“Please, kitty.” 

I come so hard that I lose my vision altogether.

I cry out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to wade further through these waters. 

But Yoongi seems to stop me. 

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

One that makes my knees weak. 

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

No more distraction. 

“Lick me.” 

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

I shudder. 

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

I mewl. 

“Where?” 

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

“My neck.” 

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

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

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

“My nipple.” 

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

I exhale in staccato moans, broken—but whole. 

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

“My thigh.” 

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

He’s as needy as me. 

Needy for me. 

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

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

I open my legs for him. 

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

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

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

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

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

My pleasured body begs me. 

“Yes, yes, that feels so good.” 

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

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

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

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

I revel in it. 

And I want more. 

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

All breath loosens from me. 

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

Yoongi glimpses at me. 

“You really want this?” 

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

My breath hitches in my throat. 

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

I need him. 

“I need you inside me.” 

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

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

“You’re not getting it tonight.” 

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

One I’m willing to play. 

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

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

I grin, my fever rising. 

This is fun. 

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

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

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

Vulgarly. 

Offensively. 

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

He fucks into me just once and pulls away. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I’m going to take care of him. 

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

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ first part here

[grimm-writings]

can i request chilchuck making reader their favorite dish when they get back to the surface? like inviting them over for dinner to try and confess properly :3

the secret ingredient

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, post-canon, senshi being wise

…wc! 949

…notes! this is so cute… what da hell… enjoy your meal 🥺 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

The half-foot is running around the kitchen of his home like a headless chicken, which is coincidentally what he’s holding over his head rushing from the oven to the hob, and back to see if things are stable.

The one who remains perfectly calm and still, stirring a little pot of gravy is Senshi, glancing to look over at Chilchuck trying to stir some vegetables.

“...You forgot the–”

“I know I forgot the salt!”

With clear agitation, Chilchuck shrilly screams the words back at Senshi as he scavenges the cabinets around him for the salt.  Senshi already showed disdain for how disorganised Chilchuck’s kitchen is.  At the time, he had simply dismissed it, but now it’s biting back when he clearly doesn’t know where things go and how they got there.

Chilchuck tries not to overflow the vegetables with salt as he mutters to himself.  “They’ll be here in an hour, we don’t have an hour to fix all this up – Senshi can you hurry the gravy up?!”

Giving his friend a sidelong glance, Senshi keeps stirring, as gravy shouldn’t be left alone.  “No can do, Chilchuck.  This takes time.”

“We don’t have—”

“Were you not prepping this all beforehand?”  Senshi looks around at the already made meals.  “I love food myself, but… this might be a bit…”

Chilchuck’s glare once Senshi turns back at him could kill.  “What?  Much?  You think it’s ‘a bit much’?”  He throws his hands in the air.  “They deserve the best meal I can make for them!  Aren’t you always talking about the best way to bond is through food?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“Listen, Senshi,” Chilchuck slaps his hands down on Senshi’s shoulder.  “This…  This needs to be perfect.  I can’t go and confess to them if it isn’t.”

The dwarf takes in Chilchuck’s worries, before pointing behind him.  “The chicken is–”

“SHIT, THE CHICKEN IS READY!” 

Senshi turns down the heat of his part of the hob as Chilchuck runs off, and begins pouring the gravy into a jug.  “I thought you’d know more than anyone that quality should be favoured over quantity,” he muses.

Chilchuck, upon retrieving the chicken from the oven, grumbles incoherently.  He sighs.  “I guess I don’t want to disappoint them…”

“I’m sure they’d love even just one portion of their favourite meal with you,” Senshi advises, patting Chilchuck’s shoulder.  “Even with all of this food, you’re missing the secret ingredient.”

With confusion etched into his features, Chilchuck looks at Senshi.  “What?”  He flatly responds.  Did he miss something?!

Senshi smiles – or rather Chilchuck learns that when his cheeks puff and his eyes close that he’s likely smiling – and chuckles slightly.

“Love, o’ course.”

Chilchuck looks like he is losing brain cells in real time.  “Love,” he repeats, in slight disbelief.

“Yep.”

“Love.”

“That’s it!”  Senshi takes a step back.  “Do ya happen to know their favourite dish?”

