#some of them are written in present tense and others in past tense

[pshcomforts]

➳ brought the heat back | psh.

situationship!sunghoon x fem!reader (feat. gunwook from zerobaseone)

“i’m so jealous, i’m going crazy, my patience will run out”

synopsis: sunghoon definitely wasn’t amused when coming to a party and seeing some guy talk to you.

warnings/content: written in third pov. mentions of alcohol. suggestive. little fluff. tension. possessive and jealous sunghoon (what did you expect). cursing. not proofread.

comments, likes, and reposts are appreciated :)

word count: 2.7k

༘˚⋆𐙚｡masterlist⋆.✧˚

current song playing: brought the heat back by enhypen

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

0:34 ──|───────────────── 2:22

y/n had just arrived to the dim-lit party, music loudly blasting through her ears as she moved past waves of people.

the girl struggled to find her friends as they remained scattered all around.

“damn heeseung just had to throw a huge ass party..,” she mumbled to herself, sighing softly once she realized she wouldn’t be able to find anyone.

she even sent texts, but she deemed that all had gone off of their phones for the night so she settled on a drink and time well spent of being alone.

that was until her coworker had approached her.

“hey y/n!” gunwook yelled out, grinning at her shocked expression.

“gunwook?? i never thought i’d see you here!”

the male laughed before taking a step closer to her. “never thought i would’ve either, especially when you’re alone.” he frowned, earning a playful smile to form on y/n. “where are your friends?”

“they’re off somewhere… i can’t find them honestly..,” she admitted to him.

gunwook quickly wore a grin that reflected hers, presenting a sweet expression as he said, “so.. i take it you’re alone then?”

she cocked a brow at him before the two broke out into laughter. “what do you mean by that, gunwook…?” she softly teased, breaking another chuckle out of him.

“just saying… if i’m alone, and you’re alone, we can be each others company.”

the girl tensed up for a second, stopping to process the words her coworker had just uttered out to her.

that wasn’t what she thought it meant.. right?

she glanced at the tall boy to search for what his intentions were, but given that they were just coworkers, she deemed it was nothing, so she agreed.

surely, no one would be upset with that option, right? (no)

gunwook offered to get the next cup of liquor after she downed her first, both sitting on the couch that had been crowded by others.

“why didn’t you help that customer out??” he laughed with a huge grin plastered across his face.

“because!—“ y/n yelled, pausing to sip her cup. “she looked like she would’ve much rather talked to you so i let her go to you!”

the boy sputtered out a giggle. “so you let me have your sale then?” he teased, earning a soft hit on the arm.

“well that wasn’t my intention, she just seemed more interested in talking to you so i didn’t know what else to do.” she rolled her eyes, scoffing as she remained hearing hearty laughs erupt out of him.

he let his tongue slip through his lips when he furrowed his brows and shook his head. “you could’ve just stolen that sale from me, y/n. i would’ve let you,” he sighed.

“well i’m sorry, gunwook, i thought you would’ve actually appreciated getting that sale.”

the two laughed out her play on sarcasm, unintentionally getting closer with their body movements.

just when their heads were about to bunk, a buzzing notification caught y/n’s attention and thinking it was one of her friends, she quickly glanced at it.

just a friend ‼️:

Stop getting close to him.

Do you want me to do something about it?

✩ ‘who is that guy who said hello earlier?’ ✩

her heart instantly dropped at the texts. where was he? and how did he know? she tried to scan around the area, but another notification pulled her back to her phone.

just a friend ‼️:

Looking for me?

y/n began to text back with her heartbeats getting louder by the second. her hands were softly shaking and she didn’t know what to do.

encountering jealous hoon was something that happened occasionally, but it was always minor and not noticeable enough to make it seem like they were more than friends.

✩ ‘i’m getting jealous’ ✩

‘where are you? and why are you watching me??’ — she quickly messaged back, chewing her lips as gunwook started to notice the change in her demeanor.

just a friend ‼️:

Don’t worry about where I am, pretty girl

Now get his hand off of your leg or I’ll come over and do it myself.

✩ ‘it’s weird, i don’t want to but i’m envious’ ✩

y/n felt her stomach rupture with butterflies at the possessive tone in his text. her eyes fell down to her leg and finally noticed the unintentional hand slip there.

“gunwook, your hand..,” she awkwardly mumbled, gesturing down to where it laid.

the boy quickly gasped and removed it with a blush forming on his cheeks. “oh god, i’m sorry! i didn’t know my hand was there…,” he admitted in shame. “that won’t make it awkward at work right..?”

she shook her head in reassurance and laughed at the way he panicked. “noo, you’re fine!! i didn’t realize it was there either..,” she chortled.

gunwook nodded, cheeks still flushing with embarrassment as he scratched his neck.

“sorry about that…,”

“what are you sorry for!” y/n swiftly chuckled. “you did nothing wrong, gunwook!” her hand placed itself on his arm out of habit, attempting to reassure the boy but the only thing it did was set off alarms in sunghoon’s head.

the older male who watched from afar felt his jaw tighten at the little action, eyes squinting and staring down at the two who were innocently on the couch.

✩ ‘why are you smiling at him like that?’ ✩

his hands went to his phone, typing his message out of irritation.

‘Why do you have your hand on his arm? Take it off.’

✩ ‘it feels like burning, hotter, hotter’ ✩

he glanced up with crossed arms, hoping that his girl would listen. he watched her mumble incoherent words that he couldn’t make out and soon enough, her hands slipped away from that stupid guys arms.

✩ ‘rough madness’ ✩

his lips began to curl and a smirk started to form as his gaze remained on the two, not even caring that there was a party going on.

✩ ‘it’s getting stronger, stronger’ ✩

jake even tried to offer a drink, but sunghoon declined, not wanting to feed the jealous rage that still fumed in the pit of his stomach.

but when he found that tall boy inch closer to y/n, his heart was quick to sink. he straightened himself before walking to the scene without even thinking, fists clenched and brows furrowed to display his pissed reaction.

✩ ‘i can’t stand it’ ✩

sunghoon stood before them, eyes narrowing down at the guy he couldn’t recognize.

“y/n,” he gritted out with a tightened jaw, hating the way his heart burned at this.

✩ ‘i can’t hide it, my head is spinning, crazy, yeah’ ✩

he watched how the girl instantly pieced that it was him as she glanced back. “sunghoon…,” she gulped, finally taking in the handsome features present on him.

he quickly let out a soft scoff, eyes rolled while keeping his glare directly on her.

a soft lick was made between his lips. “what are you doing, hm?” he taunted, smile slowly curling once he saw how she lowly panicked.

“nothing, hoon. i’m just catching up with my coworker.” y/n quickly excused, gesturing to gunwook, who awkwardly sat there.

✩ ‘don’t test me’ ✩

but the older male didn’t bother to glance at him, letting his attention lay completely on the girl who he wanted as his.

before he could speak, gunwook intervened with a murmur — “we’re really just coworkers, man.”

sunghoon glared back at him for a second, disbelief written on his face as he scoffed. that’s not what it looked like seconds ago when he was inches away from his girl.

✩ ‘trying hard to endure, endure’ ✩

he got a hold of y/n’s wrist, fingers tightening around while pulling her away from the scene. his nails were close to digging into her skin as his heart picked up on the jealous energy that chucked at him.

✩ ‘i’m going crazy like this, i’m going crazy’ ✩

she softly winced in pain, feeling every press of his slim fingers that wrapped around her wrist.

“sunghoon..,” y/n whispered, but he ignored her, making the girl unable to clarify that gunwook was just leaning in to remove something from her hair.

truth be told though, he almost fell weak to his knees when his name had slipped out of her mouth. his possessive demeanor nearly dropped, but only grew stronger once he realized it fueled flame to fire.

✩ ‘no, it ain’t my fault, ain’t my fault’ ✩

the inner corner of his lips curled in satisfaction before bringing her to an empty room.

the door quickly closed and y/n was slammed against it with hoon caging her to himself. his arms were securely palmed against the door as his eyes stared down at her.

“sunghoon..,” she quietly murmured out again, heart fluttering at his tall frame towering over hers.

he tilted his head with a slight brow raise in response, loving how weak she could fall within seconds of barely making contact. he leaned himself in, closing the gap between their heated bodies.

✩ ‘ain’t my fault, it’s because of you’ ✩

their lips barely grazed against each others as his breath hit her skin. “what are we doing?” y/n mumbled to him, truly confused at their situation.

sunghoon swallowed down a harsh lump in his throat, trying to find words that would answer her question. “i don’t know, y/n. you tell me,” he squinted his eyes in jealousy again. “one second you’re texting me about how we should go watch this new movie together, and the next you’re talking to your coworker who obviously likes you.”

one of his hands that laid flat against the door began to clench, turning it into a fist as he remembered just how close the boy was getting to her.

“do you like him?” he questioned, feeling his heartbeats rise with every silent second that passed.

✩ ‘don’t be confused, is it me or him’ ✩

y/n stayed quiet, unable to admit her feelings for the guy in front of her when she suddenly felt a finger hook around her chin. sunghoon pulled her attention onto him, eyes boring into hers to get a straight answer.

“tell me, pretty.” he spat, already knowing that she liked him, and not the coworker.

at this point, his lips were about to get a taste before he could even think. he was close to caving in with how her silence was saying much more than needed.

he let his top lip graze against hers again, noses bunking and foreheads almost colliding when the room began to get hotter.

