#male lead has yet to be chosen

[thatgirlyourejected]

BNHA (Male lead has yet too be chosen) x Quirkless reader

Warning, bullying/abuse, descriptions of injuries, alcohol mentions.

Chapter 1

She missed her friend, her crush. She missed not being alone with her status. She missed the late night texts, and calls they shared when their day had been rough. She missed meeting him to patch each other up after the relentless bullying. She missed watching him write in his journal, his mumbling that followed. She missed everything about him.

Things change, she knows this… but it hurts, it hurts to know that her best friend, dropped all contact after he gained a quirk, after he got into The hero school of his dreams; while she was here being thrown into a locker… childish, cliché, however you wish to call her bullies methods, it didn’t matter, she was going to be stuck here until whoever owned the locker, or the janitor opened it. It was dark and suffocating, the only light comes from the three slits in front of her. Time was all she had at the moment. She could call for help, but the consequences far outweigh the desired solution.

She found her mind wandering back to him, to Izuku. He would have helped her, hell they were supposed to be in the same school, the same class until his quirk suddenly popped up. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, it was unfair…

———

She dragged herself to work her arms and sides were bruised heavily, her head pounding as she opened the bar door; eyes were on her immediately, scanning her torn up uniform and colorful bruises, she could hear someone suck in a sharp breath through their teeth. Concerned murmurs spread through the bar. She ignored them in favor of putting on her work apron and taking her place behind the bar. A wispy hand landed on her shoulder, she looked up; even without a face she could see the concern his scrunched glowing eye convey. “I’m okay…” she whispered with a finality. She had a job to do, and that’s all she wanted to focus on. It may be a bar for mostly criminals but, she was beloved by all, her kindness and indifference to how they appeared, or what they had done touched them… of course there’s always the odd few out; one can’t expect everyone to like them. Oddly enough she never had to worry about those odd few as they never come back, she didn’t want to dwell on it; just hoped they decided to go elsewhere for their drinks.

Late noon shifts weren’t particularly packed with customers, often times 8 people hung around, counting her boss and his, son? All had such different personalities they practically clashed, figuratively and literally speaking. Brawls tended to happen but with minimal damage thanks to her boss’s warp abilities. There was one time the fire user Dabi, as he introduced himself, tried to burn Shigaraki the boss’s son, who to be fair also lunged at him. His quirk really isn’t something she knows yet, maybe teleportation like his dad, because things like doorknobs keep disappearing. There have been numerous times where she’d been locked in the bathroom or storage because the door knob just up and disappeared. Though those are times she finds herself thankful for, as it happened to be times when things got dangerous. She felt an odd sense of peace, thinking that maybe, just maybe someone want to protect her.

[hoseoksluna]

MURK | myg ft. jjk

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

genre: angst, smut

word count: 16.9k

summary: one encounter with jungkook heals you enough to mend your boyfriend's heart.

pinterest board: murk

warnings: anxiety attack, different forms of self-harm and self-sabotage, mental agony, mutual masturbation, toying with polyamory, foreshadowing the use of a sex toy, alcohol consumption, seduction, provocation, teasing, oc wears pretty lingerie, cuckold kink, guided female masturbation, dom/sub dynamics, nipple play, clit rubbing, ass play, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, facial, cum eating

note: oh my god, this was supposed to have three parts, but it was getting way too long and i decided to prolong the series. i'm not gonna even mention how many parts this series is gonna have bc my characters surprise me every time i finish writing so... they're the boss of me. ANYWAYS, pls i am so proud of this work of mine and i can't wait for you all to read it. pls, spam my inbox anonymously! i need to hear your thoughts, so pretty please, let me know everything you're feeling, hating, expecting etc. i'm absolutely obsessed with oc, jk and yoongi. ALSO, let me know what team you are. team yoongi or team jk? i'll put a poll in the final part if i remember. hehe ENJOY READING ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Sensing Yoongi’s emotions, the clouds pull in, shunning the sunlight and you feel it. You feel it, enormously. 

The wind becomes violent. Curtains of sheer gray slap against the windows, undulating with such might that you sense its urgency. You stare at it in deep thought, naked and barren—void of any dignity, void of any rightness of feelings. A hole of blackness takes form in the middle of your chest, where the memory of Yoongi exiting the room hastily plays on a loop and there’s a faint, feeble hand in you, one of that urgency, that reaches for him, while the other remains slack at your side, caressing your own skin, pacifying your selfishness, your hypnosis—dragging you away from the side you had unwittingly and so unrightfully chosen. 

And while you want to mend what you’ve caused in your relationship, the only side you want to take at the moment is your own. The defeat pains you still, but what aches even more is the feeble wish there wasn’t any defeat at all. Not on Yoongi’s face, not on yours. 

You don’t regret what you’ve done. You don’t want to regret anything anymore, which is why you’re still standing dressed in your femininity as Jungkook apprehensively rakes his hands through his hair on the bed. You care very little for it because a bigger part of you is concerned about the well-being of your boyfriend. You wonder what he’s up to downstairs. Is he pacing? Is he busying himself from the onrush of his negative emotions, not able to stand the sight of you? You’d run to him, but there’s a bigger matter at hand. You have to fix your mind first. You have to cleanse yourself of the mess and the chaos, sort out the darkness so the light pours in. 

The light that will guide you to make the right decisions at last. The light that will burst your ugliness to smithereens, smother you with its heat so the hypnosis won’t penetrate it again. The light that should, ultimately, help Yoongi, help your relationship—fix its face, soothe out the overbearing tension. 

You’re aware Jungkook put you under a spell, now that the wind and Yoongi’s coldness has sobered you up. Turned you against him. Made you forget about him. You give zero fucks about how he does it time and time again. What you will concentrate on in the present time is making sure it won’t happen again. How? You’ll figure it out. Somehow. 

You don’t want any of the males to regard you as of now—and you wish you were alone, you wish you could escape like Yoongi did. That thought leads you, conspicuously, to begin to understand the reason behind his actions, but you don’t allow it to unfold in you. Not yet. You turn around to look at Jungkook. 

Elbows propped on his thighs, he’s digging a hole into the hardwood floors with the blackness of his irises. A small mole kisses the side of his ribs, the only visible part of his body that is otherwise clouded in shadows. You take your eyes away from that sight, not trusting yourself, hating yourself for naturally looking at that intimate part of him. Upon the sound of your movement, Jungkook flicks his eyes towards your form. You dislike everything about his attentiveness to you with every fiber of the betrayal that your body has become. 

His face is squished in his hands. He doesn’t look at your bareness. Merely studies the emotions written on your face. Like the healer he is, you know he wants to find something, anything to latch himself onto. And while you once obsessed over this need of his to mend, to make right, you despise it now. In spite of it, while you swallow down your distaste for it, your hand yearns to pet him like the wounded puppy he is, because you know that the tumultuous darkness both men are facing is of your origin, of your doing.

You keep it clenched in a tight fist. 

You don’t want to touch him anymore. You don’t want to touch any of them. Don’t want to cause any more harm than you already have with your desires. 

Jungkook startles when you make your way towards your travel bag. You hide your breasts beneath your forearm, not wished to be seen, not wishing to be vulnerable like that. The feeling of your stickiness along the inner sides of your thighs makes you cringe, worsens your hatred, and tears begin to sting in your waterline when you unzip your bag and grab the first thing you see. Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, but for the last time you avert your gaze from him and bolt to his bathroom. At the sound of his heavy steps, you slam the door shut. 

He calls your name and it is only then, when you’re alone, that you let those bitter tears and whimpers emit out of you. The sound is hidden by each strike of his palm upon the wood and your hand flies to your mouth in effort to stifle your emotions, feeling undeserving of them, feeling wrong, ugly, not worthy of his damned attention—not worthy of anything. 

“Sweetheart,” Jungkook whines. The first pet name he ever called you. You let out a pained sound and he forces the door open with all his might. Even though you don’t want to, you let him see the state of you—clutching your wrinkled dress and panties, concealing the evidence of the pleasure he gave to your body, of your femininity that he had put under his spell. 

You step away from the threshold, slinking deeper into the shadows of the bathroom. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you with such solicitude and affection. His brows shouldn’t be knitted like that, those eyes bigger and rounded than they usually are, fists tight and clenched, veins thumping and thick. Yoongi should be standing in his place with the intention to heal. Not him. 

“Please, go away,” you whisper, hot tears pouring down your pallid cheeks. You’re ashamed of them because you know full well that at this point you should be doing anything but crying. You’ve gone through so much turmoil, mingled with the darkness to such great extent that you should be proud of your work. You wanted this at some point—you wanted to remain the opposite force with separate feelings. You wanted to be his, when you had no right to choose. 

Jungkook’s eyes glisten. You turn your back to him, unable to be a witness to his emotions. You can’t see that; you don’t deserve to and he shouldn’t be feeling like this. He should’ve long exited this disorder—

You sob louder, exhausted of your thoughts, exhausted of shoulds, of wrongness. Turn the shower on, aware of the traces of disobedience and pain on your backside and you want to hide, but you have nowhere to go to. 

Jungkook turns the main lights off, leaving only the soft flickering bulbs on by the mirror. Ever the healer who senses your emotions by some sixth sense that you hate. Dimness covers your shame. 

He takes away your dress and panties and you let him. Folds them neatly on his laundry hamper. You watch him treat your underwear with such gentleness that it hurts. A flashback of him ripping your thong and making your bum red fills your brain, causing your feelings to expand in your chest—so much that you think your body is too small to keep them in. You can’t breathe, your lungs don’t have enough space to stretch and you panic, taking small breaths that don’t appease your need for air. Not at all. 

You step into the shower, needing to get away. 

The hot water burns on the curves of your behind and you hiss, but it alleviates your hatred. You deem it is precisely what you deserve. Your hand turns the temperature higher, sobbing into the stream of water, lungs heaving with such heft and it is okay, for it camouflages your hypocrisy. That is, until Jungkook notices it. 

“Are you crazy?” he mutters in dismay, fixing the temperature, but you grip his wrist briefly, pushing it away. Don’t look at him. Only warn him this way, silently. His miffed sigh wafts into the mist rising along your form, diffusing into your hair that still carries the scent of the pond. You want to wash it all out. “It’s going to hurt more like this.” 

You scowl, cupping the water in your hands like a child. “I don’t care. Leave.” 

The outward pain of your body isn’t the problem here. It aggravates you how he doesn’t see it—how he can be so ignorant to the more important matter at hand. Yoongi left because of him and because of you, because of the single-minded pleasure between you both that had nothing to do with Yoongi. You might as well have been there alone with him—Yoongi being just a pair of helping hands. Redundant. 

Burning. Burning of eyes, burning of skin, burning ache of heart. 

Jungkook scoffs at your forwardness, dumbfounded. Has the audacity to follow the drop of water trickling down the small of your back. You splash him, willing him to go away, but he stays put. Unbuttons his cargos. Hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, ridding himself, and stepping into the shower with you, sliding the door shut. 

You whisk your eyes to him with as much ill-will as you’re able to muster and he seizes it, unafraid of it, backing you against the wall. Solemn mien, subdued and so soft amidst the hardness of his decisiveness. Small pearls of emotion are stained upon the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, twinkling in the shadows in tandem with the ever persisting glint perched on top of his irises. “I told you to leave.” 

He doesn’t blink. “You splashed me,” he utters, lowly. Grips your waist and pushes you against the coolness of the tiles. It takes a hold of the burn and rips it away, relief flooding in its place and your features relax against your will. “See how it feels better?” 

It does, but you don’t give him the benefit of the doubt—you refuse to. Not when you deserve to rot for hurting your boyfriend enough to make him leave, not when it should be him standing here with you—

“Don’t punish yourself,” Jungkook whispers, fixing the temperature yet again, letting the mist disperse. Such a tender, velvety sound that reaches deep inside of you, even when you want to fight him, even when you think that punishing yourself is the least you can do, considering how despicable you’ve become. But then he dabs a small amount of body wash onto his palm, rubs it across your sternum and it nobbles the drift of your self-sabotage. 

You feel the snugness of his touch, the darkness thickening in you and you take a fright of it. 

You put a stop to it. 

Grasping his wrist, you blink through the unrelenting fragrance of cherries filling your nostrils. “Don’t touch me.”

Seeing the panic flitting over your damp eyes, he lets go, respecting your wish. Smears it on the broadness of his chest instead. “Alright, I won’t touch you.” 

You sigh a whiny, vulnerable breath of relief. The glint of his irises ripples as tears pool across them. He, too, blinks them away. Stills as a sculpture while watching the film of your emotions. For a mere moment. Your throat constricts. Time, then, resumes. 

Jungkook hands you the bottle. Silence suffuses the profound atmosphere as you lather yourself in the cherry aroma. Almost without touching your skin, he peels your hair away from your back, capacitating you to reach your shoulder. As if his hands, now that they’ve acknowledged themselves with your body, simply cannot keep their distance. You shoot him a look that forces him to drop his limb. Note that it trembles on its way down to his side; note the same trepidation beginning its course on your body. Your mouth rounds in yet another rush of emotions, but you don’t cry. 

You’re so tired. So tired of feeling. So tired of guilt, of shame, of getting up and falling again. 

You avoid your intimate parts, your breasts and your behind. You hold your body instead, arms wrapped around your ribcage in effort to put yourself back together. You don’t understand why he’s here, why he cares; why he thinks he has the right to touch you without your boyfriend being present, why he thinks the situation between you and Yoongi is something he needs to remedy. And why, ultimately, he thinks it’s right to be on your side, instead of Yoongi’s. 

He’s not your friend. He doesn’t know you. 

You look up at him to fire that question at him, but Jungkook clutches the shower head and, with lukewarm water, he cleanses you of the foam, the bubbles and the stickiness on your thighs that he never got to wipe clean because you had pushed him away earlier. And then it happens. 

He cleanses you of your dirtiness, of your hatred and of your tiredness, too. With the same shower head, the same lukewarm water. And you can’t explain how he does it, how your body lets him, how it willingly lets go until there’s nothing in you anymore. Just the cherry perfume and the hole in your chest with a murky cloud in the middle. You merely watch it dribble down your skin, plop onto the tiles on the floor, swimming around your feet and his. Dumbstruck. 

You feel like stomping on it, but you don’t have the energy. Figure it will drown in the small pool of water on its own, die a slow, painful death, before it trickles down the drain. 

You don’t know how it came about now that it’s gone and you can’t take your eyes off of him. All he did was rinse you off. And the ridiculousness of it all is that, the more Jungkook deepens your eye contact, the more you want it back. You want to be the one who purges you of it. Steal the magic from his hands and splatter it back on your skin, in place of the cherries. He can keep those. 

Why did he come? Why didn’t he go to Yoongi? 

And you ask him. “Why are you here?” 

He fishes for a bottle of shampoo. “Will you let me wash your hair?” 

You scowl up at him. “I asked you a question.” 

Stillness in his features. “So did I.” 

That damned stubbornness, so reminiscent of yours, of your muted, silent one, hidden within you. Fair enough. You search within yourself for any hint of protest. Find none—find it’s been washed away, find cherries and the heft of the cloud, no darkness, much to your dismay. You turn your back towards him. 

“Tilt your head back.” 

Thankful that he didn’t do it himself, you do as he says. Jungkook wets your hair and you feel the pond leaving you, your heart skipping over to latch onto it, adamant on not letting it leave, but alas—it disappears along with everything else. You wish your heart would trickle down the drain, too. You have no need for it, anyways. 

Jungkook’s touch on your hair is benign, careful as he rubs the shampoo on your scalp. You flutter your eyes shut, welcoming in, somehow, the massage that diminishes the intensity, which your thoughts are hurled at you with, as though he was the owner of them and he came home to make order. And they settle altogether to listen as he begins to speak. “It shattered my heart. To see both of you so broken because of me. I saw it at dinner at first. Then I saw it again today. It pains me. It pains me that it’s my fault.” 

Silence, hefty, strong silence. The principle of being seen by another pair of eyes; the principle of your agony being seen and understood, no longer obscured within your mind, within your heart. Jungkook didn’t just see you, he saw Yoongi, too. Saw through you both. Something about that, along with the work of his fingertips, mitigates the heaviness of your emptiness, of your cloud, but it doesn’t tear the misty body. Not yet. 

Your throat is dry. “Why are you here, then? Why aren’t you with Yoongi? He’s your friend.” 

He gently drags his palms across your length. “Because Yoongi deals with things like this on his own. He doesn’t need a friend when he goes through shit. He needs to be alone.” 

You don’t understand. Yoongi always needed you when his mental health was at stake. Needed you as he unraveled the entanglement of ropes of that darkness that had enveloped his mind by talking to you about it. Then, he would eat with you, fuck you and try again the next day. It would be a long process, but it would be something you’d go through together. There never was a time he’d walk that path alone. 

And then it hits you. 

That was before you. Before he met you, he meandered through that decaying meadow alone. Jungkook served in the military—he doesn’t know anything about the change that occurred. Doesn’t know that Yoongi gave up his isolation. 

And you tell him. Merely a hint of it. Figure it’s Yoongi’s story to tell and you don’t have the heart to snatch that opportunity away from him. 

Listening to your words, Jungkook slackens. You only hear the sound of the shower head being put back into its place that indicates his shock to you. You figure he wanted to rinse off the shampoo, but the information paralyzed his body. You turn around to see that bewilderment writing verses across his features. Tenderness, too. A tendril of liquid emotion swirling past his waterline. “I tried my best to make that happen when I could,” he utters and you don’t think he realizes he said it, eyes unfocused, fixed on the tile beside your arm. “You can’t imagine how difficult it was for him. To let you in.” 

You feel the same tenderness curling into your cloud. Your mouth rounds again. Touched, terribly touched. Gladness holds hands with that tenderness, gladness that he didn’t leave when you had told him to. Because if he had never stepped inside the shower, you wouldn’t have known. You wouldn’t have known the secret that changes everything. 

You yearn to see Yoongi. Yearn to hug him, hold him, to pour out your love into him. Think you’re ready now. Stable enough to satisfy your craving. And in the love that you feel for him, you sense the light swarming, begging to be seeped into him. 

You stand beneath the stream to rinse off the shampoo, the water blanketing your head, peace penetrating your skull, tidying up the mess in your mind. Hushing out your thoughts now that your negative feelings long slinked away. You’re a new person. Clean, purified. And while you find it hard to believe, all you want to do is truly run to Yoongi. 

You can’t let him venture back to that forlorn meadow, to the ghost of his isolation. You might have shown him the way, but you have the will to stop him—and that’s more than enough. 

The healer that Jungkook is… he did it again. He dismantled your attachment and now he fixed your mind. You don’t know from what source he had rooted out the light, but he gave it to you. He gave it to you when you needed it the most, without knowing a thing about it. 

Blindly, you hook a finger around his index in a gesture of thanks. You don’t want to look at his nakedness. Don’t want to be pulled into that energy again. It brings his attention to you and you want to weep. Differently now. You want to weep due to the fact he somehow, seemingly, knows because he cups himself. Due to the roundness of his eyes that you know, that still live under your skin—differently now, too. Due to the fact that you got to be acquainted with him, despite the ruckus and the pain it came with. 

And you hope, in all truthfulness, that you remain something along the lines of friends after this day is over. How else would you have gotten to this healing? 

You open your mouth to express your gratitude, but Jungkook speaks first. “Don’t look at my worm.” 

The laughter that dribbles out of your mouth is so lightweight, so full of breezy and summer-breathed relief that the tears, which were held in, do break through the confinement and roll down the apples of your cheeks. Different, different tears. 

Friends, yes, please. You beg the heavens. May they let him become your friend. 

Jungkook scrunches his nose, squeezing your finger, relief, too, washing over him. “Don’t cry, I swear it’s not small like this all the time. It gets bi—”

“Get me a towel, you dummy,” you say, softly, amidst your sputtering laughter, wiping your tears away. Jungkook smiles, the change of the atmosphere illuminating him from beneath, and he slides the door open, letting the slight cold air in. You turn off the water, focusing your eyes on the last ripples of water draining your negative emotions until they slip, entirely, away. 

Jungkook holds out a beige towel for you. Doesn’t wrap it around you; still respects your wish. Lets you take it from him and then he disappears into the bedroom, closing the door shut behind him. 

You used the alone time to doll yourself up for Yoongi. At least a little bit—you didn’t want to overdo it, amongst other things that you already had. 

Although you missed your favorite mango scent, the cherries didn’t seem so bad and you got accustomed to it fairly quickly as you swiped a tiny bit of your cream blush along your cheeks, where you’ve let your relieved tears dry. You smeared the same tint of soft red upon the puffiness of your lips, connecting it to the perfume, connecting it to the healing that sank lower and lower in your gut. And you sealed it into the entwistment of your braid—sealed it fully.

You won’t let it leave you. Not this time; not again. 

By the time your feet pad down the wooden stairs, you discover what Yoongi was up to in his absence. Three plates of ramen are prepared on the dinner table, gone cold by now, along with utensils and opened cans of fizzy drinks. The sight lids your eyes with tears, but you stifle them, blink them away. You thought he wanted to forget you, when in reality he had you in mind the whole time. And not just you, but your culprit as well—and he cooked him food. 