Chilchuck can’t believe he’s about to learn some moral about love at a time like this.  “...Yeah, why?”

“Let’s scrap all this.  I can hand them all out to families around the place,” Senshi graciously offers.  “Instead, make a two-portion meal, their favourite, for your dinner.  And sprinkle in some love.”

The wink Senshi gives him results in Chilchuck’s skin going hot in embarrassment.  Really?  That’s his suggestion?

“I wanna impress them,” he says, quieter.

“I know ya do, but you can’t do that rushing around doing the bare minimum of cooking.”

The silence of the kitchen fills Chilchuck’s ears, and suddenly he’s aware of the heat of the room, how sweaty he is, and how tired he feels.

He really has been going overboard from stress, huh?

The half-foot takes a deep breath, grounding himself in this reality again and meekly nods.  “Yeah.  Fine.  You can give all these meals away to the townsfolk.

Together, the dwarf and half-foot put the meals in appropriate containers and bags.  Right before Senshi was about to leave, Chilchuck stops him.

“Hm?”  Senshi turns as his attention is grabbed.  He knows Chilchuck isn’t the best with his feelings by now, but as his friend, he feels it’s his duty to at least help him.

The half-foot doesn’t look him in the eye when he says, “thank you,” cheeks flushed.

Senshi perks up at Chilchuck’s gratitude.  “Not a problem,” he returns, leaving the home.

Now alone, Chilchuck checks the time.  You’ll be arriving in 45 minutes.

…Sure, he can make one meal by the time you show up.  With his secret ingredient he can.

It takes a strenuous amount of precision on Chilchuck’s part, but with his line of work there’s nothing that he can’t do. His love is poured into the meal, from how he stirs the mix from how he gently places a little stick of parsley on the top.

‘Tis finished, the little Senshi in Chlichuck’s head heaves a sigh of relief.

Right on time too, considering the knock on the door.  Chilchuck wipes the beads of sweat off his forehead and rushes to welcome you in, before noting he needs to get dressed into something nicer.

When he comes back, you smile that wonderful grin.  “Thank you for making dinner for us, Chil.”

His secret ingredient shines through for you, from how he presents the meal to how he returns your smile, the lines under his eyes crinkling.  “Really, the honour is all mine.”

He offers his hand out to you, and you accept.  Even if you’re somewhat surprised, Chilchuck has always been quite a gentleman around you.

Chilchuck thinks that, maybe, he is able to confess with just his confidence and love alone.  There’s no need for frivolities.

Just one secret ingredient seals the deal.

[cinsnaiiil]

Deadboxes :]

Basically Boombox'es who died lol

ft:

Headless

Spotlight

Mouthless (The one in a bubble)

[somepsychopomp]

Going back to my Nosferatu AU for a bit w/ eldritch owl monster Athena because I have thoughts. Particularly about the Trojan War, should Ody live long enough to see it.

Athena would be sooo excited that her hatchling is finally going to war! With her shrieking cry (think of the screeches a barn owl makes) she shall herald her beloved offspring into battle and under her guidance, he shall shed rivers of blood and leave behind fields of carnage. All the lands will soon quake in fear at the name Odysseus. And they will come to revere and dread Athena even more so than they already do.

And at the end of each day, her owlet shall deliver the corpses of his enemies to her so she might feast upon them in glory.

But also, Athena is very worried that he's not eating enough (a constant worry for her) and she's also concerned that the older, larger owlets (AKA the other Greek kings) are going to bully her chick and take away his food. They wouldn't do that, but that's how it's done in the owl world so yeah

Also, Athena isn't dumb. She knows what an adult human is. But since she views adult Odysseus as an owlet specifically because he's hers, she sees his peers as roughly the same. But hey, it's better than taking a look at Diomedes or the Ajaxes and thinking they'd be a tasty snack. She would eat any of them with no hesitation if Odysseus let her, but that's beside the point.

So flash forward to the early weeks of the Trojan War when Athena does the equivalent of dropping off a lunch box for her kid to take on his special field trip.

All the Greeks take cover as a massive shadow eclipses the full moon, thinking it to be some terrible monster. They scream in fear, thinking that blood is raining from the sky, but no. It's just leaking from the bull who Athena caught in the countryside and killed (and promptly bit its head off). She uses her keen nighttime vision and superb sense of hearing to locate Odysseus among some of the other kings.