“say it,” hoon whispered near her skin, faint groans slipping pass his throat when he felt her try to resist.

y/n gulped, softly biting her lips to temper herself down but couldn’t when they were so close to taking it to the next level. “i like you, sunghoon, not him.” she confessed, feeling her stomach bubble with butterflies.

his lips were quick to coil into a shit-eating grin, causing her to feel it against her skin as he murmured, “you drive me crazy, angel. you don’t even understand what you do to me.”

before she could even speak, he smashed his lips against hers, finally colliding into a much needed kiss. y/n quietly gasped, allowing more entrance for the male as her hands instantly ran to his muscular arms.

she squeezed them, trying to signal for him to pull away with how rough he moved against her, but he couldn’t stop. even if he wanted to, he couldn’t with how much he had been craving this.

sunghoon’s thick brows furrowed as he continued, loving the sweet taste her lips offered while his hands slipped down to her waist. he pushed himself closer, allowing her to melt into the harsh movements.

and once she did so, her hands quickly moved up to the messy hair that covered his forehead, softly tugging at them to stimulate his satisfaction.

he let out a soft groan, pulling back ever so slightly to take a breather with all that was going on.

y/n felt his breath fan against her skin, making her glance down at his now-swollen lips that were running pink around the edges from his initial intention to go for it.

sunghoon quickly leaned it, urging for another kiss when her hands stopped at his broad chest. “hoon, let me breathe,” she whined, earning a low chuckle.

a soft sigh left him as he wore a mischievous grin. “fine, breathe then.” he uttered out before leaning in closer to her neck.

he pressed firm kisses against it, causing a gasp to be heard from his girl. “sunghoon!” she yelled, trying to push him away, but he didn’t budge.

the asshole only smiled, continuing to leave pecks around her neck to tease. “what? i’m letting you breathe,” he taunted with a coy tone. “isn’t that what you wanted?”

she whined at his words, still attempting to push away at his shoulders. “you better not leave anything noticeable.” she warned once she felt his vampire-like fangs begin to nibble.

a scoff immediately fell from his lips. “why? can’t i let everyone know that you’re mine now?” he growled.

when she kept her mouth shut, he let another puff of air slip by. “oh i see.” he peered into her gaze. “you don’t want that coworker of yours to know, hm?”

sunghoon quickly narrowed his eyes and poked his tongue out through his cheek. “aren’t you gonna admit it?” he asked, thumb pulling her bottom lip down.

y/n choked out, completely falling in a daze at how jealous he was. “it’s not that…,” she murmured.

“then what is it?”

“i just don’t want anything noticeable, hoon.” the girl frowned. “it’s hard to cover up.”

hoon widely grinned, raising his brows as he uttered, “isn’t that the whole point?”

she rolled her eyes and shoved his arm. “i can’t have it show anywhere, idiot, especially at work.”

“so i’m right then?” he joked, earning another nudge on the arm as he laughed. “you could’ve just admitted it, you know?”

“that’s not what i meant, dumbass!” y/n defended, now smacking his arms and giggling alongside him.

the two continued their banter until sunghoon decisively wrapped his arms around her, stopping the constant hits he was receiving.

“fine, no marks.” he huffed, muzzling his head into her shoulder. he breathed in her intoxicating scent as he tightened her closer to his chest.

“you’re mine now though, right?”

y/n laughed at his words before bringing her hands up to hit his arm. “obviously.. idiot,” she responded.

sunghoon’s lips formed a huge smile that was now plastered across his face. “good…,” his soft voice whispered — “because i hate that coworker of yours.”

“hoon, he wasn’t even doing anything that bad.”

he playfully scoffed. “so now you’re trying to defend him?”

she quickly rolled her eyes. “sunghoon! he was—“

he leaned in with a grin, pressing his lips against hers to shut her up. his hand firmly held her cheeks as he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

hoon finally pulled away after her arms wrapped around his neck.

“i hate you,” she murmured.

“as if.” his lips connected with hers again for a soft peck, unable to restrain himself.

and when he leaned in again, y/n put a hand to his chest once more. “we should go back to the party,” she said, knowing how much he wanted to kiss again.

“come on, baby.” sunghoon whined, giving a slight pout. “don’t say that.”

she giggled before shaking her head. “let’s go, hoon, before they start to get suspicious.” the girl replied.

he declined for minutes, trying to convince her for another kiss, in which she eventually gave in.

y/n planted a soft peck on his lips that lasted only seconds, leaving him to scoff.

“okay, what was that?”

“that was a kiss?” she teased.

“you know i want more than that.”

his brow raised and she only laughed before pushing the door open and holding his hand. “later, dummy. come on!” y/n quickly dragged her grumbling boy out to the party and ignored his petty behavior that came afterward.

safe to say that sunghoon was definitely gonna get another kiss that night.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

a/n: heyy… i know it’s been a while.. i’m sorry! i’m currently working and also doing a summer session so i haven’t had any time at all to write, but i’m hoping to be posting regularly again. but if not then.. you will be hearing from me once a month…

[sensitiveheartless]

Written followup to the horrors comic! It got away from me lol. Most of it's under the cut, cause this part is also a bit long.

~*~

Minutes passed by on the quiet moonlit dock.

Despite the renewed serenity of the night, Chuuya’s heart continued to race sickeningly fast. It hammered away in his chest, as if unable to fully grasp that the danger had passed.

His clothes were heavy and waterlogged, so cold against his skin that he could barely keep from shivering. Icy trickles ran down the back of his neck and dripped from his hair.

Closing his eyes didn’t help. There were far too many twisted corpses engraved in the darkness whenever he blinked. So he kept his eyes open, staring at the planks beneath them as he tried to steady his breathing.

Don’t think about it, Chuuya told himself. Don’t think about them.

Instead, he forced himself to remain in the present moment. Beneath the planks, he could hear the swell of the ocean waters, each wave lapping at the posts in a quiet rhythm. Salt filled his lungs with every breath, the heavy tang of the sea-soaked wood wafting around him.

And against his chest was Dazai’s head, a steady and grounding pressure. His ear rested over Chuuya’s heart, his arms still tight around him.

In that position, Dazai must have been able to hear how hard Chuuya’s heart was pounding—but surprisingly, he didn’t remark upon it. He remained utterly silent.

In return, Chuuya didn’t say a word about the almost crushing strength of Dazai’s arms where they wrapped around his middle. Dazai’s fingers were digging into his ribs, twin rows of sharp pressure, and Chuuya could feel them shaking.

Dazai’s hair was coarse where Chuuya’s cheek rested against it. Back in the day, before Dazai’s defection, he never bothered with conditioner. It seemed some things never changed, even in the light.

For one wild moment, Chuuya wished that he wasn’t wearing a pair of gloves—then he could bury his bare fingers in Dazai’s hair and see if it was as tangled as it looked. And, perhaps, warm himself up. Dazai was like a radiator against him, heat seeping through Chuuya’s drenched layers of clothes at every point of contact, but his gloves remained cold, the sodden leather chilling him to the bone. His joints ached as he uncurled his fingers from around Dazai’s shoulders.

Perhaps it would be worth it to just…indulge for a moment, if only to have something else to needle Dazai about. Really, the man needed to learn how to groom himself properly one of these days.

As Chuuya’s hand hovered indecisively over Dazai’s head, however, he realized that his heart rate had already evened out. While he was reminiscing about Dazai’s damn mess of hair, of all things.

Ridiculous. But that meant that there was absolutely no excuse for the two of them to remain wrapped around each other any longer. Dazai’s shivering seemed to have calmed as well.

“We should—” Chuuya’s voice cracked when he tried to speak, so he paused and cleared his throat before going on. “We should make sure it’s really gone. I don’t want that thing getting the jump on me again.”

Dazai tensed, and his grip tightened so much that for a moment Chuuya could scarcely breathe.

“Oi. C’mon, you need to let me up,” Chuuya wheezed, swatting at Dazai’s shoulder. He strained his neck to look down at the head buried against his chest, a pang of something that was surely exasperation tightening his throat. “I need to be able to reach it, Dazai.”

Dazai remained still for another long moment, then abruptly loosened his grip. Instead of letting Chuuya up, however, he pushed him down to sit on the damp planks, and rose to his feet himself.

“I’ll go,” Dazai said quietly, and strode past Chuuya towards the small, oval mirror where it lay shattered on the dock.

Right. It did make sense to have Dazai touch it first, in case it was an ability that could be nullified.

…But what if it’s not? What if it’s something like Lovecraft? Dazai will be defenseless, Chuuya thought, and instinctively started to his feet as well.

“Stay back,” Dazai said sharply, without even turning to look. He was standing over the mirror, staring down at it. “Don’t move forward until I say so.”

Chuuya scowled, but remained in place. He watched as Dazai bent down and extended a careful hand towards the shards of glass.

One tap, with the tip of a finger. Then another, less cautious tap against the side of the wooden frame. Then another, and another, Dazai’s touches moving systematically across every inch of shattered glass and broken wood.

Nothing happened.

Dazai breathed out, and stepped back. “There. You are now welcome to crush it into dust,” he said lightly, waving Chuuya forward.

His head was still downturned, his eyes cast in the shadow of his bangs as Chuuya walked past him to do the deed.

It was with deep pleasure that Chuuya pressed each little bit of the mirror into nothingness, grinding it down with the overwhelming weight of gravity.

After it was done, Chuuya scattered the dust into the ocean waters below. “What the fuck was that thing, anyway?” he asked, turning back to face the other.

When he turned, however, he found Dazai had moved to sit on the edge of the dock, his legs dangling off the edge.

His back was facing Chuuya. It seemed deliberate.

At first, Dazai didn’t respond to Chuuya’s question. The silence stretched long enough that Chuuya began to shiver again, the cold wind cutting through his damp clothes.

“…A Face Like Glass,” Dazai said at last. “That’s what the ability was called.”

“So it was a gifted,” Chuuya muttered. He walked to Dazai’s side, and dropped down beside him with a heavy sigh. “That mean the user is still out there somewhere?”

“No,” Dazai said softly. “She died some time ago, I’m afraid.”

Chuuya looked at him sharply. “What?”

There wasn’t much light by which to see, but Chuuya knew Dazai’s face like the back of his own hand. Better, probably. And he could tell that the detective’s features had gone unnaturally still.

It was how Dazai looked whenever he was unsure of how much he should give away. Typically his poker faces were more natural, but when he was strongly conflicted, he would simply go blank.

“Explain,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms. “That thing almost killed me, I think I ought to know what it was.”

That got a reaction. Dazai’s lips twitched downward and he looked away, hiding his face from Chuuya once again.

After another lingering pause, however, he finally began to talk.