A sudden roar forces your head to whisk towards the balcony. And your heartbeat quickens. You don’t feel your legs as you speed outside. 

Yoongi sits on top of the stairs, a cigarette in hand, torso twisted, facing Jungkook, whose shoulders sag in consternation, palms open towards him. He makes a move to his side, but Yoongi raises a limb to stop him. Looks at you for a moment. At your wet hair, at the same state of Jungkook’s. Your heart lodges in your throat—

“Get away from me,” Yoongi mutters, taking a long drag from his cigarette, and you don’t feel anything at all. Not your legs trembling, threatening to drop to the ground. Not the standstill of your bloodstream. You’re struck, unable to speak, to think. Yoongi rises to his feet and points his busy fingers at you. “Did you enjoy your shower?” he spits the venom in your face, ruining your makeup that you diligently put on for him—your tears flow, mingling with it, hot to the touch. “Did you enjoy fucking him?”

You gasp. “No, Yoongi, I didn’t—”

Yoongi’s own tears pool in his clouded eyes. You’ve never seen them before and they break you, tear apart the cloud in you. “You didn’t what, honey?” he croaks out. Repeats the question. 

Your sobs ache, but you don’t care. You take a step towards him, reach out your hand like you should’ve done earlier before he left and he takes it. The light that spills out from your chest radiates him, radiates him enough that he gives you the chance to explain yourself, to redeem his heart and you’re willing to do anything for it. His palm is cold, more cold than it’s ever been and Yoongi squeezes you, as if to beg you to undo the gashes upon his heart. Jungkook looks at the intertwinement for a mere second and you refuse to note the sliver of pain whirling past his eyes. Not this time; not again—this is about you and Yoongi. And you’re glad when he leaves. You don’t watch him go. 

“I didn’t have sex with him,” you whisper, the only way you could keep your voice still, your tears soaking the neckline of your lacy dress. You will your healing not to quiver, but to remain strong, remain unbreakable. “I swear on my life that I didn’t.” 

The same drops of pain pour down his face and you can’t bear it. You bury your face into his clothed chest, bunching the material of his T-shirt in your fists, needing him to believe you, needing him—

“You took a shower with him,” he breathes in pure disbelief. You feel it palpitate in his heart that your forehead is pressed against. This time, you understand right away how wrong that was—that showers are something that belongs to you and him, your shared rose garden of some sort that they could become, even though you were too smothered by the darkness to realize it fully in the moment.

You halt the shame creeping in. The guilt, the wisps of darkness. You’ve healed, and it shall stay that way. No more. 

“I took a shower alone.” The wind nips at you and it is like a slash of a whip on your back. “He came in—”

Yoongi sucks in a breath. Lets his cigarette fall to the floor of the veranda. With his lips pursed and like a bolt of lightning you can’t keep in your hands, he rips himself out of your hold and lopes inside the cabin with heavy, wrathful steps. 

And you can’t stop it—the colliding of Yoongi’s fist on Jungkook’s cheekbone. 

You yelp, grabbing a hold of the fabric of Yoongi’s T-shirt to pull him back, your sight blurred enough that you can’t see. You can’t see properly the way Yoongi doesn’t let Jungkook fall to the floor, but instead grabs him by the collar and fumes in his face. Your sobs choke you and you press yourself against his back, wrapping your arms around his torso, willing him to stop, begging him in your silent language. 

You feel the heavy, long thuds of his heart, the trembling lift and fall of his chest and you squeeze him tighter, weeping into the cloth of his garment, emitting liquid fear—fear of Yoongi receiving the same hit, fear of the darkness, much bigger one, enveloping all three of you. And you don’t have the time to blame yourself for causing this. Yoongi’s words stop you dead in your tracks. 

“You forced yourself on her?” he hisses, pushing him to and fro like the curtain billowing behind you. “Are you that fucking desperate for pussy that you forced yourself on my girl? Should I fucking kill you?” 

A momentary stillness. Your breath is loud. Louder than the hard huffs of air escaping the mouths of the two males. 

“Let go, hyung,” Jungkook croaks out, defeated. And you don’t know how the sound of it makes you feel. Perhaps, you’re feeling nothing, which is a good thing. You put your boyfriend first in your weak heart, his feelings, his well-being. Not Jungkook; not yourself. Even though your heart silently, painlessly cracks. 

“I asked you a question.” Yoongi’s wrath rises, absorbing the room, despite the fact his voice is deadly calm. You squeeze him harder. 

He did force himself into your personal space, but if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been healed. You wouldn’t be here, on your boyfriend’s side. And the thought of being the opposite force if he hadn’t done that, cradling his back instead of Yoongi’s terrifies you enough that you speak up—in need to fix the situation. 

“He didn’t, Yoongi. I promise,” you whimper, burying your face deeper into the middle between his shoulder blades. And there you feel his spine shake. You caress his stomach to soothe him, peppering kisses along that strong column. 

Yoongi punches him again. It reverberates throughout your whole body. You only hear the crash of Jungkook’s form onto the floor. 

“Only over my dead body will you lay a finger on her again,” Yoongi hisses and he twists his wrist to alleviate himself of the affliction scattering along his knuckles. “And what you’ve done to her, the pain you’ve caused her is something I will never forgive you for.” 

Stillness. Terrible, terrible stillness. The whip of the wind. A roar of an upcoming storm in the heavens far, far away. You don’t become it. You remain yourself. His girlfriend, defended. 

Yoongi turns around and cradles your face in his hands. Wet, worried eyes, begging you for something that you can’t pinpoint. Shiny, sniffling nose, suppressing his emotions. Red, regretful mouth, breathing out exasperated breaths. Quivering chin—quaint in the rawness of his expressed love towards you. You yearn to kiss him, you yearn to take him home, so terribly remorseful that you got him into this gut-wrenching mess. And you listen to your body, fulfill the only right decision you’ve come across since meeting his friend. 

“Let’s go home, baby,” you whisper, pecking him softly. Yoongi nods, wiping your tears away. Takes your hand and leads you towards the front door. 

Jungkook, now standing on his wobbly feet, bruised and bloodied, merely watches the pair of you. Sorrowful. And as you walk away from him, you clutch in your heart what he’s done for you. 

Yoongi hands you his car keys. “Wait in the car.” 

You nod and you go. Don’t stick around to see the unfolding of the storm. Don’t say goodbye. 

The rain pitter-patters on the roof of the car. You’re tired of it. You’re tired of the summer. Don’t find any beauty in it. Not even in the mountains and the trees. 

Yoongi hasn’t come back yet. 

Your stomach grumbles, but you don’t feel any hunger. You’ve nibbled on your bottom lip so much that rawness of blood is all that your teeth sink into. The same blood that, much like your darkened self-sabotage, trickled out of Jungkook’s nostril. It tastes bitter on your tongue. 

A ruthless carousel of scenarios spin in your mind and you’re tightly buckled in the seat of fear with no way out. The fear that, in your absence, Yoongi’s hit got reciprocated. The fear that the same blood you taste could, possibly, be on your own hands. 

You want to get away from here. Far, far away. 

When Yoongi emerges from the cabin, a thunder announces it. The only blood you detect is the dried one on his knuckles. The rain didn’t get to clean it and once he places the same hand upon the shivering coldness of your thigh, a decision perks up in you. A decision to not let anyone get in the way of mending and cleansing anymore.  

You shall be the one who does it now. Not the rain, not Jungkook. They’ve both done enough. 

And when you lift that wounded hand to your lips, you wish you could clean it with your tears—but you fear the salt would only pain him more. So you settle for your sighs of relief, for your gentle kisses and for the light in you to do the work. 

“No more tears, honey,” Yoongi murmurs, cupping your chin and pecking you. “It’s over now.” 

You drift to sleep during the ride home. 

And you sleep through the whole afternoon in an anguished effort to forget. Forget the blood, forget the sound of Jungkook’s body hitting the floor… forget yourself. 

You didn’t dream about anything at all. Only the darkness consumed you, a lullaby of nothingness. 

And when you awake, your feet groggily take you to Yoongi. They seem to know where he is, even when your eyelids are still half-closed, even when your brain still dozes. A canopy of dusky, darkening heavens, with hues of roses dispersed all around, gently fondles your eyes to rouse them fully and right here, on the balcony, much different to the one you spent your afternoon on—much smaller, much more confined—is where you find your boyfriend. An empty pack of cigarettes on the table, a cold purple lighter and a dark bottle of liquor.

His strained back greets you first. He doesn’t hear your steps; he doesn’t sense your presence and it isn’t until your fingertips touch his saddened spine that he turns around. Wrinkles of the same dejected nature, absolute despair wrung into the paleness of his face. You cradle it and you bolster it when he spills into your hands, when you feel the hotness of his tears. And you spill with him—the only thing left to do. 

You will your light to swathe him. Press his head against your chest as you lead him to take a seat with you on his lap. And you keep your mouth tightly shut when the soreness of your muscles, the slight discomfort of the burn on your skin forces a whine out of you. You keep it caged in. Put your boyfriend first. 

Sifting your fingers through his hair, you kiss his scalp—kiss his mind, even when you don’t know its contents. To ease it, whatever it was that caused him to break. 

You sit like this until the moon springs from the clouds. You don’t look at it. Refuse to. 

It’s Yoongi who speaks first, cold fingers sunk beneath your thighs, seeking your warmth. 

“Tell me everything from the beginning,” he murmurs, weary eyes boring into yours. “I need to hear it from you.” 

You’d give him anything he asked, anything he wished for; you’d pierce your heart if the time asked for it. And so you nod, place your hand on his chest, lie against his good shoulder and you begin to leak. Leak the simplest of words you’re able to find in your windswept mind. 

“He put me in a trance when we were intimate. So much that I lost my mind, lost my surroundings, lost my sense of home.” You swallow, dryly, thinking that’s the best way you could explain it without deepening the gashes upon his heart. Decide you will not overdo it. “And when you left and I breathed in the fresh air, it was like I’d woken up from it. It hurt so much. I was worried about you, but I wasn’t ready to face you. Not when I had to deal with the repercussions.” 

Yoongi squeezes the flesh of your thigh to comfort you, thumb fondling the skin back and forth, listening intently. 

“I didn’t understand at first why you left. I was so out of it. But little pieces started to put it together in my mind as I was thinking about it. And then I saw Jungkook with his head in his hands and I knew I’d done something really, really bad. I wanted to run away, like you did, but I had no other place to go to other than the bathroom. And Jungkook…” you trail off, taking a deep breath, preparing yourself mentally for this part of the story—the thread that is linked to the bruises upon Yoongi’s knuckles. “I thought he wanted to comfort me, and maybe he did. I pushed him away but he relented. He was concerned because I—” A lump forms in your throat, your lashes quiver. “I made sure the water was boiling hot because I wanted to burn off—I wanted to punish myself for making you leave, for hurting you. And then he got in the shower and I didn’t say anything.” 

You pause for a moment, thinking about how you’re supposed to mention the matter of the burn of your backside and his concern regarding it without wounding Yoongi. 

“He—” Your throat constricts and Yoongi cradles your face in his palm, lifting your head so you can gaze into his eyes, draw strength from him. He nods, encouraging you to continue, while seemingly giving you as much time as you need. Tears the lump apart. “He was worried because the hot water was making the burn on my butt worse, but I—I didn’t feel it. I was crying so hard.” 

His eyes search for something in yours and you know right away what it is. The answer to his question on whether he touched you. You wrap your arm around his neck. Glad it didn’t wound him. Enough that you overbrim with the desire to assuage his disquiet. 

“He didn’t touch me,” you whisper, although it’s not entirely true. Cold sweat dribbles down your spine. “Not in the way you think. I told him to stop. He wanted to wash me. I told him no.” 

He blinks, but you can’t read his solemn features. You see the memory of Jungkook gripping your waist and pushing you against the tiles, so you wouldn’t burn your skin, and you saying nothing displayed on them. It overwhelms you, but you fight it. What’s done is done.  

The worst part of the story awaits you. You pluck it, ready to get it over with. 

“All he did was rinse me off. And he told me about how it hurt him to see us like this because of him. I felt everything leaving me when I was listening to him. I don’t know how, but I did. He asked to wash my hair and I let him. I felt so relieved to be ridded of the guilt and the pain I felt that I started crying again. He made me laugh. And then he left me alone. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if he hadn’t been there.” 

Stillness, awfully quiet stillness—like the one at the cabin, but you do not fear it. An abrupt onrush of strength fills your bones, giving you the notion that whatever comes next is something you’ll be able to endure. 

Yoongi drops his hand. You will your heart not to drop along with it. 

“The lines have been blurred so much that I—” He averts his gaze. Towards the glimmering stars up above as if they could give him the strength he’s now void of. “I don’t know if it’s fair for me to feel the way I do, when—when I let him have you.” 

You are able to endure it. A motherly stimulus creeps in, one that has the capacity for the mightiness of whatever it is that he’s feeling. You want to swallow it down. You desire to. 

“What do you feel, baby?” you whisper, nudging your nose against his, an Eskimo kiss to relieve him, to help him. “Tell me.” 

Yoongi narrows his eyes in regret. “It should’ve been me,” he breathes. You nod, agreeing with him, even though you’ve accepted that fate wrote it was meant to be Jungkook. Perhaps for that very reason, he was inscribed to be pulled into that whole situation to begin with, no matter how lewd it was. “And it should’ve been me under that—”

He doesn’t let himself finish his sentence, but you know what he wanted to say. It brings tears to your eyes, the fact that he hated what you had done to yourself and instead wished it was him—to whom the harm was done. 

You let them pour out. You don’t want them smothering you. You want everything out, so you can move on—so both of you can. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper. Another Eskimo kiss, a longer one this time. Yoongi sniffles against you and you want to pull out more from him, to rid him completely of those negative feelings. “Like you said, it’s over now.” 

Yoongi nods, vulnerably, and you peck him on the mouth. And he’s unable to reciprocate the kiss, for his features twist in another rush of liquid emotions. You stroke the back of his hair, running your fingers down its length, urging softly more out. 

“I don’t regret anything,” you continue, pressing your cheek against his tears, letting them seep into your skin. “Even though it hurt, I don’t regret it, Yoongi. Neither should you.” 

He sobs and it reverberates through your body. You remain strong. Strong like the mountains. “I hurt him.” 

The breath you inhale is knifing you sharply. “He loves you—”

“And I hurt him,” he cuts in, squeezing you against him, needing you. “I didn’t trust a word he said. I didn’t—” he heaves, unable to catch his breath, hiccups. “Because I thought he hurt you, I didn’t hear him out. I didn’t know he helped you.” 

“What did he tell you?”

“He told me he didn’t force himself on you, but I didn’t believe him. I gave him so much shit for it, for spanking you. And then he begged me to hit him again.” 

The healer deemed it would make Yoongi feel better. Your heart warps. 

“Did you?” 

“No.” 

You kiss his temple and you don’t realize that it’s a silent thanks until you lift your lips, however you’re not thrown off balance. It should be like this. You should feel for both men. You should feel. It makes you a living, breathing human. And Yoongi’s reactions and emotions make him human, too, even if they seem wrong in the moment. It’s not something to hate him or judge him for—it’s something to love him for. He should feel safe. Deserves to. 

It’s better than to feel nothing. 

And you tell him. A thousand times until he nods, sloshing your words in his mouth before carefully swallowing them, accepting them. 

“It’s not a lost cause. You can talk to him. And you can try again.” 

Yoongi looks at you as he takes in what you’ve said, as if the concept never crossed his mind—or, if it did, it perhaps seemed too unrealistic to make happen. As if he was doomed for life. As if he lost him forever. 

Love is never lost. And you tell him that as well. 

Yoongi lights up from within. You wipe away his tears. Brush his hair away from his face. And you give him every last drop of your light, hugging him. And he hugs you back until birds begin to sing in the sky. 

It took several weeks for Yoongi to gather courage to call Jungkook. Liquor bottles piled in a row on the balcony and you didn’t count them anymore, you just joined your boyfriend, who had become a frail skeleton, whenever his nerves asked for the burning liquid. Either you would keep him company or you’d bring your own shot glass. And each time, it would end with a subdued, murky therapy session, without the fucking. 

Yoongi hasn’t touched you since the afternoon spent in the cabin. 

He wasn’t in the mood and you stifled yours. Your body was so accustomed to the daily release of pleasure that because it didn’t have it now all of a sudden, it felt weird—it felt out of place, and you drowned it out with alcohol and smokes, drowned it out with shopping sprees until money ran out and stashes became empty. So you had to settle for your own hand. 

And it was easy. You daydreamed about Jungkook. Felt the ghost of his fingers on every sensitive place your hand roamed. On your breast, on your thigh and on your clit, in your entrance. You replayed everything he’d done to you and it didn’t hurt; you didn’t feel shame. You’ve healed to the point that it drenched you, aroused you enough to coax your orgasm out in mere minutes.

And it didn’t feel shameful because Yoongi had told you the reason why he fled the scene. 

“You were in pain and I couldn’t stand it. You wouldn’t look at me and if you did, you’d look away as if I had no role in the sex. He took control when it should’ve been me. And I didn’t do anything to stop it.” 

It wasn’t about you being so preoccupied in the trance. It was about Jungkook taking charge as if you were his. Which was what led Yoongi to think he forced himself on you in the shower. It was about him being silent and not speaking up, prioritizing your pleasure. 

It made sense to you, but you still apologized. For what, you didn’t know. Just felt the need to. And Yoongi made you feel so safe, as safe as you had made him feel that night on the balcony, that you couldn’t help but yap about how enjoyable it was for you—what Jungkook did to you. And Yoongi agreed. 

You were content that you’ve moved past the hurt and focused on the real truth beneath, revealing it: you both had enjoyed it when you were pleasured. 

You didn’t check if the conversation made him hard, for you ran into your bedroom to relieve yourself of the ache between your legs as fast as possible. But he found you. Watched you. Validated you. Validated your daydreams. Told you what to do as he smoked a cigarette, standing in between your outstretched legs before the bed, the summer wind cooling the sweat on your body. And then he told you to do it again. 

And again. 

Until he couldn’t pull out any more orgasms out of you. 

He became obsessed with it. 

Because the next day and the many after that, you did the same thing. He would watch you while you fingered yourself. He’d tell you what he’s doing to you in your daydreams, taking charge of them, what Jungkook is doing to you. Other times he’d jerk off and come all over your tummy and cunt. Still remain hard; still remain needy. He wouldn’t fuck you. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t even insulate it. Wouldn’t slip it inside the dreams. And once his desire would run out of its sweet wine, yours simply wouldn’t. And the more you both indulged in this act, you figured out two things. 

One, Yoongi used it as a coping mechanism. As a healing tool to recuperate from the afternoon spent in the cabin, one that would ultimately help him have sex with you in the long run. Two, you were riding the waves of ideas and excitement with no real fulfillment, with no release. 

Tasting the picture of the sin at first might have been enough—but the more you did it, the more you wanted to sink your teeth into the real thing. 

You wanted Jungkook again. 

And like the intelligent man Yoongi is, he figured it out, too. 

A certain number of orgasms was an indication of an ending to this playful time. And the last time you did this, Yoongi—at this number—was ready to withdraw and jump into the shower, but you grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Hungry, starved, devouring his neck, grinding your still wet pussy against his softening cock. 

He put two and two together. Immediately.

“You’re hungry for what I haven’t given you yet, aren’t you?” 

You begged for it, moaning against his artery, reveling in the feeling of his cock against you after such a long time. And when you looked at him, you saw drunkenness seizing his features. Drunkenness without the consumption of alcohol. And you felt the same inebriation enclosing around yours, knowing your desire sparked this inside of him. It felt different. Way, way different. 

“Think about how you want it. Make yourself come as many times as you want. And when I come back from the shower, tell me about it. We’ll figure it out; we’ll make it work.” 

It grazed your hunger. Squeezed it in such a playful way. Like a human hand squeezing an animal because of the cute-aggression it feels towards it. 

You didn’t know how many times you came. You were too lost in the story you constructed, soaking the bed sheets even more than you already had. Your fingers had turned wrinkly by the time you opened your eyes, finished with the plot, to see Yoongi leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, not having the heart to disturb you in your passion. 

And while you showered, playing the story in your head over and over, Yoongi cooked you food. Poured you liquid courage. Waited for you at the table, dressed only in a pair of joggers. Chain-smoked, the rule of only smoking on the balcony long forgotten during his process of healing. 

When you sat down to eat, you slid your feet across his lap. Lifted your camisole, let him see your bare cunt the way he liked it that one time; the scent of your mango body butter wafting in the air, the sultriness of an August evening carrying that eccentricness right into his senses, readying him for what you were about to tell him. 

And you began, casually, with every bite of the delicious food he made you. You got ahead of yourself, though, dumb by the intensity of adrenaline and arousal coursing in your veins. “I want you to dictate every move. And it’s up to you if you let him fuck me or not. My first idea from the start was—”

“I want you to tell me your full fantasy. What you touched yourself to. From the beginning ‘til the end.” 