Perfect. She'll show these other men that her owlet is not to be trifled with.

She begins her silent descent, only Odysseus looking up since he's been well trained to detect her presence. Athena drops the headless bull in front of him, clacking her wicked sharp beak to announce her presence before chirping invitingly.

The kings all bow in reverence and fear, all of them save for Odysseus. Athena can change her shape and size at will; she's far from her maximum size but she appears before the gaggle of kings as a thirty foot tall owl with a long serpentine neck and a 50+ ft wingspan. Her gray eyes are like sheets of hammered silver. She folds her wings neatly and speaks with a voice that sounds as if it is coming from far away.

"A gift, my child. Eat and be content."

The other kings take it as an invitation to stand and accept her prize as theirs, or assume Athena is giving it to all of them since she's favoring their side of the war. A bull of this size could be used to feed a lot of men.

Before Athena can start hissing in fury or unleash terrible curses to plague them till their dying day, deeply insulted by the very notion that these greedy owlets would steal her chick's meal, Odysseus throws an arm out to stop the others from approaching.

"No." He says calmly, "It's only for me."

There were many well known rumors that Odysseus of Ithaca was Athena's chosen. Some kings and princes believed it, others thought it was just a farfetched tale meant to make the ruler of a tiny, insignificant island sound more important. Now, none of the other royals will ever doubt Odysseus again.

"That is right," Athena hisses, her feathers raised and ruffled, "Now come, Odysseus. While the flesh is still warm."

He approaches her without fear, obedient to his adoptive mother as he was taught to be. She makes herself smaller so that she can more easily preen him. Odysseus doesn't move as he feels her beak in his hair, carefully picking at tangles and what debris there might be. He doesn't often brush his hair, knowing Athena quite enjoys preening him. (Ody not brushing his hair lends to his typical sickly and pitiable appearance in this AU.)

Once Athena has sufficiently checked his health, she plants a clawed foot on the bull and lowers her head. She selects a bit of flesh from below the ribs, knowing Odysseus favors the tenderness of such meat, and rips away the hair and skin. She plucks a bit of still-warm flesh and cradles it lightly in her beak, lifting her head so Odysseus may eat.

And he does so. In front of all the kings, as well as a hearty gathering of common soldiers, Odysseus uses only his teeth to rip bite-sized morsels of raw meat from the chunk in Athena's grasp. He chews slowly, then swallows.

Odysseus closes his eyes as he eats, knowing flecks of blood may fly, and doesn't open them again until he's consumed most of the meat in Athena's hold. She swallows the remnant and plucks another bit of flesh from the bull. She even squishes it lightly in her beak to show how tender and soft it is, wanting to entice her owlet to keep eating.

As expected, Odysseus tries to turn his head away, but Athena isn't having it. Her owlet can be stubborn or fussy at times. However, she knows he can eat more, so he will.

She presses the bloodied hunk of flesh to his lips until Odysseus acquiesces, eating until he insists he's full. At last, he is permitted to use his hands; Athena drops one last serving of meat into his grasp to save for later, should he grow hungry again.

Satisfied that her owlet has been taken care of in every regard, Athena grows until she's over fifty feet tall with a wingspan twice as large. She's absolutely massive, could probably hop over Troy's wall without difficulty. Some spectating men fall to their knees in awe and terror.

Athena ignores them as she picks up the bull carcass, the flesh now having gone cold, and swallows it whole in front of the entire army.

She hums in satisfaction.

"A fog is rolling over the horizon. It will be here by dawn," is all she says before departing. She spreads her wings and the men cry out in fear, diving for cover as they assume such a large creature must kick up a terrifying gale with those wings. What they don't expect is a soundless, imperceivable lift off as Athena gives a single flap and is gone.

Otherworldly, horrifying. Just as the stories said the gods were.

Odysseus alone understands her message. Come morning, the Trojans will find themselves ambushed by traps and hidden battalions waiting for them in the dense mist.

Come sunset, Odysseus will locate Athena's nest outside the battlegrounds and deliver a dozen dead Trojans (painstakingly selected for the quality of their meat) to her as thanks.

...