“A Face Like Glass was the ability of a woman named Hardinge,” Dazai said, as blandly as if he were reciting a history lesson. “She could reflect the darkest thoughts of anyone who looked into that mirror of hers, and give those thoughts physical form. Quite literally a nightmare to deal with, as one can imagine. She was the terror of England. However, after she rose to prominence, the mirror began to behave a bit oddly.

“The more renowned Hardinge became, the more people began to fear her ability. She kept the exact details of the mirror shrouded in mystery, so her enemies were always speculating what horrors it might do to them next.

“Naturally, over time, their darkest thoughts became consumed with fear of the mirror itself. And when Hardinge reflected those thoughts, manifesting them into reality…well. You can imagine what happened.”

Chuuya’s hands formed fists in his lap, so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. His fingers were somehow even colder than before. “A runaway effect,” he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice came out rough. “A singularity.”

“Quite,” Dazai said. “The heights of human imagination should never be underestimated. The more powerful anyone imagined the mirror was, the more powerful it became. When their fears manifested, their imaginations ran ever more wild with terrifying possibilities. Which it would also reflect. And so on, and so on. The only one who could control it was Hardinge herself, stopping the runaway cycle by covering the mirror. She acted as a control for the ability for many years, preventing it from going too far.

“But one day, one of her enemies had the dubiously clever idea to turn the mirror back on Hardinge herself. Which, ordinarily, would have been a mere scare tactic. I’m sure their only intent was to make her hesitate to use the mirror by making her own fears manifest.

“However, that is not what happened. Keep in mind, Hardinge had been watching this ability of hers grow with each battle she fought, gaining strength after strength, only barely containing it with her efforts. Sometimes it must have seemed so powerful that it nearly eclipsed her own self.

“Anyone would be frightened of that. It can’t be surprising that her darkest thoughts contained the fear that her mirror would one day consume her.”

Silence stretched, frigid and fragile as ice.

“…So her own ability ate her,” Chuuya said flatly.

“Yes,” Dazai said. “And without anyone left to contain it, the mirror was unleashed.”

Chuuya rubbed wearily at his temples. “Okay. Then how did it get here? To Yokohama?”

“From what I hear, Hardinge was not popular with the Order of the Clock Tower,” Dazai said. “She had gone into hiding here when her ability overtook her. The Special Operations Division then sent out operatives to contain it.”

Chuuya raised his head. “Oh. They’re involved? Wait, does that mean…was that ex-drinking buddy of yours the one who told you all this?”

Dazai nodded, and Chuuya could faintly make out a crooked smile on his lips in the darkness. “Ango called to warn me of its escape. They had done everything they could to keep it locked away so it could be studied, but all it took was one researcher fearing that the creature had the ability to get out of its cell, and it immediately had that power,” he said, leaning back on his bandaged palms. He gave Chuuya a sidelong look, heavy with significance. “Then, of course, while Ango was briefing me on A Face Like Glass, I also got word that a certain tiny mafioso had gone out to fight an unknown monster that was terrorizing the shipyards.”

Chuuya met his stare with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, so?” he said. “It was scaring my subordinates. Someone had to do something.”

Dazai’s gaze darkened further. “Chuuya, you went alone,” he said. “You tried to face it all by yourself, without even knowing what it was. You could have —” He broke off, and looked away once more. His nails were digging into the wood of the dock, his shoulders stiff. 

Hiding again, Chuuya thought.

For a moment, Chuuya considered pointing out that there wasn’t anyone for him to call for help. Very few of the other mafia members could stand up to an otherworldly threat—and even those who could, like Akutagawa, were not anyone who Chuuya would want exposed to a fear-monster. Everyone in the mafia had far too much darkness to reflect.

Besides, Dazai had no room to scold Chuuya when he was the one who had left him without a partner in the first place.

But even as Chuuya contemplated speaking those cutting words aloud, he found himself unable to.

Because even though Chuuya hadn’t called, Dazai had come anyway.

And, if the reflections of that ability could be believed, one of Dazai’s darkest thoughts was losing Chuuya to Corruption. Right alongside Dazai’s fear of his own past self, and his fear of disappointing his old friend. That…changed some things.

Chuuya sighed, releasing a long-held weight. Then he prodded Dazai’s shoulder with a cold, gloved fingertip. “Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

Dazai’s shoulders hitched higher, but he didn’t turn.

“What’s your deal?” Chuuya demanded, poking him again. “You don’t have to hide from me, idiot. What, you think I’m gonna make fun of you for having emotions?”

That, apparently, surprised Dazai enough to glance back at Chuuya, his brow furrowed.

“Because I won’t,” Chuuya said. “Not about this. I mean…look, before you showed up, that mirror motherfucker had already reflected a lot of people at me. The Flags, the Sheep, Murase, even N. That’s how it got close enough to me to grab me and drag me under in the first place. So if you’re embarrassed of breaking down or some shit, you shouldn’t be. I did too.”

“It’s not that,” Dazai muttered, his eyes darting away across the dark ocean waters once again.

“Then what?” Chuuya prompted impatiently, leaning closer.

“I froze,” Dazai said, his lips twisting in disgust. “Under the slightest amount of pressure, I broke. You could have died, just because I couldn’t bring myself to fire at a poor imitation of my friend.”

Chuuya blinked. “What’s wrong with that? I broke too. And you were there to pull me out of the water. I saved you, and you saved me. That’s what partners are for, right?”

That finally got Dazai to face him, whipping around so quickly it must have hurt his neck. His eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise.

Chuuya knew why. It had been years since he had called Dazai his partner.

All too aware that his cheeks were beginning to heat, Chuuya reached out to pull the infuriating man into his arms, tucking Dazai’s head against his shoulder. “Not a word,” he growled, squeezing Dazai tightly in warning. “Make fun of me for this and I’m kicking you into the ocean.”

Dazai let out a choked noise, and suddenly he was clinging to Chuuya just as tight, his fingers practically clawing into his back.

He was shaking again. Or maybe they both were.

“It—it had been so long since I heard his voice,” Dazai cried against Chuuya’s neck, muffled and damp on his skin. “I don’t want that to be how I remember him, I don’t, I hate it…”

Chuuya closed his eyes and saw Albatross laying on the ground in pieces, staring up at him in betrayal. He let out a slow, careful breath, and held Dazai closer.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know. I get it.”

Dazai was still so warm. And Chuuya’s hands were still so terribly cold.

Making a reckless decision, Chuuya pulled off his soaked gloves and tossed them aside, then sunk his fingers into Dazai’s mess of curls without hesitation. He felt more than heard the sharp inhale against his neck, and the quiet questioning hum that followed. Chuuya ignored it and continued to card his fingers through Dazai’s hair.

“…Chuuya?” Dazai breathed.

Chuuya tugged absently at a knot. “Tangled,” he grunted. “It was bothering me.”

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, and his hands slid up the back of Chuuya’s jacket. “Chuuya’s cold.”

“No shit,” Chuuya said grumpily. “I fell in the fucking ocean, and it’s freezing out here.”

There was a soft laugh, then a strange sensation ghosted across the side of Chuuya’s neck just above his choker, almost like a pair of lips had pressed there. Chuuya’s hands tightened in Dazai’s hair, stiffening in surprise. He could only wonder if he had imagined it, unable to comprehend any other possibility.

He certainly didn’t imagine what Dazai said next, however.

“Come home with me,” Dazai whispered, his lips brushing against Chuuya’s skin once again.

Chuuya made a very strange noise, somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, and used his grip on Dazai’s hair to haul him away just enough for their eyes to meet. “The fuck?” he spluttered, face burning. “What do you mean, where did that — hah?”

Dazai’s eyes were rimmed in red, dulled with weariness. One of his hands wandered up to Chuuya’s cheek and rested there, circling the blush with his thumb. “I don’t want you out of my sight right now,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

Ah. Right. The reflection of Corruption.

Well. Chuuya couldn’t really deny that he wasn’t looking forward to a night spent alone in his own apartment. He might not dream, but that didn’t matter if he couldn’t even get to sleep. Having someone beside him might help.

And beyond all that—this was the first time that Dazai had ever asked Chuuya to stay with him.

So, dazed and still a little flushed, Chuuya abandoned all common sense and replied, “Okay.”

Dazai captured one of Chuuya’s hands between his own, and brought it to his lips to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “Good,” he murmured, and pulled Chuuya to his feet. A slight smile flitted across his features. “I think I spotted Chuuya’s dreadful hat further towards the shore. Shall we find it first?”

Chuuya’s knuckles were still tingling. “Okay,” he repeated, strangled and utterly bewildered. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles like a pack of confused terriers, but he allowed Dazai to tow him away towards the lights of the city.

And if Chuuya’s fingers ended up intertwined with Dazai’s as they traversed the shadows…well.

The streets were too dark for anyone to prove it.

“…Wait, is there even room at your place? You’re still living in that shitty dorm, aren’t you?”

A familiar grin and a pair of twinkling eyes turned back to him as they passed through a dimly lit alley. “Hmm? Chuuya has been tracking where I live? How sentimental of you, slug.”

At least he’s getting back to normal, Chuuya thought. “Oh, shut up,” he grumbled aloud. “Of course I’d keep an eye on your annoying ass.”

A scandalized, yet delighted gasp. “Chuuya likes looking at my ass?”

“…?! Shut up! That is not what I said—!”

[dustylovelyrun]

WAIT

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT SOMETIMES WIPS DON’T FEEL RIGHT OR BECOME HARDER TO WRITE BECAUSE I’M DOING IT IN THE WRONG TENSE?

OR BECAUSE THE FONT IS WRONG?

OR THE BRIGHTNESS OF A WHITE BACKGROUND IN GOOGLE DOCS IS BOTHERING MY EYES?

WHY DOES THAT IMPACT THINGS??

[mymindhesmine]

His Favroite Star, The Sun

💌 pairing: Zayne X Reader X Sylus (Love Triangle)

💌author's note:

Hello! Thank you for taking the time to read this, this is my first post here on tumblr! Before starting the post please read this! This is a fanfic in an AU from the Love and Deep Space storyline. Details such as back stories, present events and others will differ from the games story. Please keep that in mind that this fic is not going to follow the plot of the game exactly. Some events will live up and others won't.