You fixed your mistake quickly. 

“I dreamed about him watching us. You gave him rules. No touching. Hands on the armchair I wanted him to sit in. No talking. Then, I began with you letting him see what we’ve been doing. Loudly, vulgarly. Me playing with my pussy while you jerked off until you came all over me. Then you ate me out and wouldn’t stop until I begged you to fuck me. From behind. While you stretched my ass with a butt plug.” 

“Did I talk? Like I do normally?” 

“Yes. He heard it all. Every word you used. And I wanted you to do it to make him needy. Needy enough to beg you to let him fuck me.” 

Yoongi only cursed. And you felt him hardening again under the soles of your feet. You caressed his ache with your toes.

“He thought the butt plug was used to stretch me for him, but it was for my pleasure, for decoration. You only let him pump your cum deeper into me. You didn’t let him come. And you held me from behind. Held me open for him in the air. And then he begged you for mercy. You gave in. Dropped me to the floor. And he fucked me ruthlessly, keeping me still on the floor with his thighs around me. He wasn’t able to last long. Begged you to let him come in me and you did. And then… then he ate me out. And so did you. At the same time. And I came so hard that I squirted. Then we took a shower. All three of us.” 

“Did anything happen in the shower?” Quick, hard breaths, as if he was on the verge of an orgasm from your footjob. 

And he proved to you, with a groan, that he was when you finished your story and his joggers dampened. “No, you both just held me. And we kissed like crazy.” 

And it was this release of cum that drove him to make that phone call. 

When Jungkook picks up on the first ring, Yoongi grabs his keys, blows you an air kiss and leaves. The joy that thrums in your heart is unlike any you’ve ever felt. You know where he’s gone. You know it fully well. 

And in the meantime, you doll yourself up. 

Hours later, he returns. With a grin blossomed on his face, one you haven’t seen since the day at the cabin, and a pink bag in his hand, one he hands you as soon as he takes off his shoes. 

Inside you find the butt plug you dreamed of. Silver with a purple faux diamond in the middle. Fairly small, just the kind you’re certain you will be able to take. With a freebie of a much smaller packet of lube. To be safe playing out the fantasy. 

Yoongi kisses you so hard when you look up at him that he steals all of your breath, ridding you of your chance to thank him. 

“He’s coming over later.” 

You kiss him, equally hard. Happy that he’s happy, happy to see movement in his healing journey. You give him tiny kisses, a hundred of them, and he breathes a laugh into your mouth, his joy filling you with energy and exhilaration. Finally, finally, finally—you’ve missed this emotion of his. Glad for the sadness, for the murkiness to be gone. 

And you pray nothing gets in the way. 

When Jungkook announces his arrival by knocking on the door, the sight you’re met with is quite uncanny. Though your heart isn’t stirred by it, bouncing in your chest like a small child seeing its father after a long, long time. 

It’s been almost a month and he’s become older since the last time you saw him. His hair, grown longer and thicker, curls at his temples, ears and the nape of his neck. Round eyes have stayed the same, as well as the glint, and there’s a hint of the same joy that you’ve found in Yoongi, whirling in circles past it. Nose void of any blood, cheekbone healed from bruises. His demeanor is careful as if he had been punished enough by the fight and the silent treatment that followed it, taking off his shoes and his zipper hoodie, revealing a much bigger broadness of shoulders and arms, exposed in a tight fit of a black tank. 

While Yoongi drowned his sorrow in alcohol and smokes and then came across his relief, his air in a sexual fantasy with his friend involved, he—the said friend—clearly found his coping mechanism in the gym. 

He’s huge. As if he hadn’t already been from the military. 

You lick your lips at him, and it’s such a natural reaction that you don’t even think about what you’ve done until you perceive that he doesn’t look at you at all. And it turns you on. It turns you on that he’s holding himself back from you. You know what hides beneath, what comes out when he lets go of his good boy persona.  

Glancing at Yoongi, he’s already smirking at you with a playful gaze. Affected by his ignoring of you just the same. The shared connection thickens the energy around, but Jungkook breaks it. 

He breaks it once he lifts his head, hangs his hoodie on the back of a chair and envelops you in a hug. Defaces your evident tendency to view him as an object, scribbles it in slashes until the ink runs out. All by a few strokes of his hand down your hair, down your back clothed in a new silky robe. 

And when he withdraws from the hug, you see the healer that helped you become the person Yoongi needed on his journey. 

His somber eyes skim over the long length of your nighttime attire, as if lamenting over the fact it’s not the red one. Over its dusty-pink color that parts the fabric to reveal your smooth leg and your toes. And then he’s gone, pulling your boyfriend in the same hug that lasts a bit longer, uttering silent words that should’ve been said that afternoon at the cabin with each increase of squeezes and pats within the hold. 

You know they’ve said what they needed to hear during the phone call to mend what’s been broken. You feel a certain proudness of Yoongi for managing so well, for being at this very part of the journey. It’s praiseworthy. 

“You hungry?” 

Jungkook looks at you at last, imaginary puppy ears perking up at your question. And his eyes soften, wet with emotion from the reunion. He rubs his belly. “Starving.” 

You shuffle your feet to make your way into the kitchen, but Yoongi beats you to it. Wave a hand towards the table, inviting him to sit and, out of habit, you pour some liquid courage into a shot glass for him from the bottle you keep there instead of a vase filled with flowers. 

He merely glances at it. Doesn’t drink it. 

“How have you been?” you ask, screwing the lid back on, not being able to take your eyes off of him—your entire history faintly blanketing your sight. 

And he deepens the eye contact. 

“How do you like your butt plug?” 

Taken aback, you laugh, the atmosphere so airy all of a sudden that your cheeks flush and your lungs heave with affability. This is the friendship you had begged the heavens for. Without strings, without pain. Light-natured friendship, with flirtation in the middle. You find it hard to believe you have it. Find it hard to believe he’s here. 

Find it hard to believe that when you had told Yoongi he could try again, he took your words and created this, embedding it into your fate. 

“It’s pretty,” you say, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. Jungkook smiles, fondly, fingers wrapping around the shot. You’re reminded, momentarily, of the way he teased you with the foot of his wine glass on your first dinner date. 

As if thinking about that night, too, his other fingers sneak to your bare knee, tapping it once. “We picked it for you.” 

You nod in feigned, exaggerated gratitude, even though you mean it, even though the thought of them choosing a sex toy for you makes you burst into flames from within. “Thank you, Oppa. Thank you so much. I will use it well.” And you bow to him with each word in your seat next to him.

Jungkook laughs and it’s such a sweet sound that you feel unfamiliar flowers growing in you, laughing along with him. He lays his palm flat on the entirety of your knee. Heavy, strong, warm. Then, he widens his eyes, as if he only now realized what you’ve called him. “You’re younger than me?” 

You’ve guessed he was older than you. “I was born in 1999. I take it you’re around the same age as Yoongi?” 

Not the same, entirely. You recall him calling Yoongi ‘hyung’. He must be a year or a few years younger. 

That tenderness you know flashes in his face. “I was born in 1997. Yoongi is older than me.” 

Your mouth opens in the shape of ‘O’. Jungkook’s eyes flick to it before he averts them, slapping the side of your thigh gently, sighing as if he held his breath the entire time. Only then does he down the shot you poured him, keeping his hand there. 

Such a blessing, the simple act of getting to know him. 

He slouches in his seat and you ask him again. “How have you been?”

Smacking his mouth, he roams his gaze along the perimeters of the dinner table. And you realize he’s avoiding the question. Avoided it the first time you launched it at him, too. 

You fold your fingers under his palm on your knee, signaling your understanding and sympathy. Don’t want to think about the healing journey he had to walk through by himself. He’s reached the end and that’s the most important thing as of now. You caress his reddened, tattooed knuckles, smeared with flecks of violet and yellow—much like your bum that one afternoon—with your thumb, wondering how that tinge came to live there. “What happened to your hand?” 

Jungkook contemplates your study of his hand, stoically, still as ever. Then, his mouth rounds, barely, in a tiny suggestion of sadness. Your heart catches it before it disappears, making it hers. In such a swift moment that you don’t realize what you’ve done. 

“Boxing,” he murmurs, eyeing the way your hand is enclosed around his large palm, the way your thumb hovers over his knuckles, as if afraid to cause them any more pain. Seems touched by it and your brows knit, your heart speaking to you, telling you something, urgently, but you don’t understand her. 

“You don’t wear boxing gloves?” 

Jungkook shakes his head ‘no’. “Didn’t want to.” 

And then it hits you—the language of your heart unfolding within you, deciphered at last. It hits you how you and him are very much alike. 

This is his coping mechanism. Hurting his hand as he lets out his negative emotions. Knowing, just like you, that the pain is the gain, the relief. And by the state of the bruises, you were wrong. He’s not at the end of his healing journey—and he’s nowhere near the beginning. He traipses around it, steering clear of it, ignoring it. 

Your lungs swell. And that motherly impulse you’re familiar with croons around them, extends towards him with the dutiful intention to heal. 

And you will. 

You will heal both of the males. 

And the decision is strengthened even more in you when Jungkook hears Yoongi’s footsteps and startles, extracting his hand from your hold, from your thigh. Like he startled upon hearing your movement back then, scurrying towards your bag as if you were intending to leave him, abandon him. 

It is your heart that weeps now for him, not your eyes, remembering the words Yoongi uttered over his bruised cheek and bloody nose. Only over my dead body will you lay a finger on her again. You try your hardest to remain strong on the outside. For him, for Yoongi, for yourself. You try your hardest to forget that declaration, that physical pain of his, considering it over—long gone, a lifetime away. 

And when your boyfriend sets the full plates of food in front of him and he digs in wordlessly, you watch him. With a landslide in your insides. With a hand on his muscled arm, stroking back and forth, eyes flicked momentarily to Yoongi, willing him to see how broken his friend is. 

But Yoongi can’t bear to see it. 

He settles for a drink instead, fixing his gaze on the table. Takes a step back on his journey, his nerves pursuing him. And so he’s not alone, because it is your duty, you follow him into that rabbit hole like the Alice you are. With empty hands, void of any control, despite the onus you own in your heart. 

By the time sex is even mentioned between the three of you, you’re tipsy and your head is swimming. 

You’re conscious, aware of your body, aware of your surroundings and your home. Aware that you’re intoxicated, too, and it’s a peculiar feeling—to be present in your body and out of it just the same. And you owe it to the males sitting around the table. To the owner of the house, mainly. 

Yoongi has taken such a dominant role naturally that he’s the reason why your head is taking laps in his energy. And it was him who put the topic of sex to the front after double meanings found their way into the gradually unfurling conversation, imbued with exuberance. Asked Jungkook straight away if he’d been sexually active with people after you, to which he merely shook his head ‘no’, too vulnerable to express it in his own words. You don’t think Yoongi even realized the gravity of the question, influenced by the alcohol, the lighthearted energy and the fact that he got his friend back. And Yoongi… he praised him for it, making his head lift in disbelief and coyness. You saw the way it healed him, brought color to his face— it happened so quickly, too quickly, Yoongi turning the leaf over right after, seamlessly leading the conversation back to the double meanings, working them up until you and Jungkook blushed. 

But you didn’t listen entirely, and neither did Jungkook. You surveyed the way he turned the praise over in his mind, dwelling on it. And you knew, without a doubt, that, besides healing him—undoing the ugly words flung at him that day, it turned him on. He played with his bracelet in the air, a faint smile on his mouth, legs outstretched, touching yours, and you… you wanted to play with him, too. Your body begged you for it, telling you it’s time. 

In fact, you knew very well what the little bit of alcohol Yoongi drank was doing to him. Much like Jungkook, it helped him avoid the matter of his friend’s sensitive burden at hand while collecting information. Especially about where he stands in the realm of the three of you and sex. And while you’ve let him do it, thinking it was something he needed to do on his journey, you've also been deciding for the last half an hour when it was time to put a stop to it. The sexual comments, the double meanings—it became too much, became too obvious, even though he, in most probability, wasn’t even aware of it, was doing it for you unconsciously. And your body agreed, whispering to you that the only way you could do that was to take advantage of what was right before you.

You were going to outrun your boyfriend and seduce them both. 

You light up a cigarette, bringing Yoongi’s attention to you. You graze your foot on his shin as you cross your legs, lifting it higher until you reach his thigh. And when you take a long drag, you skim your hand on Jungkook’s knee, briefly—calling for his attention, too, preparing him. Your toe feels up Yoongi’s soft manhood and he stops talking, your hand trailing along the side of Jungkook’s thigh, inches away from his intimate parts. They let you touch them, both heads turned in your direction. 

Stillness, arousing stillness. You smile, innocently. 

Before Yoongi has the chance to scold you for interrupting him, you withdraw. You withdraw entirely. Pretend to take your cigarette to the balcony. Jungkook lifts his hand to grab yours, to put it back where it was, but you’re gone before you could take him up on it. 

You feel both of them watching you as you leave. You sway your hips a little. It makes you chuckle. Makes you feel invincible.

You stay there but for a mere moment. Don’t even finish your cigarette before you put it out in the ashtray. And when you return, you undo the knot while they are preoccupied, unaware of you. Uncover the outfit you spent your money on while Yoongi healed. 

A sheer, black crop top, with polka dots and puffed sleeves, that ties in the middle, ending beneath your breasts and adding nothing to the imagination. Could be mistaken for a wireless bra. Panties of the same tulle material with frills on the side. You leave your robe undone, the act of revealing yourself so casually stiffening your nipples. You consider taking a seat as if you did no such thing, but an idea pulls you to your boyfriend, who’s ignorant to your scheme, listening to something that Jungkook is telling him. 

You don’t grasp any of the words coming out of his mouth, however you do focus on the deep intonation of his voice. Let it curl beneath your skin; propel you to act out on your whim. 

You take a seat on Yoongi’s lap. Jungkook’s gaze falls on your intimate form, bare under the almost translucent fabric, and he parts his lips. He watches as Yoongi wraps an arm around your middle and smiles at the feeling of your bare skin. You rock your hips once, backwards, pretending you’re shifting to make yourself comfortable and Yoongi grips your waist until his fingers turn white. Jungkook doesn’t stop talking, hides his astonishment at your behavior, at your boldness. Doesn’t stop looking at you and neither do you at him, nodding to every other word as if you were listening. That is until you grab a handful of cheese balls and pop one by one into your mouth, purposefully letting one of them fall into your cleavage. 

“Can you get it for me? My hands are full.”

You have a perfectly free hand by your side.

You’ve interrupted him so rudely that you’re surprised that he doesn’t frown at you, but smirks instead. Yoongi caresses your thigh, validating you, catching onto your scheme, and it spreads the fire that burst in you hours ago, making it bigger, hotter. 

It’s time. You want both of them, badly. 

You lean forward for him, fingers ready for the next move you’re planning. Jungkook lifts a hand, reaches for the orange treat in the middle of your breasts and before his digits have the time to grasp it, you pull on the loose knot on your top, your flesh spilling, the treat slipping onto the floor.

He only chuckles, deeply. Teased, but pleased. 

“Oh, no.” Fake pity; fake pout. You look at the cheese ball, then back at Jungkook. Your impishness reflects in the blazing fire of his eyes, the same one that courses through your body. “I guess I didn’t tie it properly. Can you do it for me? My hand is dirty.” 

You eat the last remaining cheese balls while staring him dead in the eye. Show him your orange-tinted fingers once you’re done. A spark flashes in the fire; piques his interest. 

Leaning forward even more, Yoongi uses your position to slide your robe down your shoulders. Lifts you for a second to rid you completely of it, setting you back down sharply, causing your breasts to bounce. Throws it on Jungkook’s lap. A gesture that tells him playtime has begun. He sucks in a breath, biting his bottom lip, the way Yoongi gathers your hair in his fist stealing his attention fleetingly from you, fingers clutching the fabric. 

And when he takes the swinging laces in his hands and barely tightens them, you click your tongue, disapprovingly. “Tighter.” 

It arouses the beast in him, eyes lidding ever so slightly. He pulls on the laces until your breasts are squished together. “Like this?” 

You wet your lips before you quirk them up. “Yes. Make a bow for me.” 

Jungkook deepens the eye contact as he obeys. You lift your chin, asserting Yoongi’s dominance, taking after him, the inkling to own that beast in him absorbing you whole. 

And you shall. 

When he’s finished with the bow, he grazes the material of your top, fingers flat against your nipples before he slouches back in his chair. The touch was too brief for your liking, yet it spurs your cunt to soak your panties, the notion that you’ve done it intoxicating your senses—you’ve seduced him. 

You mimic what he did, theatrically—you slouch back into Yoongi’s chest, turn your chin to the side to tell on him. “Yoongi, he touched me.” 

Yoongi only smirks, playing along. “Did he? How? Show me.” 

Your fingers fly to your pebbled nipples, stroking them in downward motion like he did before you repeat it. Again and again. Your hips begin to slowly rotate, your body reacting to your touch, to the pleasure you’re giving it. “Like this.” 

Jungkook’s breath hitches in his throat. He spreads his legs. You do, too. And when you whimper, he twitches, your robe slipping onto the ground, joining the cheese ball. 

“Did it feel good? When he touched you there?” Yoongi asks, hands spreading across your thighs. You make a noise of agreement, whining into it. “Does it feel as good now?” 

You shake your head ‘no’, meaning it. “No, it makes me needy.”  

Yoongi hums. “Where?” 

You cup the soaked material of your panties, right over your cunt with one hand, while the other squeezes your breast. “Here.” 

Your boyfriend opens your legs wider, as if to take a closer look at what body part you’re showing him. “You should do something about that, shouldn’t you?”

“Like what?” 

“Touch yourself.” 

Jungkook stills. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Neither do you. 

“How?” 

“I don’t know, maybe I should ask him,” he mumbles, fingers playing with the frills on your hips. “Do you want me to ask him?” 

The asking of consent, beckoning out your slick. You nod your head. “Ask him, please, I can’t take it anymore.”

Jungkook’s mouth is parted in an enigmatic manner, waiting—waiting to be given what your boyfriend long teased him with. And you like the suspense, the tension pulled so taut, the process before he’s gratified. It makes you even needier and, like Jungkook, you clutch the fabric of your panties in impatience. 

Yoongi doesn’t ask right away. He tortures Jungkook until his lips lose their moisture. Dry, like a withered flower asking for the tiniest raindrop to refresh. And you want to give it to him. You’re leaking so much dewiness it is only right that he could get to drink it. You tuck that thought into your heart. 

Yoongi hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your panties and slowly, like your robe, drags them down as far as he can reach. Then, he lets them pool by your knees. “Take them off of her,” he commands in a hushed tone, fingers drifting to your waist, stopping by your mound and your stomach on the way. And it isn’t until Jungkook rids you fully of the wet undergarment that he finally asks: “How should she touch herself?” 

Jungkook crumples it in his fist, tightly enough that white comes into view across his colorful knuckles upon the denim of his jeans. And among other things, his breath hardens. Gazes into your eyes as he says to Yoongi, “Tell her to lift her legs, lick her fingers and rub her princess parts until it feels good.” 

He’s tuned in into the role-play. You think about how you wanted to turn off your brain for him when he had told you to not think that he’d ever get sick of you. How you wanted to keep it stupid for him. 

You know that if you were to do that, if you were to let go—that he’d put you under his spell again, but you’re not letting that cave in on you. Because when Yoongi imparts the instructions to you and you lift your leg, propping your foot on Jungkook’s thigh, saliva-coated fingers finding your clit, you feel a sliver of something indescribably exhilarating. 

Jungkook moans at the first few careful circles. And it’s him who becomes hypnotized. 

It’s your green light to play the role of a stupid, innocent girl—in the hands of two very experienced, aroused men. Seduced, more like. You pat yourself on the back, mentally.  

And the proud feeling of your achievement, the feeling of his vigorous and ardent observance of your pleasured cunt, of the tendril of the profound reminiscence that sweeps in as if he truly missed the sight of her—it all incites you to speed up your movement. To consciously immerse yourself deeper in the role, in the pretending. You figure it should work like this; you won’t get submerged in the water of the hypnosis if you remain in control, clinging to it with all your might. Not if Jungkook is the one spellbound this time. 

You feel your orgasm drawing closer at that thought, breathing against your body. 

“Am I doing it right?” 

Jungkook sneaks a hand around your ankle, hard breaths puffing out of his still parted mouth, cheeks full of vibrant color, eyes dazed—so awfully dazed and fixed on your cunt, on the sheen of your arousal splattered on your folds. Then, he licks his lips, slouches further in his seat after he moves his chair to be more in line with you. Horny, curious puppy, needing to see the full view; your work of art. Yoongi’s soft chuckle rumbles against your scalp and you realize he’s been watching him this entire time, studying him—assessing the situation meticulously. 

“Is she doing it right?” Yoongi asks and you can hear the smirk coating his voice. Jungkook’s other hand, with the panties still clutched, wraps around his hard length, brows furrowing and you whine at the sight, but Yoongi tuts, disapproving. “No touching.” 