P.S. no one panic, Athena already blessed Ody with the ability to safely ingest raw meat. Also, he's been doing this for like 10+ years and his gut biome is just used to it.

[nelithic]

adamantine stares back at him, run with red — a smooth and impenetrable surface. the kiss of wire-sharp steel is cool at her neck, bites just enough to threaten the thin skin of the throat.

nel, he croaks her name, but his focus flickers. despite the urgency, the weapon shifts imperceptibly, and his eyes flick from it to her, from steel to stone, and back again. back again. back—

rather than wait for him to prevail or succumb, she seizes the next instant of distraction — grabbing his wrist and pushing it down hard, crushing the flat of the blade sidelong between them as her other hand thrusts forward, an open-palmed strike to the wound on diamant's side — and holds there firm, twisting. dull red flares from the shard of dragonstone against her collar and she forces him to his back upon the blood-slick ground in the next instant with a grunt, taking advantage of inhuman strength to rip the weapon from his grasp in the brief time he's stunned, and unceremoniously slam its pommel once to the side of his head with impunity.

. . .

he's limp.

warily, pale hand releases its hold. she drags in a labored, measured breath. then steps back.

the cathedral howls with an unsettled silence, still echoing with the remnants of conflict. and diamant's blade extending from her arm catches the moon in a flash almost too bright in the gloom. whether he had managed to subdue the rest of the thieves in that brief chaos and the enemy had numbered fewer than they made it seem, or the remainder had simply fled while she had been distracted, remains unclear. but the laden chest they were meant to guard remains unharmed. so they had been successful.

she glances from it to the brodian king's prone figure and back to it again, remembering the noxious beast a single one of its contents had made of a man within seconds . . . perhaps she had been too careless with diamant's life. and who could say where that beast had run now in the dead of night. perhaps to the sealed forest, to join more of its unfortunate kind.

swallowing a sigh, nel maneuvers around him and, when there is still no sign of movement, stoops to pull the cover over the heavy crate once more with a hollow scrape of dense wood — silencing the alien hum within and returning the chapel interior at last to its uneasy peace.

it's best she return this to a secure area, and then . . . she studies diamant once more.

. . . bring him to the infirmary.

𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬.

[h0ll0wtr33]

I just remembered an AU I gave up on.

This is the whole thing I found.

Paper School, a normal school that just so happened to have murderous teachers and a demon living inside. This was every day: For students, get an A or never see your family again, for the staff: deal with the failing students or just not get involved. However, after Lana, Abbie, and Claire's deaths, the students began to notice something.....off.

Terrifying clones of themselves, staff, and dead students. In the first few weeks of this, students started to blame Δlice, until she said that it was not her doing, which has led some to believe that this is another entity in itself.

They essentially haunt the school.

(Δlice is lying by the way she did that.)

Current as far as I remember:

An all black Zip with no mouth and bloodshot eyes.

Engel but with an extremely long waist, arms, and no face.

A Claire with no legs and no eyes.

A headless Bloomie with extremely long legs. Fen is 10'ft tall, for example, so...

An all black Chip with 4 arms and unnaturally dilated eyes.

>Yes, the Zip and Chip ones are related. Shhh.

>Chip one appears in the pool room and Miss Sasha's room.

>Can't decide on the Zip one.

>The Bloomie one is found everywhere but the pool room and inside classrooms(excluding Miss Bloomie's for obvious reasons.)

>The Claire one appears infront of the exit and makes her way through the whole school in a loop.

>The Engel one appears infront of the exit as well, stays in the hallways though.

It's actually a pretty interesting concept, and I might actually get back into drawing it. Especially the Engel one, I love him. That one is my son now.

[decadeofjoy-au]

I redesigned Silly!

and I have some more info about them!