Also this js my fic and my writing, if you don’t like how the characters are written or the plot, feel free to exit.

And in this fic, it is a love triangle and reader is not MC from the game. in this fic, reader is a famous idol, as well as Sylus (Sylus is still the leader of Onychinus but in this fic the leader is faceless and unknown and goes by an alias), Zayne however is still a world renowned and highly recognizable cardiac surgeon/ doctor.

As well as this fic will have a music element where I will state the song of the chapter/section. Feel free to listen if you want to. Lyrics will be in italics.

🎼song: 'I Wanna Be Yours' by Arctic Monkeys

🍒tags: mention of previous relationship (Sylus X Reader), F! Reader

Thank you for reading this! I hope you enjoy!

🎀 synopsis: It has been your dream since you were a little girl that you would be a star, an idol, to let the whole world know who you were. But if the world knows who you are, they know everything about you from your work, to what you do personally and your relationships including past and present. The past of being with another famous solo artist Sylus, who is now your ex with the public knowing of the messy relationship and breakup from it. The present of being with a world-renowned cardiac surgeon Zayne. The limelight seems to shine too bright sometimes, and along with it following you, so does your past. Will it catch up to the present?

"Y/N! Please face this way! Smile!"

"Y/N! Do you have a moment for a quick interview?"

"Y/N, say hello to all your fans watching at home!”

Between all the yelling and bright lights flashing in your face, all you could do was smile.

Smile and pose, hands placed on your hips, turning slightly when you deaned it appropriate. Standing for a bit before walking down the carpet further and repeating the steps.

Smile, turn, walk, repeat.

That was until a large camera was pushed in front of you, a woman wearing a long floor length champagne colored gown with a slicked back bun approached with a microphone in her hand and a wide smile on her lips.

"Y/N! It is so lovely to see you tonight at the Golden Star Music Awards! How are you this evening?" The woman said, pointing the large microphone towards you.

"Hi! Good evening! I'm doing amazing, I’m so excited." You greeted to the woman, smiling brightly.

"You look absolutely gorgeous tonight, so beautiful as always." She complimented.

"Thank you, you look so beautiful as well." You complimented.

"What a sweetheart you are! I heard you were nominated for an award at tonight's show, do you think the odds are in your favor?"

"I have no idea, if I did win that would be so amazing but even it I didn't I applaud whoever does. Everyone deserves recognition on a night like this."

"Are you excited for any of the guest performances?"

"I am! I can't wait to see what is in store. I wish them all good luck, I know everyone will do amazing!"

"How sweet! And I see you came alone tonight, are you attending with friends or a plus one?"

"Actually my-"

Before you could finish your answer you felt a hand gently place itself on the small of your back, pulling you closer to a figure slowly. Making you tense up and then look up to see who it was.

"You made it, I didn't even know you were already here." You said smiling, as soon as you saw those familiar and warm green eyes you felt yourself relax.

"I wrapped things up earlier than expected, I just decided to find you instead of waiting inside." A soft voice said, as you felt the hand move from the small of your back to your waist.

"Oh my! Is this your famous doctor boyfriend I've been hearing so much about? two make such a cute couple!" The woman complimented, chuckling as you smile and nodded.

"Yes, he's-“

"Seriously, I think you two are perfect for one another. Obviously better than the last one right?" The woman said, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she chuckled and shoved the microphone closer to you.

"I-I um, I don’t-" You stutter to say, your hand gripping tightly at the skirt of your dress.

"I heard he's also attending tonight's show, do you think he'll…"

'It's one of those gossip reporters wanting to get more details in my life to sell an article or something.' You thought to yourself as you drowned out the rest of her conversation, you could feel you face growing hot and your hands becoming clammy with embarrassment.

"We should be heading inside and finding our seats soon, the show will be starting soon." You heard his voice respond rather strictly and coldly, making you look to him.

"I understand totally, I just wanted to ask since so many people have been curious.it was nice to meet you-"

"Let’s go before the show starts without us, it was nice meeting you as well." He said, taking your free hand in his own and walking off with you.

"Bye Y/N! Enjoy the show, hope to catch you after-" The woman said, but you had already drowned her out as your attention was faced to his broad back as he guided you down the carpet and to the entrance of the venue.

"Are you all right?" He questioned, his voice ringing with concern and worry as he watered your features.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine." You managed to stutter out, not wanting to cause commotion with so many people around still.

"Some people just don't know how to respect others, regardless of status or attention. She shouldn't have asked such inappropriate questions." He stated, as you nodded in agreement and exhaling a long breath.

"Look at me." You heard him say softly, making you look up to meet his warm green eyes.

"If you don't want to stay longer or don't feel comfortable, we can leave. You tell me."He said softy, as you shook you head.

"I think I’m okay, thank you." You said, as he eyed you a bit.

"Even if you feel fine now, you tell me if anything changes. All right?" He said, and you nodded.

"I will. Thank you Zayne.”

You got inside the venue with no issues and were guided to your table by a staff member. Zayne had pulled out your chair, and you sat down as you thanked him. He sat down next to you as the staff around served water glasses to the both of you.

"Are you looking forward to the show?" He asked, as you sipped at your glass.

"I'm excited to see the performances, but I'm more nervous for the awards." You admitted.

"You were nominated for a few of the categories, no?" Zayne asked, as you nodded.

"Mhm, that's why I'm a bit nervous. I didn't really prepare before hand. It’s just a little nerve wrecking not knowing." You admitted, and he nodded understanding.

"But maybe I won't win, and that's okay too! I just hope if they do that they're more prepared than me." You chuckled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. As the show is about to start." A loud voice boomed through the venue and the other guests started bustling to their tables.

As the noise died down, and the lights on the stage shone brightly on the host you and Zayne made small banter.

"Welcome to this years Golden Star Music Award Show, I will your honest for the evening. Who is ready to win some awards and watch some amazing performances?!" The host announced, making the other guests cheer in response.

The show went on as typical from what you expect, guest artists performing their latest and most popular hits with dancers and over the top visuals, awards being handed out with heart filled speeches and tears, all with you and Zayne bantering and basking in each others presence without a care in the world.

"Our next performance is from an artist who we all love for his sultry sound and unforgettable voice. Appealing to the masses with his dark image so far that his latest album sold tens of thousands of copies within the first week, made it number one on the charts and is nominated for awards in multiple categories at tonight's show. Please give a warm and inviting welcome to Sylus!"

The audience cheered loudly as the spotlight shifted to the center of the stage, you could see Zayne shift from your side slightly and you turned to him and smiled before looking back to the stage.

The lights surrounding the venue darkened, as solem tempo music started playing. You recognized the song all too well, it was on the radio on repeat so much and you did like it.

You saw the figure on stage, a band behind him as the spotlight shone bright and cameras panning across and showing his face on large screens to the audience who weren’t close enough to the stage. You had to admit he did have a nice voice, you’ve heard his previous work in the past and you did like it.

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathing in your dust

I wanna be your Ford Cortina

I will never rust

You could see people slowly swaying in their seats, mouthing to the lyrics. You felt a soft brush against your hand as you looked to see Zayne interlacing his fingers with yours. It made you blush slightly at the small physical contact, and you quickly looked back to the performance.

If you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot

You call the shots babe

I just wanna be yours

A spotlight that was hung over the audience shown, carefully dancing across the guests until it slowed and rested its attention on you and your seat. You flinched slightly at the brightness, making you look away and resting your sight on one of the large screens. Maybe it was the camera angle on the stage but with how it was positioned, it was like he was staring straight at you.

Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

I wanna be yours

I wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

You looked back at Zayne and although he was looking disinterested you could see how white his knuckles in his free hand look, balled into a fist. You carefully ran your thumb over his knuckles in your hand, seeing his tightened fist relax and his stance less tense. He looked to you and you gave him a soft reassuring smile.

You both knew what was going on.

He was playing games.

The show went on like clockwork, awards and performances continued and you waited with bated breath for the next awards announced.

"Now for the award for 'Best New Rising Star, with several amazing nominees. The winner for last years award will be announcing the winner." The host said, as the audience clapped.

"Please welcome back Sylus to the stage!" The host exclaimed, as more cheering and clapping ensued.

You could see the familiar figure nod to the host, taking the microphone they held along with the award. Once done they turned to face the audience at the stage.

"It is my honor to be able to give this award to the nominee who most certainly deserves it. "The winner of this year’s Best New Rising Star Award is…" He started, you bit your lip with anticipation.

The silence was slowly killing you, you just wanted this done and over with. You could feel your grasp in Zayne"s hand tighten and you tried to not chew your lip off.

"Y/N L/N." He said slowly, as the audience started clapping and cheering.

You face froze in shock for a moment, as you looked to Zayne who stood up from his seat and guided you to stand. You smiled and hugged him tightly, feeling tears threatening to spill as he whispered in your embrace.

“Congratulations." He said, as you let go of him reluctantly.

You wanted him to come to the stage with you but you knew it wasn’t the best option for now, instead one of the guests would help you up to the steps as you made your way up before getting on the stage alone.

As on cue, one or the guests who was often seen accompanying winners onto the stage held their arm out for you to take and you did so. Hearing cheers and whistling as you smiled and waved to the crowd, the cameras panning and following you as you made your way to the steps of the stage.

You thanked the kind guest before adjusting your dress and walking across the stage, hugging the host before they walked off to the far side of the stage.

Leaving you alone with all eyes on you, with Sylus.

"When I met Y/N, it was as if it was never meant to happen. Just a coincidental meeting that sooner became the start of a beautiful connection, as if faith knew it was destiny for us to meet. Only for years later I would be the one on this stage presenting her this award for the world to see." He started the speech, the crowd cheering and clapping as you did as well.

"From the first moment we met I knew I was in the presence the most talented person I would get the pleasure to know. When it comes to music, she has dominated the industry with hit pieces without failure. When it comes to personality she has always demonstrated kindness from the bottom of her heart. And when it comes to determination and work ethic, her work is never underestimated or undermined."