Jungkook lifts his hand and so do you—to stall your orgasm, the principle of Jungkook obeying so easily almost throwing you over the edge. You breathe heavily, a tingly sensation swarming within your skin, a certain string of words rising on your tongue. 

You turn your head towards Yoongi. Dart out your tongue to lick swiftly at his bottom lip before you kiss him. Yoongi hums, pleased. “Tell him he’s a good boy.”

Another similar sound, one that makes you smile. You drift a hand towards the back of his head, fingers sinking into the dark length of his hair. Yoongi purrs, blinking down at you like rose petals fluttering—you feel as though you were at the very beginning, living through the moment you learned Jungkook’s name, as if no pain, no murkiness never settled upon the three of you. You don’t know how it makes you feel and you hardly want to decipher it; you gravitate towards enjoying yourself more, thoughts and feelings pushed to the side. 

“He is, isn’t he?” Yoongi murmurs, taking your arm gently in his hand and joining it to your other one around the back of his head, then he roams his back, takes his time, until he plants it upon your cunt. You spasm at the long-awaited contact. “He listens well. So out of it, the poor thing forgot to speak. Maybe we should help him with that, don’t you think?” Poor thing. Your hole clenches, drooling with your dewiness and you groan, the aspect of Jungkook being degraded like this, after he dominated both of you the last time, making you utterly, utterly feral. 

At your noise, Yoongi begins to play with your slippery folds, pressing them together with his fingers flat on each side—not touching your pussy, but pleasuring her nonetheless. You give him more at each squeeze he bestows on your clit, elated that he’s touching her after such a long time, elated that he’s able to. 

It is, undeniably, working like this. Your heart thrums with elation. Happy it has come to this, happy it’s different this time—happy that both parties are happy. 

Not wishing to lose the momentum, you gaze at Jungkook. At the light cascading dimly from his lip ring—that pink, puffy, dry mouth that you long to kiss, that you long to feel on your bundle of nerves. His eyes seem to grow in size at your attention and you’re so touched to witness something like that. You need to ride his face; you need to watch those eyes roll back. You can see his need to take charge, to tell both of you what to do by his irregular breaths, clenched fists and bulging muscles, veins so prominent that you do well not staring at them at all—but he subdues that need, perhaps for you, perhaps for Yoongi. Both possibilities graze your feelings with such fondness that he’s putting himself last, prioritizing the hard truth: you’re not his, not in the sexual ambiance of your time spent together, not even in the lasciviousness of your daydreams. 

You’re Yoongi’s and he’s the boss, one he should’ve been since the beginning. And that’s the core of the difference. The key that makes this work. 

Covering your mouth, you spill your idea of how you should help Jungkook speak into Yoongi’s ear while keeping your eyes on his round ones. He aches to be let in on it, to know, but you don’t allow him that satisfaction. In fact, when you beam at Yoongi once you withdraw, it’s more of a provocation directed towards the puppy than an expression of your true joy. 

“Yes, fuck yes,” Yoongi agrees, orbs aglow by the idea, by something that you can only pin down to a feeling of safety within the environment. He feels safe. Feels comfortable. Feels okay—more than okay by the hardening length against your bum, by the moonbeams flecking across his irises, by the extension of his index finger to your clit, which makes you freeze, stop breathing altogether. “But I want to make you come first. Can I?” 

You peck him, deeply, to seal that package of positive feelings in him, to seal that sense of safety and comfort. Nod a million times. “Yes, please, baby. I need it.” 

Yoongi coos at the pet name, at your willing submissiveness to him and expression of neediness. Nudges his nose against yours. “Need what?” 

You giggle softly. Happy, so awfully happy. “I need you to make me come,” you say, but your words are muffled by the way he skims his mouth over yours, and you don’t think over the next words directed to the other male that tumble out of you. “You want to watch?” 

A stupid, stupid question because he’s been watching this entire time, although it breaks something. Breaks the invisible wall between you, Yoongi and him—breaks his coyness as he sets your foot down and leans forward, smiling fondly. “I’d be happy to watch. Honored.” 

It breaks the unspoken, unseen tension. Breaks the past. Breaks the hurt. And the difference, now validated, made beautiful by his smile, sinks in, spreads across the atmosphere surrounded by the three of you. The sense of safety and comfort now sails over into Jungkook’s pores, slipping inside. And you could burst now. Burst with your joy. 

The afternoon spent in the cabin dissolves. 

You didn’t expect that to happen. 

Yoongi feels it—and you feel him feel it by the trembling breaths he takes against your back. And even though you went into the rabbit hole with him with empty hands, now you hold healing in them. A warm round body of light, heavy and thick, ready for them both. Yoongi might have talked Jungkook’s head off and drank until his nerves eased and was able to escape them, but now he’s eligible to take the light. Jungkook is, too, now that he’s given you his consent for the dynamic to be different. A certain kind of glorious satisfaction envelops you in glow, ridding you of any intoxication and you’re bare. Vulnerable, horny and so tremendously bright. Filled with flowers, filled with love, filled with a delicious, selfish taste of control. 

You want to kiss Jungkook, but you recognize right away that there’s a time and a place for that, one that is not appropriate now. You stifle your craving, wiggle your hips to let Yoongi know you want him to begin. 

You brim with the need to forget now and just enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself at the hands of your long-awaited desire, now boundless, now right, now different. And you break the crumbles of the wall, the hurt and the past when you tell them. “I want us to forget about the last time and enjoy where we are right now. Can we do that?” 

Although you don’t know the contents of the long conversation they had in private about this, you’re glad you’ve said it out loud. Glad it’s out of your chest. Glad for the kiss Yoongi plants on your temple. Glad for Jungkook’s hand encasing yours. Even if that’s the only way they communicate their agreement. 

Out with the old, in with the new. 

And Jungkook keeps holding your hand when Yoongi begins to rub your clit. He tightens his hold, in fact, at the first twist of your features, at the relief intermingling, despite the fact he knows nothing about how this is the first time Yoongi touched you like this since forever ago. His hand feels much more different than yours, much more nimble and much quicker. And the pleasure that floods your body is more about that than it is about the stimulation. A wish pricks at you, a wish to tell him, but you don’t let it get near you, not when you know the time for that is long, long gone, not when forgetting is supposed to take place now because the new is here. 

You push those thoughts entirely away. The thoughts of there being a certain forever ago, a certain past along with it, too. 

And then Yoongi hums and the sound sweeps it far, far away from you. 

He pinches your nipple. Finds it’s not enough and forces your top open, undoing the bow, baring you to his and Jungkook’s eyes. Joins his other hand to knead both of your full breasts, but you whine, needing him elsewhere. Yoongi chuckles, listening to you—drifting his hand immediately back down to your clit, resuming his swift circles.  

Jungkook salivates. Makes no indication of being in demand of participation. Merely wipes at the corners of his mouth while his other hand squeezes yours in a tight, clammy hold. Light protrudes from his eyes, akin to the one you still own, cooling the sweat layering upon your body. No darkness of arousal, none whatsoever, only the chocolate brown of his irises, vibrant, mesmerized and absolutely affectionate. 

Newness, you breathe it in and exhale a moan. Yoongi changes direction. Moves from circles to side to side, angling your body so he can give it his all. You feel the incoming pressure of your orgasm and you ready yourself for it, squeezing your eyes shut. And when he decides to alternate, so quickly that you lose track of it, it is your ultimate undoing. 

Mainly when Yoongi curtly slaps your clit, transferring you back to the very beginning of your story, rooting you there. You come so hard that you fall apart. 

Tears fly out of you, but you laugh—and the sound is broken by a deep moan from your chest caused by pure, boundless euphoria. Yoongi prolongs your orgasm, keeps strumming your clit, purring onto your mouth and you open your eyes to witness his devotion to it, to your pleasure. Brows furrowed, eyes lidded, pouty mouth. Adamant on making you feel as good as—

It triggers another orgasm. A softer, mellow one. And the string of noises you let out are of the same dulcet nature. Yoongi swallows them, groaning, fondling your pussy, patting her gently, making you tremble, woozy, giddy and so incredibly girly. 

“That was so good,” he whispers, caressing you everywhere and you nod, a million times. You’ve missed him, terribly. 

You give him a nasty kiss full of tongue, aware of what’s happened and of what’s next just the same. 

Yoongi perches on the floor, knees on either side of yours as you crawl towards Jungkook’s lap. He leans back, a surprised grin appearing on his flustered face. And it hits him like a ton of bricks when you pop his button open and drag down the zipper of his jeans. Your words that follow, too. 

“Off. Everything.” 

“You want to suck me off?” A calm bewilderment coats his voice, such a heavy oxymoron for him to bear when he was fine with just watching. 

You smile at him briefly before you wet your lips, eager to make happen what he can’t believe you’re willing to do for him. “I knew it would get you talking.” 

An airy laugh. So endearing to your hearing sense. He cradles your chin for a mere beat of time. “You’re so smart.” He takes off his tank, revealing his enormous pecs adorned with a long but dainty silver chain that you crave to have swinging in your face, that steals your attention from the dose of validation he gave you. 

But when Yoongi leaves, your heart sinks in panic. 

Only to hoist it back up when you realize he went to fetch the gift he bought you, along with a bigger tube of lube from your bedroom. Your body tremors and it’s both of the males that try to alleviate it. Yoongi, who settles back behind you, fondling the skin of your bare bum. Jungkook, who turns you to look at him, nodding once to let you know everything’s okay. 

You release a breath, but you can’t hide the shakes. 

Jungkook strokes your brow. A tender touch that drives you to believe him. Yes, everything’s okay. The past is gone. Healing is contained in the conscious reminders. The light in your hands flutters, calling out to you, and you press it over that heft of your wandering heart. 

It’s you who alleviates the tremors. 

And when you take off your top, Jungkook follows suit, ridding himself of his jeans.

To distract your mind from hurling false thoughts at you, you finally allow yourself to look at his hard length—still, disappointingly clothed. Thick. You can almost feel the memory of him, the heaviness of him, when he had you pressed against him by the pond. The first time you touched him. You groan, softly. “Off.” 

Jungkook coos, patting you on the cheek with his finger. “So eager.” 

He paints a smile on your face with that brush of his digit. “Be a good boy and listen.” 

Without taking his eyes off of you, he swears. Pulls his manhood out, tugs his boxers a few inches down and you bite back a gasp, a moan and something in between. Red, swollen tip, the petal of a sun-kissed rose, little thick veins enveloping the girth. He keeps his balls covered to tease you. “Like this, Mommy?” 

You glare at him and it’s Yoongi’s second-hand embarrassment laughter that smooths out your features, contagious to such a great extent that when you look back at him to see him pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed and crinkly, you burst into the same laughter, lungs expanding, exhaling all that heft and momentary residue of panic until there’s nothing negative left. 

It even radiates Jungkook. He laughs so much that his cock bounces, which deepens your giggles and you hide your face in your hands. 

And when the conveyance of joy simmers, another tender tears rush out of your tear ducts. Good tears. You’re so content with life shared with the two males that you can’t help but be emotional. You shield those tears behind the premise of your laughter. They’re private—just yours. The final conclusion of the dark side. 

Yoongi skims his fingers across your tiny hole. Back to business. 

You tug Jungkook’s boxers all the way down and you lift his ankle to rid him completely of them. Mimic the way he did it to you. You even think about keeping them. Think about how this is exactly how it should be—recollecting only the good parts of the story, the light side while letting the dark one go. Jungkook sees it on your face and he lets you decide. 

You don’t have to think twice. 

You fling his underwear on the chair you sat on. Jungkook caresses your hair in response and you smile at him. Yoongi leans over you, fists your hair and pushes you toward Jungkook’s cock. At the sight, the puppy swears. 

“Spit on it. Make it nice and wet for him,” Yoongi orders and there’s slyness to your ever persisting smile when you gather your saliva and do exactly as he says. 

At the first contact of your liquid love, Jungkook swears again and there’s no stopping to that litany of vulgar words when you, just like him, swirl it around the top of his head with the tip of your tongue without taking your gaze off of him. It’s at this movement of yours that a flashback gleams across his still round, tender eyes for a split second. Now he remembers, now you’ve pulled him back to the place you didn’t even realize that you did. 

Yoongi guides you to wrap your mouth around him and Jungkook loses it. 

The suction of your cheeks, the eye contact, the warmth of your mouth and the wetness of your tongue, Jungkook rolls his eyes back before he whisks them back to you, not able to miss one moment of the pleasure you give him. Yoongi pushes your head back and forth and when it dawns upon you that there’s nothing else for you to do but to keep your mouth open while Yoongi does all the work, you moan. And like Jungkook, you can’t stop. 

You feel Yoongi’s lips at your ear. “You think you can take him all the way?” 

The mewl that comes out of you is the only agreement you can manage to give him. Yoongi groans, kissing your earlobe before he licks it, nibbles on it, taking his mouth to the skin beneath, causing your eyes to narrow. Your pussy drenches, throbs and your hand automatically flies to her. You rub yourself slowly to gain a hint of relief, bobbing your head up and down, tongue feeling up the thick veins along his girth and you whine so desperately—enough for Yoongi to check what was the cause of it. 

He draws back. Finds you touching yourself. Clicks his tongue and chuckles in absolute appreciation. He likes what he sees. Pushes your head until your nose swipes past Jungkook’s minimal pubic hair and only when you gag does he let you breathe—does he let you play with his tip on your own. “Mommy is playing with her needy cunt.” 

The curse word that wafts in the air is singular, coming out of your and Jungkook’s mouth simultaneously. There’s no laughter this time. Just thick arousal spreading across the room, dizzying all of your senses. Jungkook is breathless and the look you share is desperate, unspoken but so, so vivid. You take him in your free hand and jerk him off, reveling in the feeling of his veins. You give him all of your whiny moans, straightening up, your fingers sneaking to your hole. Eyes narrowing, mouth open, the sounds of your slick saliva in your tight grasp so obscene, so stimulating that when you begin to finger yourself and Yoongi latches his lips onto your neck, you know you’ll be coming in mere, pathetic minutes. 

Jungkook leans forward a little bit to watch you stuffing yourself full. Bites his lip, closes his eyes when you tighten your grip around his head. And you do it again and again to coax his moans and he willingly supplies you with them. Opens his eyes and the look he gives you stops time. “So good. So fucking good.” 

You yearn to kiss him and he does, too. You twist your wrist and he loses himself for a moment. That alone speeds up the coming of your orgasm. Your body flares with heat, your fingers picking up their speed instinctually and Jungkook angles his head to kiss you—

You push him back. To tease him, to make him more desperate because it pleases you and Jungkook smirks at you, gripping your panties in his fist. Hiding your own, you lick him all over and get to the undiscovered part you want the most. 

You mouth his full balls. Whimper against them. Hot flashes fill your sight at the scent of him, even more so when Jungkook inhales your sounds and emits the same ones. “Fuck, sweetheart, oh fuck, yes, like that.” Takes your hand and busies it, wrapping it around his length. You spasm at the pet name, at the warmth that seeps into your skin from him.  

It’s him who guides you now. Yoongi merely watches, in awe, wet fingers rubbing circles on your tiny hole, preparing you. “That’s it, honey, make him come.” 

You’re so overwhelmed by your task that you withdraw your fingers from your heat, though Yoongi is quick to replace his. And the speed he establishes, you mimic it on Jungkook’s length and he grunts at the contact of your dewiness on him. You twists your wrists, fucking yourself back on Yoongi’s fingers. Bore your gaze into Jungkook’s. Hard, hard breaths, quickening lifts of his chest, he struggles to reciprocate your eye contact, the rhythm so beautiful so seamless, working so well. 

And when you wrap your lips around him and suck him with fast bobs, he comes. 

You open your mouth, yearning to feel him paint your face. Quick to grip his balls to feel them emptying out for you and you milk his cum out of him, jerking him off until his ropes smear on the corners of your lips, hot and thick. Yoongi pulls out his fingers, latches them onto your hip. “Stick out your tongue.” 

You do as he says, in time to catch the last rope landing onto the muscle. You hum, swallowing, watching the tension screwing his features and the relief unweaving it as his orgasm reaches the end. Winded, dumbfounded, gruntled. A lovely sight to behold. 

Jungkook’s grip loosens on your panties. And with his other hand, he feeds you his cum. Swipes his fingers from your cheek onto your mouth, plunging it inside. Yoongi kisses the side of your face, gripping your neck to hold your head steady for Jungkook, allowing him to finish the job. 

You swallow everything, the taste of him suffused with mild earthiness, with tanginess and the tiniest hint of sweetness. Liquid candy, just for you. You allow him to see how much you enjoyed that, but it’s Yoongi first to whom you show that you’ve swallowed everything. 

Your boyfriend beams at you. “Well done, honey.” He kisses you hard, licking into your mouth, and the thought of him tasting the residue of Jungkook numbs your senses entirely. “You did so well.” 

You’re panting when he withdraws and when you look at Jungkook, there’s a moment of stillness when you take in the thundering turmoil rushing inside him. You don’t have to guess what’s behind it. Jungkook voices it. “Let me kiss her, please.” 

Such a soft murmur, charged with so much desperation. You break at the sound of it, gripping his hand, furrowing your brows, ready to give him anything he wants, boundlessly. Your heart thuds and it only takes one look at Yoongi and he folds, too. 

Nods. 

You thought he’d kiss you from the position you’re in, but Jungkook stands to his feet, grabbing you along with him, picking you up like a child by sliding his hands under your armpits. And when he presses you against him and kisses you hungrily with fast pecks, breathing hard, you discern how illogical it was for him to call you Mommy. 

Even though he can listen like a good boy, it’s merely a role, one he plays for you, for Yoongi, one that fragments with each kiss. Who he truly is the reversal of it. 

He’s Daddy. Undeniably. 

You’ve never been keen for titles. You and Yoongi never used them, never felt the need for it, hence why you both laughed when it came up. But the more you kiss him, the more you sense it. The awakening dominance, the tendril of fatherliness that spirals around you, the deserved respect he emanates. It turns you on to the point that you find yourself wondering what else is there beneath the shadows of your undiscovered sexuality. 

The feeling of his warm skin against yours, his still hard manhood against your stomach, the provocation of the lip ring, the softness of his mouth slowing down and prolonging the kiss—fuck. How much more can you possibly get aroused? He empties out your brain, but you’re calm, not panicked by it at all. And to stay conscious, to stay in control, you wrap your hand around him again. 

He hisses, breaking the kiss, grasping your hand. “Too sensitive. Sorry. I came so hard.” 

You coo, pecking him deeply, squeezing his broad shoulders. “It’s okay.” 

When you turn around to give your attention to Yoongi, you find him deep in thought, fixed on Jungkook. “Remember how she came when you kissed her? At the cabin?” 

Your heart speeds up. Not due to fear or anything of the sort, but due to excitement. You know where he’s heading with this. 

“Hard to forget,” Jungkook murmurs and it thrums beneath your skin, spreading wide. 

“She came multiple times when I made her think about that,” Yoongi starts and you can’t halt the smile growing on your lips. A tiny whirl of shyness mingles with the words coursing through your bloodstream. “It’s what we did. I made her imagine that you were kissing her, eating her out while she touched herself. And now I want you to give it to her. Give it to her good. Better than she was able to imagine.” 

Sharp inhale of breath. You want to see his reaction to your secret—but then hands. Clammy hands on your hips, nose nuzzling in your hair. “Who’s gonna be in control when I do that?” 

Your eyes widen, pulse quickening to the point that it troubles you. 

And Yoongi looks at you when he answers his question, “You. It’s me who’s gonna watch now.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part one, READ part two 

[clairedaring]

if you're hoping for joe 2.0 to get his 'revenge' in the second half of the series...

warning: mild novel spoilers (but also not really because i'm just discussing things that have been shown in the trailer)

i really think you should either drop the series or give up the hopes of a satisfying makjang revenge storyline in my stand-in instead of setting yourself up for disappointment. because that simply isn't the story that my stand-in is trying to tell.

so what is my stand-in about really?

well, for me i think its a romance tragicomedy drama about an idiotic scum male lead losing the person he loves most because of his own arrogance and refusal to listen to his heart and the series of unfortunate events that happened consequently for our protagonist who was living a peaceful and quiet life as a stunt actor before the scum male lead entered his life.

joe 2.0 and his approach to life

i've mentioned it twice now that one of my favorite traits of joe/zhou xiang is that kindness in his strength where even if he can be choose to be mean or cruel, he simply doesn't because he has such a soft heart and he's weak to see others in pain (joe is my fellow enfp people pleaser okay) (⁠っ⁠˘̩⁠╭⁠╮⁠˘̩⁠)⁠っ which is why even in his 2.0 life, you won't get to see joe turning 180 degree and going around to hurt everyone who's ever hurt him like it's some makjang kdrama.

and while that seems like it could be fun, i think the reason why i loved professional body double (my stand-in novel) so much in the first place is because that very distinction between joe and other rebirth/second chance at life protagonists that you often see in revenge kdramas/cdramas/thai lakorns.

logically, if my stand-in was a 24-episode one31 lakorn/thai soap opera, joe would be full of hatred and burning rage after his rebirth and started his intricated revenge plot while still falling in love with ming whom he should hate the most.

and yet he isn't (or at least it seems to me so far).

if you read the lyrics 'Die For You' - the opening ost of my stand-in, i think you can have a good guess of what the second half of the story will be like.