Strengths: Body is made of slime, can tense up parts of body to make them a hard as a rock, shape shifting, can Remove their own head and other parts of body without being harmed(but it slightly hurts to do so)

Weaknesses: electricity, extremely heat

Personality: empathetic, honest, blunt , sassy, petty, protective, mischievous,smart

People they like: Melly, Tammy, Doey,Buddy, kitchan, Clarence, Felix,Terra,

People they hate: Dainty, the Prototype, Harvey Sawyer, Stella, Bruno,Percy, bolt

Facts:

•Silly hates the prototype with a burning passion

•the reason why Silly likes Clarence is because of Martin and Jaelyn they still absolutely hate Karmen tho

•Silly is non-binary

•Silly has both a normal sense of humor and the dark sense of humor(they once took off their own head and put it on a plate in the fridge and play'd the dead until someone picked up said plate and then proceed to get The living daylights scared out of them by both Silly's head and headless body)

•Silly is 13 ft long but they normally stand at 8 ft and use the extra 5 ft tail to move around

•both extreme heat and electricity cause Silly's body to destabilize and start to melt this is incredibly painful and takes a while for them to recover from

•Silly has cussed someone out before

🪽Oooo! Buddy has received another buddy! 🤩 love this info btw!

[9insin]

artstyle test ft headless rider stu from brawlstars

[gwynbleiddyn]

time is a tide that disobeys; part 2

oc kiss week 2025 prompt fill ft. Thalon Lavellan who belongs to the ever wonderful @ourinquisitorialness <3 thank you for letting me run riot with your son in the pursuit of Exploring Themes™

recommended listening:

loosely inspired by the 'worship' prompt because that's a doozy in and of itself, part 2 brings us to Skyhold, where judgement awaits. a direct sequel to part 1, where the days and weeks that follow Adamant begin to shape an unfortunate and long-standing reality -- that this will not be their story to tell.

-----

It doesn’t rain in Skyhold often, but when it does, it pours. 

The lifting summer air from the Hinterlands creeps upwards over the mountain, colliding with the sinking cold to call forth heavy grey clouds that burst as though pierced by the jagged offerings of the Frostbacks, and the deluge that follows is enough to harry most people indoors.

Except today. 

Today, the courtyard is full. Bodies stand shoulder to shoulder, faceless, indistinguishable to Rion where he stands, watching, waiting, from his spot on the wall overlooking Skyhold’s inner workings. There’s a restless ripple over the crowd, shuddering through the steady lavender tones that raindrops paint across Rion’s unique vision, his eyes working twice as hard to catch what his ears don’t. And as the restless hum widens from a dull grey into white, Rion knows they grow impatient.

As does he. 

His fingers drum idly on slick stone, hands free of heavy gloves and shoulders light with no armour to weigh him down, yet he still stands hunched - both against the rain and the shadow of Adamant, a memory that has yet to untangle itself from his waking thoughts. 

He grows impatient because beneath the steady downpour and roiling clouds, the crowds gather to watch Magister Livius Erimond pay his due. 

An empty, scarcely bloodied chopping block sits, lonely, on a dreary wooden stage down below. Erimond struggles in his restraints mere feet away from his end, a sole, looming guard his only company while they await the sword to carry out the sentence. 

The judgement had been rendered in flickering torchlight, amongst the scaffolding and skeleton of Skyhold’s throne room where the Inquisitor sat as judge and executioner, resolute. 

Rion had watched Thalon then with rapt, precise attention. He looked for every sign of conflict, a twitch of the hand or a sideways glance, anything that would give away a hint of uncertainty - enough that Rion would have used his voice as a counterweight to Thalon’s doubt, turned the tide, and placed the blame squarely on himself for the judgement. But in that hall, Thalon may as well have been a statue, caught forever in the shape of his brutal decree.

And Rion watches Thalon now, eyes fixed on his regal figure as he ascends the wooden steps with silent footfalls, the crowd’s murmur too strong for Rion to see any other sound. It isn’t a grand affair, they’d made sure of it; Erimond deserved the indignity of insignificance. It hadn’t taken Rion’s fit of rage and ruin to convince Thalon, either. The man’s fate was sealed the moment they stepped into Adamant and bore witness to the scale of his wrongs.

Words are spoken to the crowd, too far away and small for Rion to see. But Rion isn’t interested in words. He stares intensely, almost wiling Thalon to spare him a glance - just so he can see. Just so he can know that this is what he wants, and this is what he will do. And just before the Inquisitor turns to his duty, Thalon catches Rion’s eye at last, and Rion’s thundering heart slows with a sigh - relief. 

The sword does its work. The rippling hum begins to fade as Erimond’s body slumps to the wood, headless, no longer the centre of attention, and other matters of mundane means begin to fill the courtyard instead as Skyhold turns into another day. 