"Even with all these awards, music, recognition and status of being an artist, what counts is the person who put their heart into what they value. She succeeds it by not changing or letting herself be pressured into doing so. She has been able to accomplish so much while not letting the pressure change her into something she isn’t. Even if the times has changed along with many others things, she is still the same girl I met all those years ago."

"She is someone I respected highly, whom I hold so much pride and admiration to. Who I’m proud to say I know, proud to say I’ve looked up to and proud to say I love with my chest and won’t ever stop loving."

You felt your chest tighten, your hands become clammy as the crowd only got louder at the statement.

"I’m proud to present this award to her as she deserves it more than anyone in this world, ladies and gentlemen the winner of the Best Rising Star Award, Y/N." Sylus finished, turning to you as the crowd continued to cheer and all you could do was stand in shock.

Standing there as if caught in the act, surprise and fear etched into your face as everyone was looking at you. You could see the edge of a smirk resting on his lips from your peripheral vision, as you slowly got over the anger and nerves. Approaching him with your hands out, a tight smile on your face as you accepted the trophy from him.

His hand lingered as you grasped the award, before letting it go slowly and you approached the microphone on the stand.

"I want to thank everyone here tonight for the opportunity of receiving this award, this is such an honor to be nominated and win this so thank you again." You started, as the crowd cheered and you could see him sits, smirking from your side.

"Thank you to everyone who has even given me the chance to make this dream come true. From my team to my family, writers, producers, friends, colleagues, and the people closest to me that I love and hold dear to me thank you for all the support and love you have shown me. I hope to keep amazing everyone with all my work and hope you can see me continue to grow not only as an artist but as a person too. Thank you again, I love you all." You finished, waving as you held the award up again before quickly rushing to the stairs you came from.

You could hear footsteps follow you and already knowing who it was, holding onto the railing to make sure you didn’t fall. You looked to see Zayne at the bottom of the staircase waiting for you and you smiled in relief.

"Here, let me-"

"I’ve got it, thank you." You responded quickly, holding onto the railing and going down a few steps before reaching out to the outstretched hand before you.

Taking Zayne's hand once in reach and having him help you down to the ground level, clutching the award. Once you were stable, you looked at him and with the look that he gave you in return you could tell he wasn’t happy but more concerned than anything.

"I wanna go home."

💌 author's note:

Hello! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, if you liked it please let me know! I hope to be posting soon!

[genericpuff]

Since you have mentioned your own original webcomic has time travel, do you have any advice for people who want to make comics or simply write stories that deal with time travel?

Could be any kind of time travel, like time loops, characters traveling to the past/future, dealing with paradoxes, etc.

Short answer: don't LOL

Long answer: Obviously if you wanna tackle time travel, go for it, but the first and most important rule of any time travel is to establish your rules. How does the time travel work? And how will you commit to consistency?

Some basic time travel rule structures include:

Clone travelling - This is the most common form of time travel that's used the most. When you go back in time, your past self is present alongside your present self. Examples include Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Doctor Who, and Austin Powers.

Singular consciousness travelling - This is one I've only seen used a couple of times, and the only one I can think of off the top of my head is Life is Strange, but what I like to call 'singular consciousness travelling' is the form of time travel where instead of travelling to a point in the past, you return to a version of your past self, fully aware of the future that awaits you but 'stuck' within that past to live out the timeline in real time again. Though it's not as commonly used, it's one that will typically present less paradoxes as there are less moving parts to worry about. Prophecy storylines also use a similar philosophy to this, albeit without the literal time travel and more so 'time travel' via premonition (could we call Raven from That's So Raven a time traveller?)

Loops - This is a form of time travelling seen in media such as Groundhog Day, where a person continuously travels back to the same point in time over and over again to relive the same events until they can somehow break the loop.

There are loads more of time travel structures I could go over, but those are three of the most basic. Regardless of which structure you use, you have to be willing to commit to it. It's like choosing a writing perspective and tense, if you choose third person past tense ("he said, she said, they said"), then suddenly switching to first person present tense ("I say", "I do", "I feel") without any context to establish that switch will be jarring. Make your rules, and if you have to break them, make sure they're broken for the sake of the story (ex. if you present some sort of plot twist to reveal the 'true nature' of the time travelling plotline).

Here's a great video that goes over some different time travel plotlines from movies/books/etc.:

As for my original comic, we go for the time travel = multiverse theory approach, where any changes made to a timeline in a past state will not change that timeline's future, but rather, create a new timeline where those past changes are true and written into the script, essentially relegating every single new timeline to a parallel universe. This is essentially how it's done in Avengers: Endgame , but instead of characters abusing the laws of quantum physics to travel back in time, it's characters abusing a magical book of diary entries that are primarily used by the main character to help him control and guide his time travelling abilities. Every diary entry essentially serves as a roadmap for him to find his way back to his home timeline from which he disappears every time he jumps. Much of the story is written entirely atop a paradox, specifically the bootstrap paradox:

(because if there are gonna be paradoxes no matter what you do, may as well have fun with them!)

There's a lot more I could go into regarding that, but for the sake of sparing the handful of Time Gate readers here of spoilers, Time Gate's laws of time travel dictate that you can't really change your past, just the future for other versions of you that you create when you try to change things.

All that said, I will say that in most cases, thinking too hard about any time travel story will cause it to fall apart, because time travel is a fictional trope that relies a lot on logical sequencing of events to work. So you kind of do just have to 'let it go' and have fun with it - but having rules to stick to will make things less of a headache for everyone, especially when it comes to telling a coherent story. Even my own criticisms of LO's time travel really don't matter in the end, because LO's problems go far deeper than some cheaply-made time travel and any of the time travel problems in the story will undoubtedly be explained away as "timey wimey shit". I'll still be pissed about it, but time travel isn't real (at least not for you) so it's not worth getting too bogged down by. Just do your best to tell an entertaining and coherent story.

[kiss-me-cill-me]

Now We Pay The Price | Pt. 2

Start with Pt. 1 HERE!

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: ALL OF THE SAME WARNINGS AS PART 1, plus more angst, some fluff, general dark themes, depiction of a stick n' poke tattoo, violence, makeshift weapons, fear toxin, Crane spikes someone's drink (not the reader's)

A/N: Back by mildly popular demand lol :) First, I have to give a huge thank you to @cillianslvt for all of her help with brainstorming, concept bouncing, and song picking! She gave me the perfect inspo for this part: Supercut by Lorde.

I wanted to do something a bit different here, so this is told in alternating cuts between the fallout from part 1 (written in past tense) and flashbacks to the reader's college days (written in present tense just to be confusing lol). I probably will be writing one more part for this, but it might be a while before it's out because I kind of want to take a small break from angst haha. But, I hope you enjoy this part!

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

Somewhere out in the echoing hallway, an alarm buzzed.

“Lights out in five minutes!”

The guard’s booming voice was almost too muffled to understand through the thick metal door. But you weren’t paying enough attention for it to matter. It was the same routine, for the hundredth time. You didn’t need an announcement to know that you were about to be plunged into the dark.

And besides, you had more important things to worry about.

Your fingers traced over the hearts that still littered your bedsheets. Contained to one of the corners for now, but wild and scattered, as if they might be about to spill out over the rest of the white cotton at any moment. Unrestrained.

You clenched your teeth, trying hard to focus on something other than the hailstorm of tremors that seemed ready to wrack your body. Your skin was prickling. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if what came out would be a sob or a scream. You didn’t particularly want to find out.

The familiar sound of a key in the lock was enough to pull you out of your stupor. Quickly, you covered the doodles again, and whipped your head toward the door, hoping.

But no. It was nobody. Some faceless orderly, sent to give you the pills that you never took, if you could get away with hiding them.

Tonight, though, you decided to behave. You had certainly been causing enough trouble lately. And besides, if you were being honest, you could use them. Your mood had been a complete mess all day, and a little stability would be nice, for a change.

You swallowed your pride along with the pills, and flopped back onto the mattress. As soon as the orderly was gone, you inched the sheets back down, exposing the blue stains. Tomorrow was laundry day, and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to enjoy them for much longer.

Seconds later, the lights flicked out, and you were left alone with your memories.

The asphalt beneath your feet feels like it’s not even there as you practically skip down the driveway, and you’re not sure how gravity still has a hold on you by the time your hand wrenches open the car door.

“Hey!” You smile as you climb in, whipping around quickly to fasten your seatbelt. Maybe that will be enough to ground you, but it doesn’t seem likely. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“You took long enough to get out here,” he replies, slightly snarky.

But when you finally look up at him, his soft half-smile makes your heart melt, and your legs and arms feel even more weightless than ever. His blue eyes peer over at you from just below the rim of his glasses, and he tilts his head while he waits for you to respond.

“Fuck off, Jonathan,” you laugh, waving a hand in his direction.

He shakes his head, shifting to take hold of the wheel.

As he starts the car, the two of you sit in silence for a moment, and you use the opportunity to take a closer look at him. He’s bundled up tightly in his jacket. A slight chill permeates the air, though you feel perfectly warm sitting next to him.

“I don’t know how you can stand driving around without listening to music,” you say suddenly, reaching for the radio.

It takes you a minute to find anything worth listening to. Static mixed intermittently with snippets of sound fills the car as you carefully turn the dial, until finally landing on something you know. Satisfied, you sit back.

“I don’t know how you can stand listening to this,” Jonathan laughs. “I mean, are you even hearing these lyrics?”

“I like the lyrics!” you insist. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re just cheesy,” he says, dismissively.

You roll your eyes, and settle back with your arm resting against the car door. Before long, your head is bobbing along to the music, and you start to hum.

You’ve only known Jonathan for a few weeks, but already it’s become nearly impossible to ignore the way your heart pounds when you’re next to him. It’s nerve wracking - to think he might not feel that way about you. But you don’t let yourself imagine that possibility too often. It’s better to stay positive, and look to your future together. You honestly can’t imagine things any other way.

At the start of the chorus, your humming turns gradually into words - quiet at first, and then louder when Jonathan doesn’t try to stop you. Soon, you’re singing at full volume.