Even running away to death can't help. If my heart had chosen to stop at you I'll have to surrender with the confusion I feel. To come back to the same old place. Even if I have to die, disappear and then be reborn But the love is still buried deep inside, even if it's been shattered into pieces Even if my life ends, I can't stop my heart from calling out to you Because this whole body, life, spirit It is yours only, for all eternity.

and even from the trailer of my stand-in, you can tell that joe 2.0 has a lot of internal conflicting feelings about whether he could trust ming again after the betrayal he faced in his 1.0 life. and i feel like essentially the journey of ming proving to joe 2.0 that he really does love joe is very much the central plot in the second half part of the story.

so i'd like to take this part to note how well the series has done to adapt the novel so far. i think a good adapted change they've made is this early realization of feelings for ming in the joe 1.0 timeline. i do think the novel made him realized his feelings a little bit later but my stand-in did well to show within ep.3 what happiness could have looked like for joe 1.0 and ming and i think it rationalizes a bit more more for why joe 2.0 would still have feelings for ming 'buried deep inside' even when he's been badly hurt the first time around. and reading the story i've always found it interesting that they took this route to focus on the re-entangled complex relationship between mingjoe rather than going for a joe-centric revenge makjang plot (i swear if this was your typical thai lakorn, joe would seduce ming while planning to take down his whole family or something).

of course, that's not to dismiss that there's a lot of character growth for joe in the second half of the story, especially in his building of self-confidence, self-worth, the ability to put himself first and the fight for his own happiness above all. but like i've mentioned above, his growth journey is not at the expense of a drastic personality change in regards to the kind hearted joe we saw in his 1.0 life. instead, we get kind hearted joe 2.0 who quickly adapts to his new life and attempts to start anew while conflicted feelings resurface for him as he is pulled back into the relationships he once had.

all in all, my stand-in is still at the heart of it, a love story. perhaps, a dark romance as my friend @dragonsandphoenix would call it, but a romance nonetheless. i think that is what also makes professional body double such a compelling read too, because the progression in the feelings and complex emotions of these characters are so tightly written that it's convincing enough for me (maybe not for others though) to believe that yan ming xiu has/will always love zhou xiang (to the point ymx would probably eliminate anyone else who dared to steal zx from him). obsessive love? yes. do they both need therapy? probably. yet i still believe in their happy ending? of course.

final note/disclaimer: then again, this is just my PERSONAL opinions based on the novel and up til 3 episodes of my stand-in (which seems to be very faithful to the novel so far), who knows maybe they can anger novel fans and adapt it completely differently later on (something i sure hope they don't but we'll seeeee) ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ

[fragileheartbeats]

Do a male Rhaenyra x sis reader x male version of your oc Selaehra

THE THREE HEAD DRAGON

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ 𝑅ℎ𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑎𝑟 𝑥 𝑆𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑆𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑛 ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 ☆ 𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒓 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏

Rhaynar is proud and fiery, embodies the spirit of House Targaryen with his unmatched valor and stubbornness. His skills in combat are only matched by his fierce protectiveness over those he loves. Yet, beneath this warrior's exterior lies a heart that yearns for the affection and approval of the only family he has known. His jealousy over his sister's attention towards Selarion is not merely a reflection of sibling rivalry but a fear of losing one of the few constants in his life: her companionship and support.

Rhaynar, with his long, straight silver-gray hair that falls like a curtain of moonlight down his back, stands tall and proud among the crowd. His eyes, a deep and mesmerizing purple, scan the room with an intensity that speaks of power and a fierce protectiveness. Clad in a doublet of dark red that complements his noble stature, he moves with a grace that belies his warrior's strength, each step a testament to his claim to the throne and to the heart of the one he loves.

He wears his heart like a badge of honor, fierce and unguarded. His affection is as intense as his spirit, expressed in grand gestures and bold declarations. His hugs are enveloping, a sanctuary of strength and warmth, often lifting Y/n off her feet in moments of spontaneous joy or comfort. He is not one to shy away from public displays of affection, seeing them as a declaration of his claim and devotion. Rhaynar's kisses are fiery, mirroring his passionate nature, often sought in the heat of the moment, leaving her breathless and wanting. Yet, beneath this stormy exterior lies a sensitivity; he cherishes the softness of kisses on his forehead, seeing them as acts of pure love and acceptance. His jealousy, a fierce flame, can lead to impulsive actions, driven by the fear of losing his love to his brother. However, his anger, though quick to ignite, is equally quick to dissipate, especially in the face of his sister gentle reassurances.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 ☆ 𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏

Selarion on the other hand, arrives at the Red Keep carrying the weight of his mother's death and the burden of his unique heritage. His red eyes, a rarity among humans, mark him as an outsider from the beginning. Yet, it is this very difference that captures Y/n's fascination and sympathy. Over time, as he teaches her Valyrian, a language not just of words but of their shared history and blood, Selarion begins to see in his half sister a kindred spirit, someone who looks beyond the surface to the person he is inside.

Selarion, is the embodiment of the sun's last light, his short but lustrous silver-golden hair catching the candlelight and setting him aglow. His shining ruby eyes sparkle with mischief and intelligence, a striking reminder of the dragon's fire that courses through his veins. Dressed in a simple yet elegant tunic of soft gray, edged with silver, he stands slightly apart from the throng, his gaze fixed on his sister, the object of his affections and the catalyst for his rivalry with Rhaynar.

in contrast, is the whisper to Rhaynar's roar, his affections conveyed through subtle glances and the soft brush of fingertips against skin. His hugs are rare but meaningful, a tight embrace that speaks volumes of his deep feelings, often shared in private moments where he allows his guard to drop. Selarion's approach to love is thoughtful, every gesture and word carefully chosen to convey his affection without overwhelming. His kisses are tender, a delicate touch that promises more, often placed on his sister's palms or wrists as a sign of reverence and deep affection. Selarion prefers kisses that linger on his neck, seeing them as an intimate exchange of trust and desire. His jealousy is a silent storm, manifesting in a cool distance and sharp words, yet he never lets it cloud his judgment or actions for long. Selarion treasures every detail about his sister, from her laughter to the way her eyes light up at the sight of the night sky, storing these memories like precious jewels.

Y/n, younger than both and thrust into their world, finds herself drawn to each brother for different reasons. In Rhaynar, she sees the strength and passion of her house, a mirror to her own fiery spirit. In Selarion, she finds a depth and complexity, a shared sense of being different in a world that values conformity. Her heart is torn between the two, each holding a piece of her soul in their hands.

As the years pass, the rivalry between Rhaynar and Selarion intensifies, both in their quest for the Iron Throne and their affection for their sister. Their battles, once confined to the training yards, spill over into the court, a dangerous game of power and persuasion. Rhaynar, ever the warrior, tries to win his sister's heart through acts of valor and demonstrations of his prowess, hoping to show her that he can protect and provide for her in a chaotic world.

Selarion, meanwhile, employs a subtler strategy. His gifts are not swords or shields but whispered words and shared secrets. He listens to her, understands her dreams and fears, and in doing so, offers her a partnership of equals. His charm and intelligence serve him well, presenting a vision of a future where they might rule side by side, not just as king and queen but as true companions.

Their expressions of love, though differing in intensity and manner, are equally profound, each brother seeking to carve a place in the Y/n's heart. Rhaynar's love is a tempest, demanding and all-consuming, while Selarion's affection is a river, deep and enduring. Their first kisses with their sister are emblematic of their approaches to love: Rhaynar's, a spontaneous act of passion, and Selarion's, a gentle confession in the quiet of the night.

The rivalry between them is as much a part of their love as their shared history. It drives them to greater heights of affection and acts of devotion, each brother striving to be the one who holds the Y/n's heart. Yet, it is also this rivalry that sharpens the fear of loss, the dread that one might be chosen over the other.

As the music begins, a soft, haunting melody that fills the air with a sense of longing and possibility, Selarion sees his opportunity. With a confident stride, he approaches his sister, his gaze never wavering from hers. "May I have this dance, my beautiful lady?" he asks, his voice low and inviting, a smile playing on his lips that promises secrets and adventures untold.

Before she can respond, Rhaynar steps forward, his hand extended, his expression a mixture of challenge and desire. "I believe my sister was about to accept my invitation," he says, turning his gaze sharply towards Selarion, the tension between them palpable.

Selarion's smile widens, but his eyes harden, the ruby depths gleaming with an inner fire. "Ah, dear brother, always so quick to assume," he retorts, his tone light but edged with steel. "But it seems you've forgotten that it is her choice to make, not ours."

Y/n, caught between them, feels the weight of their stares, the air charged with the intensity of their rivalry. Yet, in this moment, she finds her voice, her strength. "I choose to dance with both of you," she declares, her voice steady and clear. "One after the other. That is my decision."

Rhaynar's expression softens, a grudging respect in his gaze as he nods, stepping back to allow Selarion the first dance. Selarion, triumphant yet gracious, offers his hand to his sister, leading her onto the dance floor with a flourish.

As they dance, Selarion's movements are smooth and calculated, each step a whisper of his affections, his body close yet respectful. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear. "As if the gods created you to be worshipped by mortals."

Her heart flutters at his words, at the feel of him so near. Yet, as the music swells and their time together draws to a close, she knows that this is but the beginning of their dance, a dance that will require all her strength and wisdom to navigate.

When the music ends, and Selarion steps back with a bow, Rhaynar takes his place, his dance a contrast of passion and power, a promise of his undying affection and his determination to win her heart.

As the night unfolds, with each brother vying for her favor, she realizes that her heart is not a prize to be won but a gift to be given. And in the end, it will be her choice, a choice made not in the shadow of rivalry but in the light of love.

𝗕𝗢𝗡𝗨𝗦:

In the heart of a forest as ancient as the realm itself, where the whispers of the old gods still lingered among the rustling leaves, the hunting party moved with a grace that belied their noble birth. Rhaynar and Selarion, scions of House Targaryen, rode side by side, their rivalry momentarily forgotten in the shared thrill of the hunt. The morning mist clung to the earth, weaving a silvery veil that shrouded the woods in mystery and magic.

Rhaynar, with the sun's first rays glinting off his silver hair, seemed as much a creature of the dawn as the woodland around them. His eyes, a striking violet, scanned the forest with an intensity that spoke of a fierce desire to prove himself, not just as a hunter but as a man worthy of respect and, perhaps, love.

Selarion, ever the enigma, rode with an elegance that was almost otherworldly. His ruby-red eyes, so often regarded with suspicion and fear, were alight with a different flame today—a competitive spark that matched his brother's. Their horses, magnificent beasts of pure Targaryen stock, moved with a silent understanding, as if they too sensed the importance of this day.

As the forest awakened, a white stag, majestic and ethereal, appeared before them. It stood in a clearing, bathed in a shaft of sunlight that seemed to crown it in a halo of gold. The sight of it took their breath away, for it was said that to encounter such a creature was a portent of momentous change.

Rhaynar's hand went to his bow, a reflex born of countless hunts, but something stilled his movement. The stag, with eyes as deep and knowing as the oldest tales, held his gaze, and in that moment, Rhaynar felt a connection to the world around him that was as profound as it was inexplicable. With a silent nod, as if acknowledging the stag's sovereignty over this realm, Rhaynar lowered his weapon.

Selarion, watching from a slight distance, observed his brother's action with a complexity of emotions swirling in his eyes. For a heartbeat, he too was caught in the stag's mystical presence. Yet, where Rhaynar saw a connection, Selarion saw opportunity. With a swift, fluid motion, he notched an arrow to his bow, drew, and released.

The arrow flew true, a perfect arc through the misty air, striking the stag with a silent, deadly grace. As the creature fell, the spell of the morning was broken, and the forest seemed to sigh with a sorrow as ancient as time itself. And then Selarion moved and cut it's head to make it's death less painful.

Rhaynar turned to Selarion, his eyes ablaze not just with the fire of anger, but with the hurt of betrayal. "Why did you kill it???" His voice, thick with emotion, echoed through the trees. "I was the first to find it, and I spared it! You had no right to kill it After I, the future king of seven kingdoms let it go!!!"

Selarion, wiping a splatter of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, met his brother's gaze with a calm that belied the tumult within. "Exactly, dear brother," he said, his voice low and steady, yet carrying a sharpness that cut deeper than any blade. "You had the opportunity, but you didn't use it. The world is like that. Either you get what you want, or someone else gets it instead of you. And you may forget it but you're no king in my eyes, not now and not ever."

As the words hung in the air, heavy with implication, the brothers stood on the brink of an understanding profound and unsettling. The hunting party, silent witnesses to this moment of raw truth, looked on as the future of House Targaryen, and perhaps the realm itself, teetered on the edge of a knife.

In the heart of the forest, amidst the ancient trees and whispered secrets, Rhaynar and Selarion faced not just each other, but the realization that the hunt was for more than game—it was for power, for love, and for the destiny that awaited them beyond the woods.

@ 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 . 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠.

@emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

[merbear25]

Needing release

You've found your way into the Cross Guild's heart. How you've come to entrance them, they haven't figured out yet―swirling thoughts of your grace, strength, smile, and your body, which was the focus of tonight's events.

CW: NSFW, MDNI!! gn!reader, male masturbation

Cross Guild

pt. 1, pt 2, pt.3

Mihawk: They'd entrusted missions to you in faith that you would deal with them swiftly and without a hitch. With each one, you continued to prove yourself to them, earning their respect. Complaining, tardiness, and lack of an attention to detail: none of these would ever be used to describe you. You were now understood to be one of the best.

Mihawk answered when you phoned in. You were calling to confirm your completion of the mission you'd been given. Everything went smoothly, like you expected it would. Hearing you explain each of the properties they'd find useful, caught him off guard this time. The self-assurance lacing your voice was making him fidget in his chair―trying to readjust.

Even after hanging up, the confidence coating your words were ringing in his mind, worming their way deeper into his imagination. Gripping at his thighs, he looked down at the enlarged bludge in between them.

Living in a massive castle has its advantages; taking advantage of one of these, he released his aching length and thrusted into it more enthusiastically than he'd anticipated. Thinking of how bold yet competent you were with each task was a massive turn-on.

Imagining you kneeling in front of him, your eyes on his, and your mouth open and ready for him, made it nearly impossible to keep his load from shooting onto the rug. What a waste he thought to himself having wanted to see you making better use of it.

Crocodile: Having you around was proving to be useful; you were capable, dependable, and were always ready to take on a new challenge. You'd grown on him over the time you'd spent with them.

He'd given you an assignment to gather further intel on; expecting nothing less than a thorough job, he bestowed this responsibility onto one of their best―you. The time for turning in such a vital one was drawing near, and as he was waiting for you, he took a long drag of his cigar.

Moments before the deadline was up, you came hurling into his office; you were beaming with excitement from your discoveries, and without hesitation, you began giving him the run-down.

Despite the information you were disclosing being genuinely interesting, he noticed you looked different. The outfit you'd chosen that day suited you nicely―the fabric sinched around each curve of your body perfectly. The flattering outfit was causing his mind to wander, leading him to excuse you from his office. He couldn't allow one of his employees catch him pitching a tent.

He locks the door behind you and sits back on the couch. The troublesome rush of seeing you in such flattering clothes was too prominent in his mind―he needed to relieve himself of such images.

Invisioning you standing before him, he began stroking himself. The way you'd undress for him, giving a stiptease: the image he had of you was already pushing him over the edge. Coating his own hand in sperm, he fantasized his grip being that pretty mouth of yours.

Buggy: He couldn't understand you. Even after you'd spent a considerable amount of time around them, he still couldn't figure out why you were as kind as you were to him. And even after he'd thrown numerous things at you to bate you into showing your true colors, you never broke.

Letting the warm water fall on him, he let himself get lost in his thoughts. The way you laughed at his jokes, how he found comfort in your tender words: these were the things about you he didn't think he could ever understand, yet he wasn't entirely complaining.

Thinking how lovely you looked when you laughed―showing him a genuine smile was something truly beautiful. The way you pressed up against him when you did it too. You looked breathtaking that day.

The last one was lingering, showing to be a rather favored memory. In that moment, he was okay with not fully understanding you. All he wanted now was to return the feeling you'd given him.

Fantasizing you pressed up behind him, guiding your hands along his body was making it difficult to hold back his moans. Closing his eyes, the warmth of the droplets running down his body could easily be replaced by light touches from you: dancing across his skin, trailing further down, reaching his full length. Visualizing you reaching around to be the one to guide him through his climax had him seeing stars. He let out each bit into the drain.

[kanekoii]

How do you think Luxiem and Noctyx would react to collabing with the Reader who is a popular indie vtuber and their kamaoshi?

lyra’s notes -> methinks…you should read and find out

pairings -> luxiem, noctyx x gn! indie vtuber! kamioshi! reader

!! since this is intended to be romantic sorta, reader is male in uki’s part !!

genre -> scenario

song -> don’t wake me up - jonas blue & why don’t we

warnings -> they all have a crush on u, food in mysta’s part, joking mention of death in fuglur’s

VOX AKUMA ->

he’s going full adorable fanboy about it, screaming with joy when you agree to collab with him and freaking out over it on his twitter- i mean x. xitter. he will be so stoked about the opportunity to talk to you in person when he usually just lurks in your chat. he’ll take the opportunity to flirt with you and try to show off a little bit, only to fail miserably and be met with a laugh. yet he still made you laugh, so mission accomplished. he was so excited to collaborate with you and make you laugh, and he’s sure to ask to collab in the future.

IKE EVELAND ->

compliments. so many compliments. he’ll straight up tell you how excited he is to work with you and how you’re his kamioshi. ike will be sure to tell you how adorable he thinks you are and just how much he genuinely admires you. he is so absolutely smitten that poor boy can barely handle talking to you without blushing or getting flustered. the more times you collaborate, the more used to it he’ll become and the more he’ll start to hint at his crush on you.

LUCA KANESHIRO ->

he didn’t even believe you’d ask. you’re his literal kamioshi and you asked to collaborate with HIM of all people? he’s absolutely grateful for the opportunity to work with you and be able to talk to you more than just occasional comments in your chat when he’s not streaming. it was an off-collab too, so you’d be seeing him in person to see if he was just as pretty off camera as he was on. someone (me) akasupa’d and asked to give opinions on each other and the revelation that you loved his content just as much as or even more than he loved yours had his heart soaring.

SHU YAMINO ->

he would get SO flustered and nervous before you hop on call together to play the horror game he had chosen. it would likely lead to poor boy getting more scared than usual just because he’s nervous to be talking to someone he admires that much for the first time. he would most definitely try to flex his math skills too as some weird way of trying to gain your attention. every time he makes you even smile with his silly comments, his heart will soar out of pure pride.

MYSTA RIAS ->

he’s keeping it cool. or at the very least, he’s trying to. he knows his personality type doesn’t appeal to everyone and he’s so happy when he finds that you actually enjoy his loud yet introverted personality and his weird antics. the stream you did together was you teaching him how to cook without poisoning everyone. please teach him how to wash rice properly and how to cook it without the starch water. please i’m begging teach him how to cook and he will be so happy, bragging to chat that he learned this recipe from you.

FULGUR OVID ->

hooligan wants to play co-op rage games with you just to see you mald and absolutely lose it. hear me out, what if he invites you to a crab game or among us collab and introduces you to everyone and he gets teased for teaming with you and trying to essentially carry you. instead of die for nari it’s die for you. he will see to it personally that you win every game you play together just as a little chance to impress you and get you to smile. that would make him SO happy.

SONNY BRISKO ->

cutie will be so taken aback to see you in his chats sometimes, so a collaboration would be more than heaven to him. he looks up to you and your content so much that he’s sure he’s dreaming when he has a full conversation with you on stream. your collective chats ship it SO much. imagine all the ship edits when you do a stream together in person as an off-collab.

UKI VIOLETA ->

(male reader for this one) he would definitely do a baking stream! much like the ones he’s done with his fellow nijisanji en members, he gives vague instructions and you try to figure it out from there. while uki is muted, his viewers would be subject to comments about oh my god he’s adorable he’s trying so hard to make me happy. ugh boy is down bad and let’s just say there will be so many more streams like that in the near future <3

ALBAN KNOX ->

he’s SO insanely shy and nervous it’s adorable. though, as the stream with you goes on, he becomes less nervous and goes back to his normal silly self. if he needs to, he’ll break out the mickey voice to make you laugh but that’s a last resort. his personality compliments yours in such a way that it’s just so enjoyable to watch, and he’s such a comforting person to be around as well.

[lilacsupernova]

In recent years, I've seen the erasure of lesbian and gay activists. And all the work we did for gay liberation is credited to two people: Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson. Even statues are planned to be elected in honor of them in New York. These two are now hailed for having organized the Stonewall Riot and the GLF [Gay Liberation Front] and even the historic gay occupation of Wernstein Hall at New York University in protest against the administration's homophobia. All of this is false. I know, because I and the women and men I worked with were there.

Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson are today widely celebrated as transgender people of color. However, Rivera identified as a transvestite male, not transgender. Malcolm, aka Marsha Johnson, was a self-proclaimed gay man, and drag queen, up until his death in 1992. Johnson deserves to be honored with respect and integrity, not rebranded as a 'trans-woman' postmortem. Johnson was probably transgender, though there was no such terminology at the time. Toward the end of his life he was considering raising funds to go abroad for what was then called a sex change surgery.

Nobody led the Stonewall Riots. It was a spontaneous uprising. Neither Rivera nor Johnson appeared on the scene until the riots were well underway. Neither Johnson nor Rivera attended any of the early meetings of GLF in July 1969. I was one of the founders, along with five other women and 13 men. Ellen Broidy and I were among those who called for the occupation of Wernstein Hall in September 1970. Johnson and Rivera were not present. They joined in after a group of us had already entered the building, and it was after the occupation that I first noticed them at GLF meetings. They were inspired by our Wernstein Hall action to start a new group, Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (STAR).

This was important work they did and how they should be remembered. Through STAR, Rivera and Johnson labored on behalf of homeless street queens who, like themselves, often had to support themselves through prostitution, often strove to overcome drug addiction, and often found themselves in trouble with the law. They provided shelter and counseling, and visited those in prison. They were heroes in their own right. But the false legends have been widely promulgated in the international press, and give them credit for the work of hundreds of others, and never ever mention what they actually accomplished. The city of New York has not built any statues to any of us lesbians or any of the gay men who were involved in GLF. Just those two are the heroes. Stormé DeLarverie who is considered responsible for starting the first Stonewall Riot on June 28, 1969, after a crowd reacted when she was arrested by police, was a woman of color and and butch lesbian. She didn't get a statue either.

These smaller fabrications are perhaps not as dangerous as the ones that lead to war. But what is dangerous is that, by depicting one or two chosen individuals as great leaders and expunging the rest of us from public memory, they strip us all of the knowledge that we ordinary human beings have made history and can do so again.

– Martha Shelley (2021), 'An Honest History' in Renate Klein & Susan Hawthorne (eds.) Not Dead Yet: Feminism, Passion and Women's Liberation, pp. 379-80.

[beomiracles]

ᴛᴜʙᴀᴛᴜ ᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ꜱʏɴᴅʀᴏᴍᴇ ੈ✩‧₊˚

DREAM RECALL "'Second male lead syndrome' is where the second male lead is or seems infinitely superior to the male lead, and you curse the main character for choosing the wrong guy."

pairings non idol!txt x gn!reader warnings yeonjun is kinda mean, beomgyu is pervert (I can't help myself when I write for him), beomgyu's hints at sexual themes.

#serene adds ✎... it's been forever since I wrote for all five like this hehe. this one's lowkey a little sad... :>

ʏᴇᴏɴᴊᴜɴ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʜᴏᴏᴅ ‘ʙᴜʟʟʏ’ who you had sworn off years ago due to his persistent snarky comments and mean pranks. In your eyes he was nothing but a bully and you did everything in your might to keep your distance. 

Yeonjun, who had only been a small boy with a crush on a small girl; now finds himself hopelessly watching you from afar as you laugh with your friends. Despite years passing and the fact that you were both grown up by this point, your grudge seemed to persist. 

Yeonjun who doesn’t know how to express his feelings for you so he chooses to pull pranks instead, hoping it will catch your attention. Not understanding why you get upset with him and ignore him when he passes by; it only makes his comments grow nastier. 

Yeonjun who trips you over in the hallways, yet hesitating — wanting to reach out a hand and help you back up again. Yeonjun who tells you that your shirt is dirty when he actually wants to tell you that blue looks nice on you. 

Yeonjun who calls your boyfriend a down-grade from your last, when he wants nothing more but to be the one you call your own. 

ꜱᴏᴏʙɪɴ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ’ꜱ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ who always seemed to hang around your boyfriend whenever you were present. Your boyfriend who always explained it as it being a ‘guy thing’. 

Soobin who knew that it was wrong to have a crush on his best friend’s girlfriend. So he never made a move. 

Soobin who knew that he stood no chance against his best friend. Yeonjun was confident and charismatic, easily swooning you with every other sentence. All the while Soobin has to rehearse his next words before even daring to address you. 

Soobin who gets flustered under your stare, and you don’t understand why he insists on hanging out with you and your boyfriend as he rarely speaks. Yeonjun who explains it as him being shy — it only makes Soobin feel even more guilty, his best friend oblivious to his true feelings. 

“You listening, Binnie?” Your sweet voice makes his knees weak and Soobin has to blink a couple of times before realizing that he hadn’t heard a word of what you had just said; too lost in your eyes, the way your soft lashes subconsciously moved as you spoke.  “Uh-huh”, he splutters, earning a giggle from you, Soobin who loved your laugh.

ʙᴇᴏᴍɢʏᴜ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴏᴜɴɢᴇʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ who’s gaze always seemed to linger whenever you were around. His brother would often bring you over, and you would always so politely greet him, making his heart flutter like a little school boy.  

Beomgyu who loved the way your eyes would crinkle up as you smiled at his jokes. He would always make excuses to pass by his brother’s room whenever you were over, earning quite the scolding from his elder sibling. In the end it was always worth it. 

Beomgyu who doesn’t understand why you had chosen his older brother over him. His brother wasn’t twice as funny or good looking, yet he was the one who’s cheek you pressed soft kisses to whenever you could. 

Beomgyu who doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it when you stay over. The sounds of your sweet moans as his brother has his way with you in the room next to his own –  keeps him up at night. And he knows it’s wrong, the way he tries to peek at you whenever he thinks you aren’t looking; he can’t help it. 

Beomgyu who always got compared to his older brother, desperately wishing to have everything he had, most of all he wanted his girlfriend. Beomgyu who hopes that one day you’ll see what’s been right in front of you all along. 

ᴛᴀᴇʜʏᴜɴ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴜᴛᴏʀ who helped your grades go from D’s to B’s. Taehyun who usually never offered to tutor, despite being the top student in all of his classes, but when you came along, there had been no question about it. 

Taehyun, who always waits for you after class so that you can study together. He doesn't mind when you don’t get it right away, in fact he likes explaining things to you, even if he has to do so over and over; only to see the way your eyes light up in joy as you finally understand. 

Taehyun who loves when you ask questions about the subject he’s helping you with. Sometimes he even messes up, too lost in the way you chew on your pencil or the way your painted nails itch at your rosy cheek. 

Taehyun whose mood turns sour as your friends approach, whisking your attention from him in milliseconds. Heart aching when you tell him that you would have to leave earlier because you had a date. 

Taehyun who wishes you would ask to hangout outside of school, outside of tutoring. Taehyun who wishes you would ask questions about him and not the boring equations you tried to solve. Taehyun who wishes to be more than just your tutor.

ʜᴜᴇɴɪɴɢᴋᴀɪ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴏʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ who never seemed to understand the appeal you saw in the guys you chose to date. Who also never wrapped his head around the range of emotions they caused you to undergo. 

“He’s such a dick!” You groan, slamming your phone down on the table as you lean back in your chair. Huening frowns, yesterday you had told him that he was perfect, you seemed to change your mind a lot. 

“I’m sure he’ll come around” Kai reassures, though he secretly wishes he wouldn’t. You give him an uncertain look, “you think so?” Your best friend nods, “you’re gorgeous y/n, he would be a fool not to.” 

"Oh, stop it!” you giggle, ignorant to the fact that he had meant every word. Hueningkai who wishes you would see yourself through his eyes, perhaps then you would realize his true feelings for you. Instead he’s forced to watch from the sidelines as guys sweep you off your feet. 

He gives you a small smile, cheeks reddening as you wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. “You’re such a great friend, Kai” you sigh against his neck, his heart sinks, friend, that’s all he was to you. 

Hueningkai who pats your back and dries your tears after yet another unsuccessful date. Hueningkai who listens to you vent about the guy you’re currently talking to, wishing more than anything to be in his shoes. Hueningkai who’s too much of a coward to ever admit his feelings out loud. 

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[thegirlwhowrites642]

An unpopular hinny opinion?

You know what's funny? I have like fifty different takes I could give you, but I'm going to go with something that's been living rent free in my head since I wrote Harry and Ginny's reunion.

.

I believe in the first months after the war, Harry wouldn't be particularly fond of Ginny's friendship with Neville, I believe he would be jealous (not because he would actually have anything to worry about of course). I don't think it's something that would ever become a problem, but if during those months someone had asked Harry if he wanted to hex Neville, he would've waited a second before saying "no".

But this opinion of mine is based on what?

Neville, like Luna, has always been closer to Ginny than Harry, this is not a mystery. I've always found very telling for example how in OotP, Neville and Luna get involved in the Ministry business because of Ginny, in contrast, Ron and Hermione get involved because of Harry. Harry goes because of Sirius, and Ginny underlines how she wants to go because of Sirius. It's a very significant moment that defines the dynamics we'll see again in DH.

Neville's closeness to Ginny is also remarked by Ginny being the one reminding James to say "hi" to Neville in the epilogue.

The thing is though: while Neville and Ginny are friends, they aren't close enough in the first six books to justify Neville being Albus' godfather. So, of course, the experience that would explain Neville being appointed that role is Neville and Ginny's year leading the rebellion at Hogwarts (also in the perspective that an epilogue should be justified by the previously told story). This means that Harry left Ginny and Neville's relationship before the hunt as a good friendship and came back to a much closer bond. From Harry's perspective, it's a bit like it happened in a second. In a way, to him, it's unjustified, and therefore on some level menacing.

Now, this is the premise, but there are other elements.

Neville had already been once a potential love interest for Ginny: when they went to the Yule Ball together. A date for Ginny that was carefully chosen by the author to not trigger any reviling feelings for Ginny in Harry. Neville at the time was someone Harry considered a loser, in no way a potential threat. And yet even back then, Harry's first worry, after he started dancing, was making sure Ginny was having a terrible time with Neville (lol). [I'm not saying Harry was in love with Ginny, but the first two books already establish a subconscious attraction towards Ginny]

After the war though, Neville is a war hero, and someone Harry has already recognised as valuable.

Plus, the idea that Neville was smart enough to ask Ginny to be his date goes to touch one of Harry's great regrets: not having noticed Ginny earlier.

With this am I saying that Harry doubts Ginny's love for him? No.

But the immediate post-war period is a very emotionally fragile one.

The simple fact that Neville and Ginny were involved in a dangerous situation together at Hogwarts is already potentially quite annoying to Harry. Not only is Harry used to being involved in anything dangerous that happens at Hogwarts, and not being part of this one thing would increase a sense of exclusion, but once Harry makes his peace with how in danger Ginny was during the war, the fact that Neville was there to protect her and he wasn't would annoy the hell out of him (he would also be grateful to Neville but that comes later). Harry's one priority in life is Ginny's safety and it's also a way in which he channels his love for her. I know it's a bit of a toxic male take, but I do think realistically Harry would live Neville's ability to be there for Ginny as a sort of "invasion of territory", protecting Ginny is his thing, during the war, it was the only way he had left to love her. The breakup is after all Harry's way of brainwashing himself into thinking that will keep Ginny safe.

Again, Harry would be aware that Ginny doesn't have romantic feelings for Neville, but sometimes a bit of jealousy can't be helped. Harry is possessive of Ginny, not in a toxic way, but let's put it this way: he's definitely on the spectrum's opposite side of a person who would want an open relationship.

I'm also quite sure that Ginny being someone any breathing creature drools after doesn't help to convince Harry Neville does not have feelings for her.

To summarise, the factors that would feed into Harry's jealousy would be a sense of inadequacy and a sense of exclusion from Ginny's life that he already displays in the sixth book. What originally started to trigger Harry's feelings for Ginny was the annoyance of not being a constant part of her life and the worry she was choosing someone else over him after years of subconsciously taking for granted she would never do that (any possible love interest of Ginny is never shown in a good romantic dynamic with Ginny until Dean, until Harry can be jealous because the story is ready for him to be).

[acourtofthought]

You often mention that because Lucien already lost Jesminda — someone he believed to be his mate — he won’t lose his mate again (Elain). That Sarah wouldn’t do that to him.

But have you considered that this could also be the very reason why Lucien doesn’t want or need a mate, and may not end up with Elain?

Think about it: Lucien loved Jesminda. He mourned her death for centuries. Now that it’s revealed that Jesminda isn’t actually her mate… and Elain is… do you think Lucien somehow loves Jesminda less? Or views their past relationship in a lesser manner? I doubt it.

If anything, it would prove to Lucien that in the grand scheme of things, a mating bond has little bearing on true love.

Jesminda, as per canon: had loved Lucien “without question” and “without hesitation.” Jesminda had “chosen” him.

Elain, as per canon: is only involved with Lucien because of the mating bond that neither asked for (basically a glorified arranged marriage). There is question, and there is certainly hesitation. When it came down to it in ACOSF, Elain chose Azriel, not Lucien.

Jesminda wasn’t Lucien’s mate, but loved him with all she had. Elain is Lucien’s mate… and seemingly wants nothing to do with him. Again, wouldn’t this just prove to Lucien that a mating bond really means… fuck all?

An apt comparison is to the Rowan/Lyria/Aelin saga. Although Rowan loved Lyria (and even once believed they were mates), when it came down to it, Rowan later reflected that he and Lyria were such different people, and were never that compatible in the first place.

“He'd come to love Lyria--that had been true. And the guilt of it ate him alive whenever he thought of it, but he could understand now. Why Lyria had been so frightened of him for those initial months, why it had been so damn hard to court her, even with that mating bond, its truth unknown to Lyria as well. She had been gentle, and quiet, and kind. A different sort of strength, yes, but not what he might have chosen for himself.”

Doesn’t that sound familiar…?

Instead, Rowan found his match in Aelin. From the start, even when they were arguing and bickering and cruel to one another, there was always a spark. Always passion.

In the same way Vassa and Jesminda (who we know Lucien adored) are described in the same way. Compatible. Lucien is lighter around Vassa. He found a home with her, when no one else offered him one (including Elain).

And never once was Rowan blushing around other women, or travelling to nearby continents to save other women while Aelin remained at home… as Lucien was for Vassa.

Never once was Aelin near kissing other men, or buying other men gifts while Rowan was in the same house… as Elain was for Azriel.

“A bird of flame ... and a lord of fire. I wondered if they'd found each other yet."

Why would SJM say that for it to lead to… nothing?

So what I just gathered from that is your acknowledgement that it took Rowans real mate to help him finally move past his sadness and guilt with Lyria (who he believed was his mate), and eventually fall in love with Aelin, his actual mate.

It also seems like it took Lucien meeting his real mate to start moving on from his guilt and past with Jesminda, who he thought was his mate. And could also eventually have a HEA with Elain, his actual mate.

For both males, it took their actual mate to move forward.

And yes, Rowan did separate from Aelin for a period of time. Just like Lucien is living elsewhere.

Are they the exact same scenarios? No but why would they be? Did Aelin have a sister that she was living with? Is Elain an assassin who had other business to deal with? These are different characters with different stories and Elucien is the only SJM pairing to have a bond snap like it did. Elain was the only character engaged and in love with someone else when that happened.

For the females:

Aelin did not have feelings for Rowan for quite a while as she was nursing broken feelings from her relationship with Chaol. Where she slept in bed with Rowan yet still did not develop romantic feelings for him.

Which is similar to Elain not jumping immediately into Lucien's arms after her fiance rejected her (something not even Aelin had). Giving her a pretty valid reason to instead focus on an innocent crush as she's overwhelmed by the enormity of her mating bond and has not really been in a place to process those feelings.

And no, Aelin didn't hook up with someone after meeting Rowan because they were planning for a war. She had other things on her mind at that time.

Nesta definitely did though! Even though she claims she always wanted Cassian.

Lucien's not just a Lord of Fire though is he? Why would SJM have Elain say she needs "sunshine" then reveal Lucien to be the heir to the Day Court? Weird how your argument works in my favor too! ☺️. Especially when my girl Elain is still the one he longs for after living with said Bird of Flame. If he's had a year to get to know Vassa yet Elain is still the one he wants I'm thinking Vassa just doesn't do it for him, sorry! 🤷

You're trying to say that because Lyria wasn't what Rowan would have chosen for himself the same can be said of Elain for Lucien except... It kind of seems like Elain is what he wants since he's still coming around despite her distance?

You can't honestly believe Lucien truly knew Elain the very first time he met during her depression which led to him thinking back on Jesminda..

He was remembering Jesminda when she was happy and free. And he had recently discovered Elain was in love with someone else and therefore he was struggling with the realization she probably wouldn't want him. Of course the two females seemed very different to Lucien in that moment. It doesn't mean Lucien didn't end up liking what he learned the more he learned of her.

And Rowan was a warrior which is why he was best suited to a mate who was also a fighter.

Lucien has no interest fighting (though he'll do it when he has to). Doesn't it stand it reason that a female who isn't a warrior, one with a different sort of strength, is the perfect fit for him? Exactly as his real mate is described?

Lyria was married to Rowan and he thought that of her. When Lucien and Elain are married, we can compare notes 😉.

Again, Lyria was his fake mate. Probably why Rowan wouldn't have chosen her.

Elain is Lucien's real mate.

And what Lucien wanted in his youth is not necessarily who he'd want now. Jesminda was wild and free and Lucien at the time would have given up his title for her. That doesn't really sound like the right fit for a grown Lucien who wants to help the courts and is set up to be a future High Lord with responsibilities.

And Az blushed at Mor while Elain was in the room. Are you trying to claim that all blushes equal endgame love interests? He blushed for Nesta in SF.

You might want to check out the TOG series because a male who wasn't Lorcan blushed at Elide.

Also, Lucien wasn't blushing at Vassa, he was blushing because Feyre was embarrassing him in front of his mate.

It's funny how e/riels come onto my page acting like Elain isn't special compared to Vassa, just to ship Lucien with anyone else.

She's Elain Fucking Archeron. The most beautiful female he'd ever seen. She's kind, wise, thoughtful, generous and loving (all words used in the series to describe her). AND she's his mate. It's very amusing that you think Vassa could top that for Lucien.

He's desired by many females but there's only one he wants.

You're also forgetting that it's not just because he lost Jesminda that I feel this way. The author was going to pair him with Nesta but didn't because she realized they'd be a poor fit. Why would she pair him with the other sister if she was also going to be a bad match for him?

That wouldn't make a lot of sense now, would it?

Oh! Adding an Edit:

Lucien also loved Jesminda to the point that he thought she was his mate because he had never experienced a mating bond, he was able to convince himself that what he felt was the love from a bond. Now that he knows exactly how powerful and consuming a mating bond is, how can he ever go back from that? Not only will another female never have the potential of being his mate (meaning he'll never love her to the point of thinking she could be because he knows she never will), but he will also be lacking the thread that exists between them.

He knows what a bond is now. He knows that it helps him sense Elain. That sitting with her and feeling her caused him to blush.

Once your eyes are opened up, you can't go back from that.

Knowing that Elain is his mate and understanding what a mating bond actually is means that it will be difficult for him to be without it.

I know he doesn't love Jesminda less than he once did but there will be a difference for Lucien in his first love versus his forever love, especially once he shares a bond with. It's silly to think that just because he believed something in his youth, he can easily go back to that after centuries and the new experience he's gathered with having a real mating bond with someone.

And Vassa and Jesminda are the furthest thing from similar. Jesminda was "laughter and mischief". Please show me where you've gotten hints of that from Vassa's character.

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Gnoll/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 2,919 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

When you're convinced to go on a blind date with an asshole, Adamu saves you from a sticky situation. As it turns out, you'd rather go out with him anyway.

Outside the restaurant, the city's ambient buzz mingled with your own whirl of anticipation and nerves. The cool evening air did little to soothe the flutter of excitement in your stomach as you approached the restaurant's entrance, a quaint spot chosen by Eirik for your blind date.

Stepping inside, the warm glow and soft murmur of conversation enveloped you. The hostess greeted you with a welcoming smile, and you found your voice slightly trembling as you mentioned, "I’m here to meet - I mean, table for Karl?."

"Oh, you must be Eirik's friend! He mentioned a blind date," the waitress exclaimed brightly. She seemed genuinely enthused about the setup, a sentiment you wished you could fully share at the moment.

As she led you through the restaurant, the clinking of cutlery and low hum of diners' chatter accompanied your steps. The waitress stopped at a cosy table for two, where a man was seated, his back to you.

As she announced your arrival, he turned around, and you were met with a young face and a mess of curly, dark hair. Karl was undeniably handsome, with sharp features, a well-groomed beard, and eyes that seemed to appraise you in a single glance. His smile was confident, almost rehearsed, as he stood to greet you.

"Ah, you must be the mystery woman Eirik has been raving about," Karl said, his voice smooth, his handshake firm. There was a charm about him, no doubt, but it felt somewhat polished, a little too perfect.