Rain pours, still. 

Droplets roll down the ridge of Rion’s nose, dripping down onto stone below. His hair lies flattened to his skull, his civilian attire near soaked through, and his usual vanity has tumbled from his list of priorities to lie in the muck and mud. All he has been able to think about for the last week is Adamant and its aftermath. 

My heart’s just angry, he’d told Nin. But that day, there had been a place for it. 

Today, there is room for reason. 

And reason tells him that this will be one of the nooses strung up on the gallows when the Inquisition ends. Erimond’s execution will sit at the receiving end of pointed, accusatory fingers in some far off future that Rion cannot see, but he knows it will come. They will point, they will cry, and they will call Thalon a murderer, a despot, Andraste’s herald turned zealot.

That is where his anger burns red-hot now, on this grey and dull day. 

Reverent green seeps into his vision, washing away the brown of the courtyard and turning his gaze to something kinder - Thalon, alone, approaching through the rain. His face softens as Rion turns to him, not quite a smile, but grim tenderness remains there in spite of what’s just transpired by his hand. 

“That was a cleaner cut than I would have given him,” Rion says, but his humour is hollow, carved out by something heavy. Thalon lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgement, gaze drifting to the courtyard below for a moment to see that it is nearly empty again. Erimond’s body has already been dutifully removed, but the spatter of crimson that decorates the wooden stage is a vibrant mark in an otherwise nondescript scene. 

It is surprisingly hard to look away from. But Thalon manages, after a moment, and his kind, grey eyes land on Rion.

“It had to be done. The Wardens…” he frowns, his thought left stranded in the damp air. Rion lifts a brow, plucking the thought to completion himself.

“...they would have kept him. Conscripted, probably. Too pragmatic to lose what pathetic little gain we could squeeze out of him, but that would have gone down poorly with the bastards who killed their friends under his spell. He wouldn’t have survived the first night before they tore him apart like a pack of wild dogs.” 

Rion grins, bitter and wild. A part of him would have relished the opportunity. 

“That, or he would have died in agony during the Joining.”

He turns to look back at Thalon, whose eyes are closed, and Rion knows he is resisting the image. Violence is never his first answer, and rarely is it his second or third either, but it is a language that comes all too easily to Rion’s hands. His shoulders sink with a gentle, quiet sigh, and he curls fingers around Thalon’s wrist, pulling him closer if he allows it.

“You did the right thing.” 

At that, Thalon’s pale stare is renewed, and he gives Rion the slightest of nods as a trembling breath leaves his lips. Uncertainty? Not quite. Something else. “I know. Thank you.” 

Thalon’s pulse thrums steady beneath Rion’s fingers at his wrist, and he slips his hand into Thalon’s own, squeezing. “I know you know, but I don’t believe you when you say it. What’s on your mind?” 

Rion knows he may as well ask him to pluck a grain of sand from an hourglass. Still, Thalon tries, his smile thin but appreciative nonetheless, and he returns the squeeze.

“I hardly enjoy playing the judge and jury to begin with, but this particular judgement sets a precedence, Rion. What comes after this? How far does the Inquisition reach, and to what end?” His shades of green grow a little more wilted by the word, like a great tree choked by the creeping doubt of ivy. Rion’s heart twists a little, caught on the hook of his own fears now echoed by Thalon, whose resolute spirit has kept him steady all this time in lockstep with Nin’s gentle fire. 

Unfortunately, doubt is a difficult weed to cut. It tangles and trips, and it has them bound on this precipice, on this wall overlooking the heart of the Inquisition, and the remnants of its latest bloody judgement laid clear for all to see. 

Thalon’s hand is less a gentle reassurance in this moment, and more a warning - if doubt thrives here, it will not just be one of them who tumbles from the tower.

Shaking his head free of that thought, Rion turns away from the wall, turning Thalon to face him too. The longer they stare at their choices, the harder it will get to look beyond them. 

What can he say? Rion knows in his heart that there is no end that any of them will walk away from, unscathed, unmarred, untouched by an image that is steadily being painted by the world as witness. It has already happened to him - the Hero of Ferelden fell long ago, and in his place is someone Rion doesn’t recognize, but the world does. 