“You know, distracted driving is the number one cause of car accidents,” he informs you.

When you look over, you notice the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

“But music improves mood and cognition,” you shoot back, interrupting your singing to give him a slight shove. “Shouldn’t you know that, Mr. Psychology Major?”

Jonathan scoffs, but mercifully keeps his mouth shut when you open yours to start singing again, rolling down the window to scream into the night.

Your eyes, tight with heavy sleep, shot suddenly open, to be met by the darkness of your cell. Breath heavy, you tried to remember the dream you’d been having. Whatever it was, it had gotten you worked up. So much for the sedatives doing you any good; maybe Crane hadn’t actually upped your dose like he’d threatened to do.

Or he had, and this was just your body’s paradoxical reaction to the sudden increase. Not that you had been taking the regular dose with any consistency.

You considered getting up, but what was the point in that? There was nowhere to go but from one corner of the small room to the other, and you had spent enough time pacing back and forth to last a lifetime.

The small window set high up on the wall of your cell let in a sliver of light, just briefly, as a rotating searchlight made its round, and you closed your eyes again.

The university’s library is calming, in a way. The seemingly endless stacks of books reach out to greet you as you run your hands over their spines, walking slowly down one row and then another. 

You’re looking for something specific, but not a book. You know that he always comes here at this time.

Jonathan is crouched down to reach something on a low shelf when you finally see him. You hover, half-hidden, at the end of the row where he’s kneeling, and watch as he flips through the first few pages of a book. Satisfied, he stands up, and you saunter into the aisle to join him.

“Hey,” you call, softly. “Thought I might find you here.”

Jonathan tucks the book under his arm, and looks at you curiously for a moment.

“Hey,” he echoes, apprehensive. “Don’t you have class right now?”

“Do I?” you ask, stopping next to him. “Whoops. Whatcha reading?”

“Nothing. Just a book for class. Unlike some people I know, I take academics seriously.”

As he talks, he tilts his head to the side and takes a step closer to you, crowding you back against the bookshelves. He’s smiling. Just having fun with you; you’re sure of it. But you can’t stop the warm rush that spreads over your cheeks.

You try to straighten up under his gaze, bringing the tip of your nose close to his.

“I take this stuff seriously, too,” you insist. “Here, I’ll prove it. What’re you studying?”

Before giving him a chance to respond, you reach down and snatch the book from his hand. Brushing a thumb over the cover, you consider the title.

“Phobias, huh?” you muse. “No offense, Jonathan. But you’re not very scary.”

You beam as you watch a blush creep over his cheeks. He’s been doing that around you more often, and every time you notice it, your heart swells.

“You don’t think so?” he drones, taking another step closer.

He’s nearly on top of you as you press back into the row of books, and you feel your heart leap into your throat. Not out of fear, but for an entirely different reason.

“Nope,” you challenge. “Not scary at all.”

“Hm. Guess I’ll have to try harder then.” 

He snatches the book back and starts to move away from you, but before he can get too far, both of your hands shoot out. Your fingers grab onto his sweater, and faster than you have a chance to think, suddenly your lips are pressing against his. Eyes squeezed shut so you don’t have to face his reaction, you hold him. But when you let go of his shirt, he stays there for a few seconds longer, before pulling away.

“That was scary,” you breathe, finally daring to meet his cold eyes.

But, what you see there is softness, mixed with slight shock. The piercing, frost-blue that normally seems to slice through you has taken on a watery quality, as if something has melted, if just for a moment.

You take a deep breath as Jonathan leans back in.

By the time the orderlies had started to wheel their huge bin of laundry down the narrow hall, your white sheets were already torn off and crumpled at the foot of your bed. You weren’t about to take the risk of anyone else seeing the hearts you’d drawn. This way, they were unlikely to be noticed. At least until after they’d already been mixed with all of the other patients’ laundry, untraceable to you.

Before, the worst that could happen was you losing your pen - a sorry excuse for entertainment, but nothing vital. Now, losing that same pen meant losing your one chance at freedom as well, and you weren’t prepared to give that up.

You stood in the far corner of the room, watching silently as two men came in to collect your sheets. They didn’t comment on the fact that you’d stripped your own bed - perhaps too caught up in their meaningless conversation to notice.

When they left, you finally felt able to breathe again. You exhaled, trying to push every last trace of air out of your lungs so that you could start fresh again.

Sitting back down on your new set of sheets, you ran your hand over the blank space that no longer bore even a faint trace of love.

“What are you doing?” Jonathan asks, leaning over your shoulder to peer down at whatever has you so occupied.

“Giving myself a tattoo,” you reply easily. 

“What?”

“It’s just a little heart - see?”

You carefully hold up your wrist to him, showing off the half finished lobe of a heart. One side of it, anyway. It’s slow going, but you’re determined to take your time; to not rush through the impulsive decision you’ve made.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

“Because I felt like it,” you reply. “Do I need another reason?”

“Did you at least sterilize your wrist - and the needle?” he sighs.

“I used some hand sanitizer. M’sure that’s good enough.”

Jonathan pinches the bridge of his nose, putting his other hand on his hip.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he complains.

“Well, it’s not like I can’t stop now, though - right?” you say, playfully. “You’re always telling me not to leave things half finished.”

Jonathan sits down in the chair next to you, as you go back to carefully maneuvering the needle. Your tongue sticks out from the corner of your mouth, frozen in concentration. You jump, just a fraction of an inch, as the sharp point breaches your skin.

“Give me that,” Jonathan mutters.

He’s already swiped the needle away from you, and is holding your wrist down securely against the table as he inspects your work.

“This isn’t going to heal nicely,” he informs you.

“I don’t care.”

To your surprise, he dips the needle into the little pot of ink that’s sitting on the table between you, and then lines up the point to continue.

“You’re pushing it in way too deep,” he says, peering over his glasses.

When he presses down, the sharp end of the needle barely seems to graze you. It doesn’t hurt so much when he does it. Jonathan’s thumb brushes over the flesh of your palm, soothing you.

“You’re good at this,” you comment. “You’ll make a good doctor someday.”

Jonathan tries to hide his smile, but you catch the small curl of his lips despite the way he’s hunched over, focusing on your tattoo. The second jab is just as painless as the first, and you smile back.

“This isn’t exactly what I picture myself doing for work.” He laughs - just a small hum, but it’s there.

“Right - you want to study the fear of needles. Not be the one jabbing patients.”

“Something like that,” he agrees.

The two of you sit, huddled close in the silence; you watching Jonathan work as he gingerly uses the needle. It’s strangely intimate, and you feel closer to him than you have in a long time. 

Not because you’ve spent too much time apart. On the contrary, you’ve been seeing each other more often than ever. But the more time you spend with him, the sharper you seem to feel his small absences. It has, lately, started to seem like you need to see Jonathan more and more often just to feel normal; like you’re in danger of something bad happening when he’s not there.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

“The tattoo means more, now that you’re the one doing it.”

Jonathan keeps his head bowed, trying desperately not to let you see his expression. The tips of his ears give him away, though, as they turn a bright pink behind strands of hair that have fallen away as he leans down.

“Jonathan?” “Hm?”

“It’s polite to say ‘you’re welcome’ when someone thanks you,” you tease.

As he looks up to narrow his eyes at you, you take the chance to lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.

The harsh white fluorescents buzzed over your head as you leaned back in your uncomfortable chair. You’d sat in this same plastic seat for probably dozens of therapy sessions. Not once had the miserable thing ever done anything other than give you back pain.

“Are you paying attention?” the doctor in front of you asked.

“No,” you replied.

What was the use in lying, when it was obvious to both of you?

The doctor hummed in annoyance, shuffled some papers, and frowned at her clipboard. 

“Well I suggest you start,” she began, “because what we’re trying to do here is very important. You know your appeal is in the process of being reviewed, and…”

You tuned her out, turning your attention to the much more important matter of planning your escape. Even just thinking those words made you feel strangely giddy. This was something that happened in movies and cheap paperback novels; not real life. But, you had made up your mind, and there would be no going back now. You were going to rebuild your life with the person who mattered most, and doing that meant that you needed to get out of here.

You thought of the ballpoint pen, now modified and hidden, deep within the bones of your mattress. It had taken patience to sharpen the plastic casing against the concrete, and patience was something you didn’t have much of these days. But in the end, it would all be worth it.

“...three counts of manslaughter, and two more of - are you listening?” the doctor repeated. 

“Why should I? We both know that I’ve heard this a thousand times,” you sighed.

The doctor, equally as exasperated, crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.

“Whatever. It’s your life.”

“My life doesn’t exist in here,” you whispered. “Not the one I want, anyway.”

“Well, it’s the one you’ve got, so maybe you ought to start acting like it,” she suggested.

You ignored her, and retreated back into the world that only existed inside your memories. Yours… and his, if you were lucky.

The room is dark and full of music. Music, and bodies - swaying in time to the rhythm; draped over furniture or pressed up against walls, as lips meet and hands wander. You pass by two people who look like they’re three seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off, and duck under the raised elbow of somebody else as they pump their fist in the air. A clamor erupts as you pass; some conversation you’re not part of that’s full of hollered laughter and shouts.

You’re looking for Jonathan, amidst all the colors and flashing lights. You’d left him several minutes ago to go and find the bathroom, and got turned around on your way back. The slight buzz of alcohol makes your limbs a bit looser than usual, and you pause to savor the deep thrum that emanates from the sound system. As you close your eyes, your feet sway a little, and you smile.

Jonathan is never interested in going to parties with you, but for whatever reason, he had accepted the invitation tonight. You like to think it’s because he just wants to spend time with you, even if loud, messy gatherings aren’t usually his idea of a good time.

Finally, you find your way back to the couch where you left him. And there he is, smiling that soft half-smile you know so well, from the hundreds of times it’s made your heart do somersaults in your chest.

You frown. Scowl.

Jonathan is leaning forward, hands on his legs as he talks to another woman. Smiles at her. You stop short in your tracks, and watch from a distance as Jonathan tilts his head to her ear, whispering something.