As you took your seat, the nervous flutter in your stomach intensified. You smoothed out your dress, trying to appear composed, though inside, your nerves were a tangled mess. The idea of a blind date, already daunting, now felt even more so with Karl's poised demeanour.

The waitress, still beaming, handed you the menus, wishing you a good evening before leaving. You offered her a grateful smile, her enthusiasm a small comfort for your nerves.

"So, Eirik tells me you're quite the adventurer," Karl began, leaning back in his chair with ease. “Have you been to the alps? I have; there I was, standing at the summit of the Alps, the world beneath my feet. It's quite the rush, you know?"

You nodded and the first bubble of excitement welled in you. "That sounds incredible. I've always wanted to try mountain climbing. Last year, I..."

Karl, however, swiftly steered the conversation back to himself, barely acknowledging your input. "Yes, it's an experience of a lifetime. Then, when you lead the lifestyle I do, these things become somewhat routine."

As Karl delved into another self-centred anecdote, your attention drifted across the restaurant. There, at a table set for two, sat a young gnoll man. His dark fur contrasted strikingly with his bright green eyes, which stared at his glass of wine. His muscular build suggested strength, yet there was a patience about him as he checked his watch, clearly waiting for someone.

Your gaze lingered, intrigue. It was a welcome distraction from the one-sided conversation at your table.

Karl, noticing your diverted attention, cleared his throat pointedly. "I'm sorry, am I boring you?"

You snapped back to reality, meeting Karl's eyes, which now held a flicker of annoyance. "No, not at all. Please, go on," you said, though the sincerity in your voice waned.

Karl huffed, his demeanour shifting. "You know, when someone takes the time to share their experiences, the least you could do is pay attention."

The sharpness in his tone took you aback. The evening, already teetering on the edge of disappointment, had taken a turn for the worse. "I'm sorry, Karl. I just noticed someone across the restaurant. I didn't mean to seem disinterested."

Karl's response was a curt, "Well, perhaps you'd prefer their company then."

The air between you grew tense, the remnants of the evening's potential dissipating with each passing second. "I think I need a moment," you said, standing abruptly. "I'll be in the bathroom. If the waitress comes back, could you ask her to give us a few more minutes to decide?"

You couldn’t have left fast enough. The walk to the bathroom felt like an escape, each step a respite from the stifling atmosphere at the table. Inside, you took a moment to gather your thoughts, the disappointment of the evening weighing heavily on you. Eirik's well-intentioned setup had spiralled into an evening you couldn't wait to forget.

When you returned, bracing yourself for more of Karl's self-absorption, you found his seat empty. Confused, you glanced around, half-expecting to see him returning from a break of his own; but he was gone. The only evidence of his presence was the menu, left at the edge of the table.

You sat, a flush of embarrassment warming your cheeks. You tried to compose yourself as the waitress approached with a concerned look. "Can I get you a drink?" she asked, her gaze flickering to the empty seat.

You offered a small, somewhat sheepish smile, "uh, no thanks. Honestly, I think I should just head home. Maybe I’ll have just one..."

The waitress nodded, her expression softening with understanding, before leaving you to peruse the drinks menu. The bustling ambiance of the restaurant suddenly felt more pronounced, each laugh and clink of glasses echoing your own discomfort.

As you deliberated over your choice, a tentative voice interrupted your thoughts. "Excuse me, would you mind some company?"

Looking up, you saw the gnoll from across the restaurant standing beside your table, a hint of apprehension in his green eyes. Up close, you could see the intricate patterns of scars beneath his dark fur, tugging down the corner of his left eye. Yet, his posture was unassuming, almost gentle, as if he were trying to make his formidable presence seem less intimidating.

"I, uh, couldn't help but notice... It seems we've both been stood up," he added, his voice tinged with a shyness.

Surprised but touched by his gesture, you found yourself nodding, "Take a seat. It's been quite the evening."

He took the seat across from you, his movements careful, mindful of the space he occupied. Together, you ordered cocktails, a silent attempt to salvage what remained of the night.

As the drinks arrived, the initial awkwardness gave way to tentative conversation. Sipping a martini, you asked, “why did you come over? It's not every day that someone does something so kind."

He paused, his gaze lingering on his drink before meeting yours. "Well, I suppose I didn’t want both of our nights to be wasted. I thought, maybe, we could turn them into something a bit more... bearable, together."

His honesty, coupled with the softness in his expression, struck a chord in you. Here was someone who, despite his own discomfort, had reached out with an offer of companionship. It was painfully sweet.

You watched him above your menu, unable to hide your smile. Maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss. "How about gaeng som?" you suggested, “I’m pretty sure they make it extra spicy here.”

His eyes lit up with interest. "That sounds perfect! Back home, the hotter the meal, the better."

You smiled, pleased with the common ground you'd found. The waitress took your order, and as you waited for the food, the conversation flowed effortlessly.

"Not that I was listening in earlier, but I heard something about the alps?" he asked, his eyes curious. "There's something about exploring the unknown, the challenge of a steep climb, I just love it."

You nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. There's a trail I've been eyeing for the next weekend. It's supposed to offer some of the best views of Oceanhall."

“Yeah, I know the one! I’ve never gotten around to it, though. I- wait, hold on.” You were sure that beneath his fur, he was blushing. “I'm Adamu, by the way, I guess I forgot to say. Tonight was actually supposed to be a meetup with someone I met online."

His expression clouded slightly, a hint of disappointment creeping in. "I wonder if she saw me and... well, decided against it. I know my appearance can be a bit... daunting?"

You shook your head, the notion absurd to you. "I think you look lovely. If you really did scare her off, it's’ her loss."

His face softened at your words, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Thank you," he said, his voice laced with a newfound warmth. "I know I’m an acquired taste.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to take his hand. It wasn’t a secret that gnolls had a reputation for being intimidating. Rude. Violent, even; but when you met Adamu’s gaze, there was a softness there that made you melt.

Whatever you were about to say, though, was cut off when the waitress arrived with your steaming hot food. “Two portions of gaeng som,” she announced cheerfully. “Can I get you anything else?”

You didn’t remove your hand from Adamu’s as you ordered another round of drinks. He didn’t pull away either, though, and you found yourself warmed by his coarse fur.

He only tugged his hand free when it was time to eat, and you missed the tickle of his fur and claws against your palm. You ate in silence for a moment; content to be in each other’s quiet company.

Eventually, Adamu's curiosity got the better of him. "So, what actually happened to your date? He left pretty suddenly."

You paused, a spoonful of soup halfway to your lips. The memory of Karl's abrupt departure brought a stutter of relief. "Well, let's just say we weren't exactly a match. If I'm honest, I'm quite glad he left."

Adamu raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "Oh, why?"

You met his gaze, the connection between you palpable. "Because if he hadn't, I wouldn't have had the pleasure of your company, Adamu."

Adamu's smile widened, a look of contentment settling on his features. “Oh. That’s… actually really kind.”

In the warmth of the restaurant, with the lingering heat of the soup still dancing on your tongue, you found yourself caught in Adamu's gaze. The soft, ambient light of the room cast gentle shadows across his features, softening the scars and highlighting the soft brown of his fur.

There was an undeniable pull, a desire to lean across the table and bridge the gap between you with a kiss. Yet, you hesitated, the weight of nerves holding you back. You didn't want to rush, to shatter this delicateness between you.

Adamu seemed to sense the shift in your mood, his voice drawing you back. "I wasn't entirely sure about moving to Oceanhall," he admitted, his tone reflective. "It was a leap of faith, really. I needed a change of pace, something different from what I was used to."

You nodded, understanding the sentiment all too well. "Sometimes, that's exactly what we need."

He smiled. "I'm glad I made the move. Especially now," he added, his gaze holding yours.

The remainder of the meal passed in a comfortable quiet, punctuated by shared glances and soft laughter. It was as if the world beyond your table had faded into the background, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble.

When the waitress came by to inquire about dessert, you both scanned the menu, settling on sharing mango sticky rice. The sweet, creamy texture of the rice, paired with the fresh, tangy mango and the rich coconut sauce, promised a perfect end to the meal.

Adamu's earlier admission echoed in your mind as you ate, blending seamlessly with your own feelings. Oceanhall, with its beautiful beach and multiples cultures, was exactly the kind of place to get away from the drag of real life issues.

When the waitress returned to collect your plates, her knowing smile was directed at you. “I hope you both had a good time,” she said. “Can I get you anything else?”

You couldn't help but return her smile, a sense of gratitude swelling in your heart.

“Just the bill please,” Adamu said, before you could ask for the same.

As the waitress disappeared to retrieve your bill, she left you alone with Adamu. You became acutely aware of the details you hadn't fully absorbed before—the way the low lighting played off the contours of his muscular build, his broad shoulders straining against his grey shirt. The gentle curve of his smile made you flush too, more pronounced as his initial shyness melted away.

You found yourself openly admiring him, taking in the rugged handsomeness that his scars only seemed to accentuate, not diminish. There was a raw, authentic beauty to him, and it made your toes curl.

Adamu caught you looking, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing his features. "It's the scars, isn't it?" he asked softly.. "They don’t hurt. I sometimes forget they're there until I see that look in someone's eyes."

Your heart clenched at the thought of him feeling any discomfort, especially when, to you, he was nothing short of captivating. "No, Adamu, it's not the scars," you said softly, earnestly. "I was actually.. You’re absolutely gorgeous, you know that?"

The air between you thickened with the admission, a warm blush colouring your cheeks. Adamu's gaze held yours, a mixture of surprise and something deeper flickering within his eyes.

"Thank you," he said after a moment, the tension in his shoulders visibly relaxing. "I’ve had them since I was a kid - boating accident. My fur hides the worst of it, at least."

His soft voice, the twinkle in his eyes, it made you want nothing more than to grab him by the collar, and kiss him. The space around you seemed to pulse with the unspoken attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface all evening.

Adamu leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a huskier tone that sent shivers down your spine. "I knew tonight was going to be great as soon as I sat across from you."

The confession, so openly shared, fanned the flames of your own desire. The thought of being close to him, so close you could smell the sugar on your breath, made you shudder.

As the waitress returned with the bill, breaking the spell momentarily, Adamu's gaze lingered on you, loaded with unspoken questions. Once the bill was settled, he turned to you with a hesitant yet hopeful look.

"I don't want this evening to end just yet," he said, his voice laced with a quiet intensity. "Would you... would you like to come back to my place?"

The invitation hung in the air, a tantalizing promise of more. The thought of spending more time with Adamu was irresistible.

“I would love to.”

As you stood to leave, Adamu, ever the gentleman, assisted you with your coat, his hands brushing against yours in a fleeting, electric touch. The restaurant's warm ambiance gave way to the night's chill as you stepped outside, the sudden drop in temperature making you instinctively draw closer to him for warmth.

Noticing your shiver, Adamu gently draped his own coat over your shoulders, enveloping you in its warmth and the subtle scent that was uniquely his. It was like sweet mango and cinnamon, and something rich you couldn’t place.

The gesture, so simple yet intimate, stirred something deep within you, heightening the anticipation of what was yet to come.

The streets were quiet, the city's nighttime serenade a soft backdrop to your shared silence. The proximity to Adamu, his coat wrapped around you, created a cocoon of warmth in the cold night air. It was in this intimate bubble that Adamu stopped, turning to face you, his bright eyes searching yours in the dim light.

The tension between you was a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer. Then, almost as if it were the most natural thing in the world, your lips met in a kiss that was both tentative and desperate, a mingling of warmth and want that sent sparks flying through your very being.

The kiss was imperfect—the slight awkwardness of human lips meeting a gnoll's muzzle—but it only made you want him more. Neither of you cared for symmetry when the kiss deepened, fueled by the pent-up desire and the night's earlier revelations.

As you parted, breathless, Adamu's shy smile returned, a hint of his earlier awkwardness peeking through. "I, uh, live just a short walk from here," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "Would you like me to call a taxi?"

The thought of parting, even just to sit side by side in a taxi, seemed unthinkable. "I'd much rather walk with you," you replied, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

He beamed. “Yeah? Great, me too.”

The walk to Adamu's home was a blur of shared smiles and soft laughter, the earlier kiss lingering like a promise between you. The walk was brisk, quick, your hand nestled in his the entire time. Soon enough you were stood outside a little wooden gate, looking up at a narrow townhouse, garden blooming with wildlife.

Adamu paused at the gate, turning to you once more. The streetlight cast a soft glow around him, illuminating the gentle lines of his face.

In that soft light, you shared another kiss, this one laden with the promise of more to come. It was a seal on the unspoken agreement that tonight was just the beginning.

“Come on inside,” he said, tugging your hand.

With a grin, you followed him inside.

[ginnymoonbeam]

Be My Favorite is digging into concepts of masculinity to a degree I haven't seen in Thai BL before. Since episode 2 we've been seeing the contrast between the kind of man Kawi is and the kind he thinks he should be, and 3 and 4 have drawn a big highlighted circle around what, for simplicity, I'm going to call bro culture: the whole complex of male social behavior that includes competition, ritual humiliation, stark othering of women (both "chivalrous" and not), and a rugged, deflective response to pain.

I'm saying bro culture rather than toxic masculinity because only some elements of it are toxic, although they're so intermingled that it's hard to sift the toxic from the non. You have to work to create a bro culture without misogyny and homophobia - although a lot of BLs (Bad Buddy, for example) do exactly this. Be My Favorite isn't interested in doing that though: it is presenting bro culture unsanitized, and looking at how our two leads interact with it.

On the one hand we have Kawi, who has very clearly always failed to meet bro culture standards, and who still sees success in that sphere as something to aim for. And it's not that the bros reject him outright. Someone like Kawi is great to have around, because for everyone else it means never being at the bottom of the pack. It's not that Not and his group dislike Kawi or want to hurt him. If you asked them, they'd say in all sincerity that they're just trying to help him out. What they're actually doing is using him to affirm their own superior bro-ness: whether they're helping him or mocking him, he lets them feel that they're succeeding where he fails.

Pisaeng sees this much more clearly than Kawi does, hence his facepalm when Kawi tells the other guys he's a virgin. Pisaeng could succeed in bro culture: he could be top dog in that group if he wanted to. It's because he could succeed that he's able to see so clearly that he doesn't want to. When a prize looks hopelessly out of your reach, it's hard to see that it might be worthless.

Pisaeng is frustrated because he's seeing Kawi try so hard to achieve something Pisaeng has already rejected. Kawi is confused because he sees how easily Pisaeng succeeds by bro standards, and yet he's still lonely and discontent. He's always been attracted to Pisaeng (just look at how Pisaeng's introduction, in Kawi's pov, is framed) but he has chosen to interpret that through the bro lens of admiration and envy.

I think we're going to have to see Kawi make a conscious rejection of bro culture. Whether that comes about through his deepening friendships with Max and Pear, or through realizing his feelings for Pisaeng, at some point he's going to have to decide that that prize is not worth winning. I hope we see this, because it's rare for BLs to deal so directly with conflicting views of masculinity, and what being gay or bi means for a young man's sense of self.

[darkscorpiox]

Utena - Analysis on the opening

I don’t know if someone has already done it, but here’s my interpretation of the opening.

Warning: very, VERY long post and mention of scenes from the show, enough to be considered spoilers (sorry 😅)

Edit: I’ve made an analysis on the first ending as well

Let’s live heroically, let’s live with style. (Just a long, long time.)

The opening starts with our two main characters naked and in a fetal position, indicating their status of “newborn” in the story. Then, they are clad in the garbs of their respective roles. Interestingly, despite facing and leaning toward each other, their eyes remain close. In the case of Utena, it symbolizes her inability to see beyond her own narrative of the heroic prince saving the princess. As for Anthy, it’s her resignation to not see anything beyond her role of Rose Bride which she has played for decades/centuries, hence the long, long time.

Even if the two of us are torn apart… (Let go of me…) …take my revolution.

In the next sequence, not only are they not looking at each other, but they are also back-to-back, another indication that they are positioned to be at odds with each other, whether they want to or not. Still, despite the obstacles thrown at them, despite Anthy’s attempts to make Utena give up on her (“Let go of me…”), the latter doesn’t stop telling her to take her hand (revolution) and that’s what she did.

In the sunlit garden, we both joined out hands.

Miki’s sunlit garden is an idealized memory, so it makes sense to compare Utena’s goal of becoming a prince to the former. Also, the tower, where her journey is supposed to end with her heteronormative “happily ever after”, is where she and Anthy join hands and the latter’s revolution begins.

The sequence where Utena walks with the male students has a “one of the boys” kind of vibe and that might have been the intent. The tomboy character may appear progressive by refusing to conform to traditionally feminine gender norms, but that’s instead a sexist concept because it implies that Utena’s gender, her femininity (and by association, anything branded as “girly”), is the one thing that makes her less than her fellow male schoolmates. Also, she looks over her shoulder, something or someone (Anthy?) catching her attention which stops her from blindly following the other boys’ lead.

Drawing close for comfort, we both swore…

In Anthy’s case, due to her hair and skin color, the vibe she emanates as she walks with her fellow female schoolmates is “not like other girls”, another trope which hurts women by marginalizing the few “different/special ones” from the “normal/average ones” or vice versa. However, the reason she turned around (Utena? Her perspicacity?) is what helps her preserve the part of her identity which is still deep within her. So being different isn’t a bad thing as long as every person, especially girls, are given the same courtesy.

If you read the Japanese lyrics, you would know chikai (from chikau, meaning “to swear/vow”) is at the beginning of Anthy’s sequence, when we see the gates of Ohtori, where she swears to find Utena again.

(Also, did you notice that their respective sequences begin with a shot of where their story in Ohtori ends?)

…never again would we ever fall in love. (Every time.)

This line is sung as our two protagonists stand face to face in Anthy’s cage-like greenhouse, where the cycle of the quest for revolution always (re)starts. That vow of never falling in love again, along with that Every time, makes me wonder about how many games had taken place before Utena. How many times had Anthy been engaged to a “chosen one”? How many of those “chosen ones” did she grow to love, yet still choose to betray? How many times did she swore to never love another again only to do so despite said promise to herself? Utena, by ending the cycle, makes the vow mentioned before much sweeter: she and Anthy choose to never fall in love again because they have pledged their love for each other till death do them part (like a married couple 🥰🤵🏻‍♀️👰🏾‍♀️🥰).

I see that photo of us standing cheek to cheek… …and place a bit of my loneliness in our smiles. (Revolution!)

At this moment, the past represented by Utena and Anthy lying down, facing each other, and the future represented by the lyrics paralleled each other.

Past: a (naively) smiling Utena and a (falsely) smiling Anthy -> Anthy gives the white rose, the symbol of the Prince and by association, patriarchy, the source of her eternal pain, to Utena who is unaware of the dark history connected to it -> (failed) Revolution by dueling (transition to the dueling arena)

Future: the photo at the end of Episode 39 -> Anthy’s longing for Utena -> (successful) Revolution by leaving Akio

Even if I dream, even if I cry, even if I get hurt… …reality keeps on coming recklessly.

This sequence is about the Duelists.

Utena being the one who dreams is self-explanatory.

Saionji, if you pause at the right time, is seen with tears in his eyes. Behind his arrogant attitude is nothing but a mentally weak and insecure boy who throws violent tantrums when things don’t go his way.

Juri is no doubt the one most hurt in the series, not only because of her gender, but also because of her sexual orientation (I’ve made a post about it).

Miki and Nanami being the ones hit by reality makes sense due to the knowledge they idealize the relationship they shared with their respective siblings when they were children.

But what about Touga? Maybe it’s the confidence that he could get the power to revolutionize the (his) world if he emulates the system which had hurt him only to realize that such way of doing things won’t get him closer to his goal. Or, since he’s the first antagonist of the show, giving us a taste of what Akio, another male character whose inside is the opposite of his princely front, could do to girls, maybe he represents the reality/truth of the (imperfect) world.

All these Duelists, these teenagers, fight each other for a purpose and that later turns out to be futile after they find out that the rules they play by are a cover for a much more sinister plot.

I wanna find my own place, the value of being…

The first half, we focus on Utena who raises her sword with a determined look as the blue sky turned golden and the dueling arena crumbled. Utena rejects the narrative Akio wants for her and in the process, breaks the world he has created (and kept Anthy in).

While we zoom in on Utena, symbolizing her will to move forward, it’s the opposite with Anthy. Expression blank, she put some distance between her and Utena/the viewer(s), letting herself (her true self) disappear with Akio’s self-made world.

This sequence foreshadows what will happen in Episode 38.

…the person I’ve been until now…

But as it is shown in Episode 39, Anthy didn’t disappear in the fall of Akio’s world and stood up against her brother (riding a horse), mirroring Utena.

Also, we see Dios opens his eyes as the dueling arena crumbles to dust.

In Episode 13, Akio is conversing with a “sealed” Dios who “glare[s] at” him for wanting to bring the Prince back into the world. Dios had been “sealed away” because playing Prince had been killing him. Anthy had become the world’s sole target of their hatred so that he would no longer carry that great burden on his shoulders ever again. Dios is angry at Akio for not only trying to turn her sacrifice into a fruitless endeavor, but for also taking part in her eternal torment by making her an accomplice in his scheme.