He taps along Thalon’s knuckles with his thumb, as if he might find a response somewhere in the contours of skin and bone that he has come to know almost as entirely as his own. He wonders, briefly, would it would be like to step into Thalon’s skin, feel the weight that must be on his shoulders, see the world through his eyes… and listen. Would he hear the whispers in the hall? The accusations thrown across the Summer Bazaar of Val Royeaux? Where at least Rion can turn his eyes away, Thalon cannot. 

Another gentle squeeze of Rion’s fingers pulls him from his thoughts, his storm-laden gaze flitting upwards to Thalon.

“I don’t expect an answer, I just…” Thalon’s brow furrows again, words consistently - and uncharacteristically - eluding him. “It’s a strange feeling, to be so powerful and powerless at the same time.”

It’s a difficult notion to grapple with. Rion doesn’t really know where to begin with it - it’s not a problem he can attack with a sword or a well placed army, and there is nowhere on Thedas where he could keep Thalon safe from it either. Despite that thought, he moves so that he’s half sitting and half leaning back on the wall, and guides Thalon to stand in the gap between his knees, as if he could offer a moment of invulnerability with Rion between him and the rest of the world.

Just a moment.

“I wish I could give you that answer, but I’m not that clever and we both know it,” Rion offers a half-smile, hands resting at Thalon’s waist once he settles, fingers clutched tightly into the fabric of his coat. He waits until he sees a glimmer of a smile in return before he continues, reassured. “But I do know what I believe in, and who I believe in. I don’t paint you as Herald, as Lord Inquisitor, but I know that… in another time, someone else will think I did. I’ll be the tyrant swinging his sword, gutting his Wardens for a chance at life, and you’ll be the messiah that allowed it.”

Thalon winces, hands raised in complaint but Rion gently catches his left, the Anchor, and pulls it to his chest.

“But we aren’t that. What we are is Dalish,” even Rion surprises himself with that, “and we will tell the stories. There will always be people who tell the wrong one, but there will also be people telling the right one too. You know I don’t trust easy, but I trust Nin when he tells me that and I love him enough to believe it.”

A breath of relief fills his lungs as he feels Thalon’s hand at his face, thumb brushing the scars on his cheek. Rion grins up at him, leonine and proud, unable to hide his appreciation as Thalon opens his mouth to speak. “You are remarkably eloquent when you want to be.”

A sweet kiss follows, warm and comforting amidst the cold rain. There isn't much else to say, but a safe, unspoken understanding settles between them as Thalon presses his forehead to Rion's, laughing at the rain sliding down his nose. He sweeps it away with a thumb, brushes the edge of Rion's lower lip, and unknowingly anoints the Warden Commander into the belief that they will endure, one way or another.

Rion has no idea what true devotion feels like - faith has eluded him with each attempt to reach out and find it, both in Andraste, and in the Dalish gods whose colours left Rion wanting. Even now, scarred as he is by Elgar’nan’s rage, he longs for something gentler.

But he could breathe a little easier if devotion felt like this.

[fazbear-ent-official]

FT Freddy would sing the headless waltz by Voltaire

didn't know this one and not only it slaps he absolutely would

[omegaremix]

Finds For 2016.

Diet Cig “Scene Sick”

Tame Impala “New Person Same Old Mistakes”

Cold Cave ft. Black Rain & Genesis P. Orridge “Comprehension”

Computer Magic “Be Fair”

George Clanton “Notice Me”

Prurient “Dragonflies To Sew You Up”

Tropic Of Cancer “Stay Safe”

Mssingno Scope

Blanck Mass “Atrophies”

Holydrug Couple, The “Follow Your Way”

Russell Haswell “Spring Break Extended“

In Aeternam Vale “Dust Under Brightness”

Sophie Product

Consumer Electronics Dollhouse Songs

Blanck Mass “Dead Format”

Hibou “Above Us”

UXO self-titled

Follakzoid “Directo Al Sol

Moon Duo “Free Action”

Tearist Living: 2009-Present

Deerhunter “Ad Astra”

Beliefs “1992”

Ducktails “Don’t Wanna Let You Know”

Tame Impala “Nangs”

Candy Snatchers, The “If You Can’t Have Fun, You Ain’t Fun” (live)

Shana Falana “There’s A Way”