The girl stands up, giggles while she looks down at him for a moment, and then walks off. You see red; a crimson wash that feels slightly too familiar as it drapes over you.

Jonathan, still on the couch, smiles for a moment longer before reaching into his pocket. The girl has moved on by now, and you watch as the affable grin is wiped neatly from Jonathan’s face, replaced by something blank and more difficult to categorize.

There’s a tiny glass tube in his hand. You can’t see what it is exactly, but you can make out the way he removes a cap, and then brings his hand close to the red plastic cup that’s sitting on the table in front of him, right where the woman had been.

Your rage propels you forward, and without time to think things through, you’ve grabbed the sleeve of his jacket before you even realize you’ve reached him.

“Shit- Oh. It’s you,” Jonathan mumbles.

“What the hell are you doing?” you hiss.

Jonathan looks at your hand on his arm. The vial, now empty and still pinched between his fingers, hidden from the rest of the crowd. And then back up to your face.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he begins.

“What are you doing?” you repeat, your voice wobbling louder.

Jonathan’s eyes dart off to the side, and he stands up quickly. Suddenly, his hand is in yours and he’s dragging you off, heading for a set of glass doors that lead to the back patio.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” he says, and you can barely hear him muttering over the sound of the screeching music and the pounding, frantic whir that seems to have taken over your head. 

By the time you’re outside, the door shut firm behind you, you haven’t calmed down a bit.

“Jonathan-”

“I swear, I’m not doing anything bad,” he interjects. “I know that it… probably looks like I’m-”

“Why her?” you say, softly.

You can’t even stand to look at him as you speak. Your whole chest feels impossibly heavy; as if it’s consuming the rest of your body, piece by dissolving piece.

“...What?” Jonathan looks at you curiously, as you feel yourself fall even more fully apart.

“Why her, when I’m right here, huh?” you demand, tears squeezing out from behind your damp eyelashes, even as you try to blink them back. “I’m yours, Jonathan. I’ve been yours. All you have to do is ask.”

“That’s not… God, I’m not trying to-”

“You don’t even have to try with me!” you cry, voice rising up into a frenzy. Your hands fly to slam against him, pushing him by the shoulders. “You’ve never had to-”

You cut yourself off, and cradle your wrist to your chest. The tattoo that he gave you is settled close by to your heart, and you bring your other hand up to trace absently over the ink that mirrors it.

“Listen to me,” Jonathan says, taking hold of your shoulders. You look up at him, salty tears still welled in your eyes, starting to spill down over your cheeks. “That’s not what I’m doing. This is just… research.”

“Research?” you echo.

“Yes. That’s all,” he assures you. Both of you have started to calm down, and the pressure of his hands on your shoulders finally becomes noticeable. “It’s for… how do I phrase this?”

The sounds of the party are muffled out here, but suddenly a sharp scream rises over the music. Both of you turn to peer through the glass doors, and you catch a brief glimpse of the woman from earlier, just as the red plastic cup falls from her hand. She claws at her face, and sinks to the floor, still screaming.

Your focus shifts back to Jonathan, and you watch as he stares through the glass, his eyes frigid and, suddenly, calculating. His hands are still on your shoulders, and you feel as his grip tightens slightly, as if his fingers are itching to do… something. You can’t say quite what.

“...Fear,” you breathe, quietly.

You aren’t sure exactly what’s going on, but some sort of vague understanding has started to seep into your nerves, mending the frays that had threatened to form. Like healing salve, soothed over all of the tiny rips and tears that had nearly pulled you apart, only seconds ago.

“Yes,” he agrees. “That’s all I wanted her for. I swear.”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you again, a serious expression on his strained face. His eyes seem to bore into yours, but it’s comforting, just to feel like he’s burrowing into you.

The commotion inside becomes louder; more shouts of alarm rising to join the first, and you hear something crash to the ground. But you’re not paying attention to that anymore; you’re swimming in Jonathan’s eyes as the tears slowly dry from yours.

“Jonathan?” you ask. “Can we go home?”

He turns to look again at the riot that’s quickly developing inside; the bass of the music replaced now by shrill cries that have risen above everything. For a moment, you think he’s about to refuse, and the lump in your throat almost tears through the delicate flesh of your neck.

“Sure. Let’s go home,” he agrees.

You walk, hand in hand, away from the party. Looping around the house and down the sidewalk, your fingers intertwine with his in the night air. You smile, and grab onto Jonathan’s arm, pulling him closer.

Today was the day.

You pulled your sleeve down, trying to cover the now-sharpened pen casing that was held tight in your sweaty hand. The tip of your finger brushed over the point, as you went over the plan in your head again.

If you could manage to be stealthy enough, you wouldn’t even need the pen. Not that you would hesitate to use it, but there was a certain amount of risk that you’d prefer to avoid if at all possible. Things could get messy, and that would be sure to draw attention. For once, you didn’t want Crane to notice what you were doing.

You stayed close to the wall of the cafeteria, practically hugging the stone as you walked briskly. It was important to be fast, but not too fast.

“What are you doing?” asked a sharp voice behind you.

You would have spun faster than either of you could blink, pen at the ready to plunge into his neck. If only you hadn’t recognized the voice.

Crane grabbed you roughly by the shoulder, and you screamed silently behind your eyes.

“Nothing,” you said calmly. “Going for a walk.”

“You’re not allowed to do that,” Crane sighed, already dragging you to face him. His expression was just as drab as the bricks that now pressed into your back. “What’s in your hand?”

Your finger flicked over the sharp point again. This was the one possibility that you hadn’t imagined, of course. The one opponent your weapon was useless against, all because you couldn’t bring yourself to use it.

With your jaw set and shoulders squared, you straightened up to face him. You wouldn’t shy away from his eyes, even if looking at them meant facing the disappointment that lurked, not-so-subtly beneath their surface.

Crane grew impatient awaiting your answer, and grabbed you by the wrist. You let him. It was useless to resist, and the two of you glared at each other as he yanked your hand and your fingers fell open. The story was written over your palm, almost as clearly as if you had used the pen to record it across your own flesh.

Crane picked up the wrecked pen, considered the jagged edge of the plastic, and pocketed it. Without another word, he turned and dragged you out of the cafeteria, heading toward your cell.

Jonathan’s hand in yours is restless; seeming to flutter as his thumb drifts absentmindedly, rubbing back and forth in a way that might be more soothing for him than it is to you. You want to help him, but you’re not sure how. You’ve noticed the anxieties that have seemed to overwhelm him lately, and you wish there was more you could offer him.

“Maybe you should take a break,” you suggest. “We could watch a movie or something. Go for a walk?”

Jonathan shakes his head, and tears his hand away to go back to scribbling on the pad in front of him. The paper is already littered with letters and symbols that mean nothing to you. Three vials full of pale liquid - Jonathan’s pet project - roll gently back and forth on the table.

“I can’t get it right, and I don’t know why,” he snaps, frustrated. “I need to run more tests, but…”

“I could test it for you,” you offer.

Jonathan looks at you with a mix of shock and, maybe, revulsion, and you feel yourself shrink back into your seat.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he says.

“You don’t have to ask,” you reply. “I’d do anything for you.”

His expression morphs into something that’s harder to read. That’s been happening more and more often lately, and it’s started to panic you when it does. You know him so well, but suddenly, there are sides to him that seem almost foreign to you. You bring a hand up to cup his sharp cheek, and the smile stretched over your own face feels plastic.

“Us against the world,” you remind him.

Jonathan places his hand over yours, only for a moment before pulling away entirely.

“I just… want to know I can do something,” he says. “Something I set my own mind to.”

“You can,” you assure him. “You have.”

“My whole life, I’ve felt as if I’m just reacting to things that are outside of my control,” he continues, almost as if he hadn’t heard you. “I just want to understand why.”

Emotion has crept into his voice, and your first instinct is to pull back. You ignore it. Instead, you place a kiss on his temple, and he lets his head fall to rest on your shoulder. The room is silent for a moment, as you wrap both your arms around him and try to think of something to say.

“You know I’d be lost without you, right?” you ask, gently. 

“That’s because you have a dysfunctional attachment style.”

You stop. His words, flat and unemotional, pierce through you as if he had stabbed instead of spoken them. You can feel the ground opening up at your feet, and struggle to reassert yourself.

“That’s not true. You… don’t mean that,” you flounder.

“Maybe I don’t,” he agrees, halfheartedly. “Who knows anymore.”

Your heart aches. You hate that he’s talking like this is the end of something. A foregone conclusion that’s just out of his grasp, but that he doesn’t even care to reach for. A sentence on a page, half-finished but forgotten.

“You’ve been working too hard,” you decide. “You’re tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Let’s go to bed, then,” you suggest. 

He nods, and you take hold of his hand to guide him, the dark ink of your tattoo pressed up against the blank space on his wrist.

Back in your cell, Crane didn’t bother to lock the door behind him for once. Instead, he stood directly in front of it, hands on his hips as he stared down at you.

“I would say I’m shocked, but I’m not,” he sighed, voice already grinding against itself. “But, what I can’t figure out is this. What gave you the idea that this would go well for you?”

You didn’t answer.

“It’s not as if I don’t monitor you.”

Normally, the admission that he’d been paying attention to you would have made your heart flutter. But now, it felt like there was nothing more than a pit in your chest. The same one that was always there, longing for something that could fill it without being swallowed.

“You’re lucky it was me who found you, and not somebody else.” He moved one hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, just like he always had. For as long as you’d known him. “Don’t you ever stop and think before you act?”

That was insulting. You’d spent plenty of time thinking about this. In fact, it was all you’d been focusing on for weeks - at least when your mind was clear enough to focus. 

And really, he was one to talk. How many times had you helped him crawl out of one failed situation or another? It wasn’t fair for him to talk like everything he did went perfectly, when both of you knew very well that it didn’t.

“Don’t have anything to say?” Crane pried.

You felt anger swell furiously within you, and - as if to prove the point he’d just made - you surged forward without thinking. Crane didn’t have any time to react, and you pressed your lips up against his in a harsh kiss that felt sickeningly void of love. Your cold fingers grabbed at the front of his sweater, and you felt your lips crush into your teeth, desperately searching for some hint of the spark that you felt certain was still there.