Akio has internalized the teachings of patriarchy. He now idealizes the Prince, forgetting that his current self isn’t the result of Anthy sealing the latter’s power away. He had, of his own volition, casted away his “nobility” and enjoyed the privileges of his gender. He was free of the duties expected from the Prince yet chose to not use that freedom to search for a way to save his sister without taking on that mantle again. Protected by a patriarchal system, Akio is in fact afraid of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders again despite his desire to return to his “glory days”. He wants to be the Prince again (regression), but also doesn’t want to give up his life of privilege. There is no step toward self-improvement. And that’s why his quest for revolution is nothing but a pretext to play people like a fiddle, especially the vulnerable ones like children and women. I think he subconsciously knows he’s maintaining a perpetual cycle meant to end in failure, but he’s too lost in his self-centeredness to take a third option, to destroy the limits of his coffin. In other words, Akio must let patriarchy (manifested through the game and the dueling arena) disappear in order to regain the lost part of him that is Dios, because what the latter really wants is to live in a better world, one where Princes aren’t needed anymore.

Let’s find the strength to throw it all away. Strip down to nothing all.

Utena having the strength to throw everything away references her decision to give up on the heteronormative “happy ending” given to her at the cost of Anthy’s well-being.

Anthy being stripped of everything references her true (naked) self within her coffin.

Become like rose petals, blowing free!

Honestly, that part was a bit difficult to interpret. We do see petals blown in the wind when Utena beats boys at basketball, but the only time I saw them concerning Anthy (and by association, the duels) was when the Duelist gets “deflowered”, and I didn’t get a feeling of freedom from it. Or so I thought at first. Knowing that the duels are part of Akio’s plot which is nothing but a wild goose chase, it makes sense in the context that losing means some time away from Akio’s control and thus, a chance to reflect and for self-improvement. Also, if the dueling arena is like a groomed flower, then its rubble is the petals. This might be foreshadowed in Episode 9, when Anthy falls with rose petals scattered everywhere as Utena tries to catch her.

Even if the two of us are torn apart… …I swear that I will change the world.

We have a return of Even if the two of us are torn apart… (Let go of me…) / …take my revolution. This time, there’s no request to let go of the other party and Utena is taking the next step toward (self-)improvement. If you pause at the right time, you can see she is not in a fetal position like at the beginning of the opening. Now, it looks like she is opening herself to the real world.

Anthy is not present, but that’s because she hasn’t reunited with Utena yet. Until that day comes, the latter will keep fighting for the world both deserve to live in.

In conclusion, the opening is a summary of the entire series and foreshadows how it would end.

[canonmisogynyvictimstournament]

PROPAGANDA

SAKURA HARUNO (NARUTO)

1.) 1.) It is repeatedly stated throughout the series the areas in which she excels. We are told over and over again that she is gifted (early on in the series) or tremendously strong (end of the series) and yet with the exception of of the Sasori fight, there seems to be a staunch refusal to actually SHOW her being competent in a fight. 2.) her backstory ties into nothing plotwise as far as the overarching world and history of the village and its families. The three other leads (Sasuke Naruo, Kakashi) all get their own relevant backstory that gets delved into. But Sakura? Neither has one nor goes off and embroils herself personally into one of these overarching plot points. She is constantly forced to just be a companion/side character to the stories of her male counterparts. 3.) She’s given so much potential for a great powersuite and those all either go unrealized or she gets shown up by other characters. idk if this is what was meant by propaganda but its what i got

2.) Despite becoming the world’s best surgeon and doctor at age 17 (including doing open heart surgery in the middle of an active battlefield), her achievements are routinely undercut and underplayed by the canon.

It’s all the more disappointing because in some ways, she’s a very realistic and humanistic depiction of a teenage girl. Unlike her teammates, she grew up in what we would consider a pretty average family situation (two living parents who love her, even if they don’t understand her choices), and has relatively average goals at the beginning. Compared to her teammates who are orphans from dynastic ninja clans, who were basically born to a lineage of massive amounts of powerful ninja magic; Sakura’s civilian family has given her no genetic predisposition to being powerful. Despite this, she’s shown to be highly intelligent, achieving top scores on exams and having a deep knowledge for theory and concepts.

She begins the story having a crush on Sasuke Uchiha, a boy who has no interest in her, and hating Naruto, their village’s Omelas Child. However, as she works with her team, she bonds with them on a deeper level, and works very hard to meet their natural level of skill and not be deadweight on their team.

However, despite the fact that trios are treated with deep cultural and narrative significance throughout Naruto, the narrative quickly abandons the “Team 7 Trio” framing in all the ways that matter, becoming the Naruto-and-Sasuke show in all ways that matter. When Sakura gets her time to shine, she’s always undercut. Her massive physical strength and strong sense of self in Shippuden are never treated with the same reverence as her teammates’. Despite the fact that she can easily shatter rock and manipulate the ground with her sheer physical power, and that she was originally presented as good at genjutsu (illusion magic); she becomes a field medic/doctor – a carer/support role, rather than a DPS. Her decisions to advocate for herself and the people she cares about (such as trying to kill Sasuke) are treated as foolish and naive, not a heroic choice to try and help her friends at a large personal cost.

She also basically never gets to fight a man, except for one important case: Sasori. This is important, because the female characters in Naruto are routinely presented as less powerful and less of a threat than male characters. While her fight with Sasori is a fantastic arc, it ends with Sasori undercutting her victory by being like “well actually I wanted to die”, implying that he’d chosen to let her win, not that her win is well deserved. This is at the start of Shippuden, she doesn’t get a solo fight arc after that.

Of course, the most egregious thing done to Sakura is that she’s married off to Sasuke. Despite the fact that Sasuke is never once shown to give a shit about her, and the fact that her character development in a large part was about her giving up the childish and misogynistic desire to be a wife to the cute guy in her class, suddenly they’re together. Sasuke is a deadbeat husband, however, and immediately fucks off, to the point where he doesn’t recognise their child when he meets her, and tries to kill her. Sakura-the-housewife-waiting-at-the-window-for-her-husband’s-return is again now deeply in love with a man who doesn’t give a shit about her. The only photo she has of them together is shown to be a cutout of another photo of Sasuke stuck on a photo of her. She’s again trapped in a housewife box, her achievements and skill sideline to her ability to rear a child for the male lead. And worse, despite the fact she’s a very confident person who otherwise has no issue advocating for herself, she doesn’t really seem to fight back against this awful status quo in her relationship, grateful for the scraps of affection Sasuke delivers to her once a decade.

3.) Despite being on a team of three, she’s always side lined for the other two. Her whole thing is healing, then in a major arc at the end of the main series a character gets hurt and when she goes to attempt to heal them, she is pushed aside so Naruto can do his amazing magic healing that he just learned and is already better at it than her.

HINATA HYUUGA (NARUTO)

1.) When Hinata was introduced she goals, weaknesses, interesting interactions and relationships with characters other than naruto and a personality of her own. Post timeskip in shippuden, however, she was reduced down to simply ‘naruto’s future love interest’ and little else. The entire Hyuuga plotline was dropped and she no longer had any relevance or personality outside of naruto. Part 1 hinata was shy and insecure on the surface but underneath that she was determined & hardworking, even to her own detriment. Her struggles were compelling. Her interactions with neji and her family are something you look forward to seeing more of. In shippuden she’s like a flat carboard cutout of hinata. Her shyness exaggerated, her relationship with her family suddenly perfectly fine and boring. In part 1 naruto inspires her to keep trying but he isn’t the reason she’s working so hard, in shippuden he’s pretty much all she thinks about. Her change in character design really highlights these changes - the perfect little wife for cishet men to fantasise about.

2.) Her entire personality and arc is boiled down to “shy uwu waifu in love with Naruto” and basically any development she gets, which is barely at all because Kishimoto hates women, is as attributed to NARUTO and Naruto only. Even her reaction to her beloved COUSIN’S DEATH makes her be like “omg I love Naruto” and serves to further NaruHina, which is absolutely insane she would Not react like that. Naruto only starts being romantically interested in her at the beginning of like, The Last movie, which is after 500ish episodes of her being treated as the sidelined love interest who is devoted to a guy who only cares about her when she’s a damsel in distress on a fight.

There are so many parts of her character that are/could be interesting, like her part in the Hyuga Clan due to being born as a superior and her dynamic with her cousin Neji as a result, (which could have had SO many great moments of reconciliation and standing up for each other grrr grrr) an exploration of the impact of her bullying & being looked down upon (even when she’s supposed to be a superior member, which adds to the shame) LIKE MANY OF THE CAST, seriously the people Naruto trauma dumps to are mostly consisted of people unfairly treated like that and it could have been used to further NaruHina WHILE showing her struggles

She is an incredibly capable fighter but the moment Naruto is there, she instantly becomes defenseless and needs to be saved by her crush, mostly as a “wow look at him isn’t he so brave and kind to do this for her?!”

There’s an episode where she is literally used as a defenseless punching bag for Pein by trying to sacrifice herself for Naruto and telling him she loves him, JUST so he can be more angry and have more motivation to beat Pein’s ass (aside of the yknow. Killing his loved ones thing) AND her confession is ignored by Naruto for the rest of the series. Just like any moment she shows her crush for him is met with obliviousness, which would be fine if they weren’t the main couple and didn’t go on for THE ENTIRE SERIES!!!!

In Boruto, the shitty sequel, Naruto is basically her deadbeat husband in her bland lavander marriage and Boruto is rightfully mad about Naruto’s distance from the family and even says he left her basically a single mom and barely pays time to the family, and Hinata’s role in the show as the housewife is being like “no you see Boruto you have to understand your father’s pov as the Hokage” and the narrative treats NaruHina’s marriage as a Good, Healthy Thing as if the characters are not miserable in this marriage.

3.) Man I don’t even like her that much but she deserved SO much better. She was introduced as the heiress of a really powerful and renowed clan with complex dynamics, yet the author somehow decided to do almost NOTHING with the potential she had, and gave her very little personality besides being shy and fawning over the protagonist. She gets slightly more active in Shippuden (part 2), but her character still pretty much revolves around her love for Naruto, which sucks because again, she has so much potential. It’s no secret that women in Naruto are badly written, and Hinata certainly is no exception. The male characters get dozens of episodes/chapters about their motivations, their backstories, what pushes them to keep going, and Hinata gets almost nothing besides her lifelong crush on Naruto that we are reminded of literally every time she’s on screen.

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

♧|Endeavors|♧

[I felt the need to write about him, I'm sorry!]

[Inspo] [Inspo] [Inspo]

-

《After mistaking one of your companions for someone else. You find yourself gaining lots of attention...》

{Prince! Link / Reader}

-

After managing to escape from the room you were taken to, you pull up your gown as you race about in the Hyrule castle halls. Tapestries and portraits pass you by as you search for your companions.

Seeing a familiar blonde headed figure in the distance, you run faster, bare feet padding against the cool floor until you jump and tackle the figure.

"Hya!"

The male shouts as he falls to the floor, your fluffy gown and unforseen body weight crushing him as he stares at your smiling face.

"Link!" You cry out happily, knees placed beside his hips as you move closer to him. The young man stares bug-eyed at you while you throw your arms around him, giving him a great big hug.

The young male stiffens at your warm and gentle touch. He felt your slow, calm breaths by his heart while the sweet scent of your hair fills his senses.

"We gotta find the others! I don't know why the gaurds took me or why I'm wearing this, or why you're wearing THAT. But we will figure it out! Together, as always, right?" You said a determined gleam in your (e/c) eyes.

Before he could answer, you slowly detached yourself. But you're taken aback when he reaches for you, grasping your dominant wrist tightly as he quietly observed you.

"Lin.. Link?" You said cautiously, now noticing his different attire than the armor you were used to.

"Hey? Bubs? Hello~?" You ask, trying to release yourself.

"Uhm... Are you gonna lead- woah-!" The blonde pulls you close, hand ghosting over your waistline as he strides further into the intricate hallways.

"I guess you're leading then.." You huff, rolling your eyes playfully. Giving him a cheeky smile as his expression becomes surprised once more. Bashfully looking away and back to your "destination." Wherever it might be...

-

Learning about you was something Link quite enjoyed. During his free time, he'd often go to your chambers. Or what you lovingly called "vacation cell," which he found odd. Yet he would laugh quietly at your mannerisms. You spoke of worlds that were similar to his own, some completely different!

You told him of your own world, a place with no monsters or creatures. Where the "Triforce" doesn't even exist. Where the prophecy he and his fellow Triforce holders had to follow was all but a story made by a man's imagination.

Besides that..

You showed him your device, which you called a "phone." Showing him photos of your world and the ones you've seen with your friends, or what you called "The Chain."

Often times, you would bring them up in conversation or would mumble about.

"If Time saw me lazing around in this room..."

"Legend would totally want that!"

"I bet Sky wishes for a bed like this! It's so squishy!"

"I miss Wilds cooking.."

You even one time asked a wondering fairy if she had seen your friend, whom you believed he was a "fairy prince."

The young man's pride would never admit it.. He yearned to have that connection you have with these "Hero's of Courage."

To make you light up brighter than the suns shine in the early mornings.

■HEADCANONS■

Prince Link is still the holder of the Triforce of Courage. While Zelda is still the chosen heroine of wisdom.

Prince Link is honestly a bit shy with (Y/N), yet he will be very blunt and honest when needed. Having grown up as royalty, he has lots of manners and adequate. He's respected and courageous like his alternates.

Yandere side: I can see him as bit.. Controlling. Where, he doesn't want you to fight with a bunch of burly heroes and get hurt fighting Moblins. He'd rather you stay with him in his world than get hurt.

He knows you can hold your own weight. But he cares a lot about you. You're unique, friendly, and attractive. So why in Hylias name would he let you get yourself killed?

His counterparts agree with him on the fact you needed to be worshiped and protected.

-

[OOF- OK, So.. I had the urge and did this.. It's been on my mind and I couldn't help it. @cafecourage @cloudninetonine @gliphyartfan @my-insanity-is-an-artform @yanderelinkeduniverse the awesome blogs that helped me by getting be back to my Loz roots!]

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Prompt response

@sweetwatersong

sweetwatersong

So glad you're having fun! 😄 Hmm, what about that quote from Oliver about kissing a male actor as a prompt? "When your eyes are closed, it's the same."

Their first date is painfully awkward.

Their second date is, although he didn't think it possible, worse. 

And okay, maybe he was asking for it…he doesn't actually know what he was thinking, deciding that the best way to counteract the disaster of a first date was to invite a man he'd just met to be his plus one to Maddie's wedding. (He resolutely ignores the little voice in his head–the one that sounds suspiciously like Eddie–telling him he wasn't thinking). The 118 are…a lot. He loves them with all his heart, they are his chosen family, and he wouldn't trade them for anything…but yeah, the entire crew in full party mode would be overwhelming for an established relationship coming up on its ten-year anniversary, let alone a brand new situation with the added weight of it being his first same-sex experience. 

His parents were there for fuck's sake. He and Tommy hadn't even discussed parameters, boundaries, exclusivity, and Buck was introducing him to his parents. And granted, introducing Tommy to Bobby and Athena had felt…more…despite the strides he and his parents have made in repairing their relationship, but still.

Add into all that the absolutely impossible, ridiculous, downright Hollywood movie-style disaster that had been the bachelor party and subsequent search for the missing groom and Buck is honestly surprised that Tommy hadn't run screaming for the hills. He hadn't, though. He hadn't.

And now here they are. Three months in. Going stronger than Buck would have ever dreamed after that first embarrassing dinner date. They see each other at least a few times a week, as their schedules allow. There's a second toothbrush in the holder in Buck's bathroom. Buck's preferred brand of oat milk can be found in Tommy's fridge. Neither of them have cleared out space in drawers or closets yet, but Buck found an LAFD t-shirt with Kinard across the back in his laundry the other day, and he's pretty sure he'll find his favorite hoodie somewhere at Tommy's apartment next time he goes over. 

He's always loved this part of dating someone–the slow slide into sharing space, the little bits of each other that start mixing and melding until it's just them. He's never done it right in the past–not with Abby, not with Taylor, nor any of the other, shorter relationships he's had, he can acknowledge that now…but he's always loved it. He feels like he might be getting it right with Tommy, now. 

Evan Buckley has a boyfriend. A boyfriend that he is pretty damn sure he's falling in love with, even if they aren't quite at the point of saying it, yet. 

It's never been this easy, before. This comfortable. He thinks part of it must be that this is the first time he's dating someone that actually gets his job. Tommy understands the crazy schedules, the stress, the danger he sometimes has to put himself in, understands the drive that Buck has to help people, because that's his life too. Abby was probably the one who came the closest to being able to understand, but even she hadn't been able to fully comprehend that part of Buck's life. 

But he thinks the greater part of what makes this the most comfortable romantic relationship he's ever had is just that it's with Tommy. Tommy, who is patient and gentle when Buck needs it, and firm and demanding when he needs that, and has no problem being the one to hold and comfort him when he needs that, and accepts all that right back from Buck when he needs it. Equal. Buck doesn't think he's ever had a romantic relationship that feels so equal. Even in matters that Tommy definitely has the experience advantage in, where Buck defers to his lead, he always feels like they're going at his pace and comfort level. 

Buck's had partners who enjoyed his body before, of course. Tommy is certainly no exception on that front. He doesn't think he's ever had a partner who so clearly treasures everything that comes with his body, though. Tommy's just as interested in Buck's latest research binge and what he and Chris are doing for Chris's science project as he is in what Buck can do with his tongue besides talk. 

It's…refreshing. A little bit heady, if he's being honest. 

He’s just sliding the pan of chicken parmesan he's been assembling for dinner under the broiler for the mozzarella to get brown and bubbly when his front door opens, and the man who's been occupying his thoughts enters, work bag slung over his shoulder. Buck looks up in time to catch the tail end of the pleased, smitten grin curling his boyfriend's lips as he slides his keys back into his pocket. That’s a new thing, the freshly cut key to Buck's place on Tommy's keyring only a few weeks old. Buck has one to Tommy's apartment on his.

It's more practical than anything else right now. Their lives being what they are, there's been more than one occasion where they had plans to meet up only to find the other's shift had run over, and they were left awkwardly hanging out in the lobby of the building. They're not at a point where they're thinking of moving in together or anything…those drawers and closets haven't been cleaned out to make room for a new occupant to start leaving more than a few scraps of themselves behind. But it's not…an insignificant step. 

“Hey babe,” Tommy says, coming up behind him to wind his arms around Buck's waist as he rinses his hands at the sink. He kisses the back of Buck's neck and Buck sighs happily as he leans his weight back against his boyfriend's solid frame. “That smells amazing.”

“Bobby finally gave up his secrets to the perfect marinara,” Buck replies, turning in Tommy's arms so he can kiss him properly. 

There's still a small part of him that always marvels a little at the novelty of having to tip his head up slightly to kiss his partner. That thrills a little at the feeling of being held, enveloped in his partner's arms. He'd made light of it the couple times he's talked to people about the differences in dating Tommy–dating a man–as compared to any of the women he's been with. 

“When your eyes are closed, it's the same,” he'd told Maddie with a wink, drawing a peal of laughter from his sister. 

And that's true. In all the ways that matter, right down at the heart of it, it's all the same. 

Tommy's hands slide up under his t-shirt, stroking the skin over his ribs and the small of his back. He presses Buck back against the counter just a little, nipping playfully at his lower lip before pulling back and smiling at him.

“Well, if it's Bobby's secret sauce, I can't wait to try it. Need me to do anything?” 

“Mm, set the table? And I got a bottle of that red you liked at Bobby and Athena's last week–it needs to breathe for a few minutes.”

“I can't believe I'm dating someone who lets wine breathe,” Tommy chuckles. 

It's something Taylor might have said, back when they were together…but Taylor never would have sounded so fucking pleased about it. Like every little quirk of Buck’s was just part of his charm, something endearing. Like it was a privilege to find it out. 

They sit down to eat–Tommy makes an appreciative noise when he takes a sip of the properly-aired wine, so hah–and the conversation flows. Calls Tommy went on today, Buck's plans to take Jee to the children's museum while Tommy hits the basketball courts with Eddie this weekend, the trip up the coast they're planning for next month…if only the Buck of three months ago could see them now. 

Later, they sprawl out on his bed together, sweaty and sticky in the best way. Tommy's hand cards idly through his hair, tugging on his curls with a contented hum, and Buck stares up at the shadowed ceiling, his body loose and satisfied, his mind quiet and calm. 

He relaxes against his boyfriend, comfortable in his own skin in a way he doesn't think he's ever been in his life. 

He hadn't been lying when he told Maddie it was all the same when he closed his eyes. In all the ways that matter, it is. 

But it's also so, so different. Not because he's dating a man. Because he's dating this man. 

He can't wait to see how different this thing between them will end up being. 

This is fun and these two are adorable...hit up my askbox if you have a prompt, yo.