DOM “Burning Bridges”

Girlpool “Before The World Was Big”

Holydrug Couple, The “Paisley”

Ash Koosha “Harbour”

Dystopian Future Movies “Paint It Red”

Angry Angles “Things Are Moving (All The Time)”

Polysick “Smudge Hawaii”

Kleenex “Nice”

18+ Fore

Innsyter “Cut Eleven”

Airliner “Her Crutch”

Clams Casino “Drawn” (Crim3s RMX)

Com Truise “Silicon Tare”

Crim3s “Stay Ugly”

Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers “Born To Love”

Imaginary Pants Kites At Night

Ana Lola Roman “Klutch” (Com Truise RMX)

Costavision Lo-Fi Exotica

Coachwhips “UFO, Please Take Her Home”

Rubs, The “Runaway”

Airliner “Left Orange”

Sheer Mag “Fan The Flames”

JK Flesh Rise Above

Gigi Masin“Tears Of A Clown”

Reatards, The “You Ain’t Fun No Mo’”

Hussy, The “You Know”

Home “Resonance”

TR/ST “This Ready Flesh”

Pastel Ghost “Clouds”

LNDN DRGS “Dope Sick”

Ata Kak Obaa Sima

Hailu Mergia & The Walias “Yemiasleks Fikir”

Christoph De Babalon “Surreal Mirrors”

Gigi Masin “Fata Morgana"

John Carpenter Lost Themes Remixed

Veldt, The “Sanctified”

Zola Jesus “Collapse”

Merzbow & Keiji Haino & Balazs Pandi “How Differ The Instructions Of The Left From The Instructions On The Right”

Cults “Oh My God”

Vektroid “Neo Cali”

FOE “Genie In A Coke Can” (Alec Empire RMX)

Peaches “How You Like My Cut?” (Ziur RMX)

Tex Taiwan “Algorhythm Vision”

Jagwar Ma “Uncertainty” (Mssingno RMX)

Odesza “It’s Only” RMXs

Honeyblood “Sea Hearts”

Connie Laverne “Can’t Live Without You”

Kedr Livanskiy January Sun

Body-San “Shining The Money Ball”

C.V. Jorgensen “Ghetto Svend”

9th Wonder & Buckshot ft. Talib Kweli “Hold It Down”

Uniform “Symptom Of The Universe”

Czarface ft. Vinnie Paz & Cappadonna “Shoguns”

D.I.T.C. “Rock Shyt”

Lizzy Mercier Descloux “Fire”, “Wawa”

David “Baby” Cortez “Happy Organ”

Low Red Center s/t

Alan Turing “God Save The King / Baa Baa Black Sheep / In The Mood”

Dolly Parton “Jolene” (33 RPM)

Tobacco “Gods In Heat”

Pere Ubu “Blow Daddy-O”

La Coka Nostra “Waging War”

Elusive Textures

Technicolor Skull “Technicolor Skull”

Hanin Elias ft. Electrosexual “Hold Me”

IKO 93 “Drag” / “Mutt”

Innsyter Poison Life

Bloom Offering “Bite Their Tongues”

Jlin “Downtown”

Sandro Brugnolini & Stefano Torossi “Effetto Notte”

Comet Gain “(All The) Avenue Girls”

Nick Klein “Anxiety Plae”

Le Matos “Eyes Throat Genitals”

Bill Loose “Slight Misgivings”

L-Fudge Chronic Irresponsibility

Author & Punisher “Lust For Scales”

Sun Ra “The Cosmic Explorer”

Liquids Hot Liqs

Ice Cream Love, Ice Cream

Khost “Deathset” (Godflesh RMX)

Ramleh “Airborne Babel”

L-Fudge ft. DJ Spinna, Shabaam Shadeeq & Talib Kweli “What If?”

Caroline K “Tracking With Close-Ups”

Rosa Yemen “Herpes Simplex”

Jonas Reinhardt “Androma”

Sunrise Ltd. “Our Love Will Grow”

Tearist “Headless”

Red Fetish “Spanish Meths”

Hot Chocolate “Could Have Been Born In The Ghetto”

Vibrators, The “Disco In Moscow”

York Factory Complaint Lost In The Spectacle

Nick Klein I’d Rather Sit Alone