Crane scrambled, his back pressed against the hard door, and finally tore you away from him.

“What are you doing?” he spat.

Your eyes were downcast, unable to meet his, and you bit the cracked skin of your lips.

“Who knows anymore,” you replied, echoing his words from long ago.

“You need to control yourself,” Crane hissed. “If you can’t, I’m not going to keep making excuses for you.”

His words might as well have just echoed off the stone walls, vibrating in an empty cell. You weren’t listening. You weren’t even there anymore.

Fleeting as a beam of light. 

Crane collected himself and then left, departing just as the sleek ribbons of past life came to wrap over you again.

You woke, not realizing that you’d fallen asleep. You weren’t sure how long it had been since Crane left, but, judging by the way the lights were already turned out, it had been hours. 

Automatically, your hand went to the top corner of your mattress, intent on blindly tracing over the hearts that had once been there on the sheets. But of course, they weren’t anymore. Instead, though, you heard a clatter as something fell to the floor.

That was odd. Certainly, you hadn’t left anything there this morning. It wasn’t as if you had any possessions to leave.

Groping in the dark, your fingers slid across the floor. Finally, you found it, and held the object up close to your face.

A key.

Your lips curled as you held tight to the metal.

Read Pt. 3 HERE!

[theharrowing]

One Day at a Time 🌙 1: I finally get to have you

Yoongi loves to help others. As a professional surrogate, he takes pride in using his body to help families bring life into this world, and love into their homes. But when his high school crush Kim Namjoon hires Yoongi to help him and his wife conceive, things get…precarious.

Or, Omega Yoongi gets bred by Alpha Namjoon and holy shit, does he fall in love.

🐺 Yoongi x Namjoon, established Namjoon x Wheein

🌙 word count: 19.9k

🌙 past acquaintances to lovers, a/b/o, mpreg, infidelity, angst, smut, eventual fluff, slash, nsfw, 21+

🌙 warnings: alpha/top Namjoon, omega/bottom Yoongi; Namjoon is married; Yoongi is a mess, and he cries a lot; a/b/o stuff (mating cycles, lots of scent stuff, wolf instincts, omega slick), angst (hormones raging, pining), a dash of ritualistic sex (it happens in the second act hehehe.)

🌙 note: hello, and welcome to my very first a/b/o fic! full notes on the index, but i wanted to thank @sailoryooons  and  @sweetestofchaos once more for all the help with this! reminder: infidelity is a big part of this fic, so if you’re not into that, you will not like this!!! take the warnings seriously!!! Yoongi is a mess but he's our mess and we love him. have fun!!!

🌙 written for one shot two shot fest

🌙 thanks to @neoneunnajimin & @sailoryooons for beta reading!

🌙 posted july 2023 | read on ao3

INDEX | NEXT

Yoongi never thought he would see Kim Namjoon again. Once he graduated from high school and the two of them went their separate ways – Yoongi to college in the countryside and Namjoon to marry the rich, pretty valedictorian – he hadn't expected their paths to cross. They had not, in fact, for nearly ten years. 

The only time Namjoon ever fully acknowledged Yoongi was all those years ago in school, the week Yoongi first presented as omega. The news was a shock for everyone, most especially himself. Sure, Yoongi never saw himself as an alpha – preferring a softer, quieter life – rarely exhibiting dominant traits of any sort. But he anticipated the neutrality and normalcy of presenting as beta. 

First were the hot flashes and overwhelming urge to bury himself in his softest, warmest cardigan. He hadn’t realized he was nuzzling his face into his sweater paws during math period until a classmate beside him asked a sharp, shrill, “What are you doing?” causing him to look up, confused and ashamed.

Yoongi had excused himself to the school nurse, worried he was coming down with some kind of fever, and he practically threw himself at her feet the moment a cramp radiated through his body, knocking him to his knees. He was certain he had food poisoning or some kind of stomach bug – what else could it have been? Certainly, he could not have been presenting as omega. 

The nurse excused Yoongi from school through the duration of his first heat, which lasted about a week and a half. And the event itself was hell on earth, but nothing could have prepared him for returning to school. Somehow, everyone knew. 

“A boy presenting as omega,” boys would say as they shoved Yoongi around, pushing him against lockers and towering over him like ravenous beasts. “That makes you worse than a girl.”

"He's pretty like a girl, though," one of the boys teased loudly.

“How does your dad feel?” they would ask in mocking tones – some of whom hadn’t yet presented, themselves. “Isn’t he ashamed of you?”

It was during lunch break that Namjoon – the tall, broad, handsome president of his class – came barreling around the corner and growled at those boys to get away from Yoongi. 

“I had better not see any of you fucking whelps picking on him or any other omegas,” Namjoon roared, voice firm with authority with his chest puffed high, causing the bullies to scatter. 

And although Yoongi had so much he wanted to say, when Namjoon asked if he was alright, all he could do in response was whimper a weak, “Uh-huh,” unable to find his words. 

“I imagine this can’t be easy,” Namjoon finally said after a tense moment in the silent, fluorescent-lit hallway. “We can’t choose our circumstances, after all. But we can do our best with what we are given, one day at a time. Take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

And that was it; the only time his and Namjoon’s paths truly crossed. Yoongi would have been lying if he had said the event didn’t spark something inside him – the beginnings of a crush, perhaps – especially when he remembered the warm musk that wafted from the alpha with hints of sweet, kind tangerine and spicy, angry cinnamon. 

But that was all it ever was…a crush. As soon as they graduated, Namjoon proposed to his girlfriend, and Yoongi left the city to pursue a life in nursing. 

During the last few years, Yoongi has been working as a surrogate, assisting wealthy couples through their difficult times by lending his body to help conceive a child. Although it is always a bit awkward to be a presence in their homes, he enjoys the work. Yoongi likes to help others. The need to comfort and fix people is strong – overwhelming at times.

Naturally, when the call came to help one of the most affluent families in Seoul have a baby, Yoongi did not hesitate, nor did he know what to expect. He had, after all, left Seoul to live closer to his mom's small farmhouse near Daegu, and stopped worrying himself over who any of the wealthier families were.

So, on the car ride to town, when Yoongi read the names Kim Namjoon and Jung Wheein on the paperwork he almost did not believe his eyes. Surely, the Kim Namjoon and Jung Wheein he knew eight years ago could not be struggling with having a child. If anyone would have a happy, healthy, and typical family, he figures it would have been those two sweethearts. 

“Earth to Yoongi,” a soft, stern voice calls, pulling Yoongi from his reverie. 

Yoongi stands at the foot of the entrance of a rather impressive hanok on the outskirts of the city. He had spaced out during most of the ride, daydreaming about the only time he and Namjoon came face to face. Even now, standing at the man’s front door, he struggles to accept it, half expecting someone else to greet them. 

“What does he do for a living?” Yoongi mutters under his breath as he joins his boss, a soft-spoken beta named Park Jimin, near the front door. 

Jimin scoffs and shakes his head, causing his fluffy dark hair and shimmering silver earrings to wave back and forth from the motion, as he responds, “He’s the mayor, baby,” while placing a comforting hand on the small of Yoongi’s back – something he does when he expects Yoongi to overreact. 

And overreact, he does. 

“The may—“ Yoongi half-shouts before Jimin gently shushes him. 

“But why—“ Yoongi continues, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—why didn’t you tell me? Jimin, why did you leave that detail out?”

“You know I love you because you’re the best, right?” Jimin asks, rubbing his palm over Yoongi’s back in circles, buttering him up before delivering the truth, as is his way.

“Right,” Yoongi responds slowly, nodding his head while his eyes lose focus on the cinnamon-brown wooden door before him. 

“You’re sweet, caring, and very respectful,” Jimin continues, still very much not reaching the point. "Very discrete."

“Okay,” Yoongi huffs, “and?”

With a sigh, Jimin drops his voice lower and leans close, muttering, “I believe they asked for you specifically because you’re a man. They seem concerned about any of this reaching the media, so we have kept it all hush-hush, and I wonder if they do not want to be seen with a woman living in the house for the next year.”

“Oh.”

“The wife, she’s—“

“No, no, I get it,” Yoongi says, feeling a bit sullen. 

Being chosen because he is a man is always a bit disheartening. Typically, as far as Yoongi can tell, it comes from the wife worrying that their husband may develop feelings for their surrogate, despite the process typically being a simple matter of collecting sperm and egg from each party and having them placed into Yoongi’s uterus using an in vitro process. At most, Yoongi has to stay in the homestead to carry the baby to term, sleeping with bedding that smells of the alpha of the house. Infidelity has never been an issue. In fact, most households treat Yoongi as if he hardly exists until the baby is finally born. 

Yoongi performs his tasks dutifully and with the utmost care and respect, and for once, it would be nice to be recognized for his skills and abilities, and not for his gender. But, Yoongi grins and bears it. He is simply happy to be able to help. 

“Ready?” Jimin asks, and Yoongi nods, feeling as ready as he could be, at this point. 

Jimin removes his hand from Yoongi’s back, takes a step forward, and knocks on the door. And then they wait. A homestead this size must take a while to traverse through, and Yoongi crosses his hands over his tummy and twiddles his thumbs in anticipation, wondering if Namjoon will even recognize him. 

When the door opens, a tall unfamiliar man with wide, curious eyes and short, somewhat wavy dark brown hair greets them with a bow of his head. For a split moment, Yoongi almost wonders if this could be Namjoon – if the names are merely coincidence. But then Wheein – the Jung Wheein Yoongi remembers from all those years ago, with long, dark hair and curious almond eyes – pops up from behind the man and smiles widely, waving them in.

Jimin enters first, then Yoongi, kicking off his sneakers and following as Wheein leads the mystery man, Jimin, and Yoongi through a foyer, past a kitchen, and into what looks like a study. The four of them take a seat on soft purple cushions around a large, low wooden table with a teapot and four cups in the center, with Wheein across from Yoongi and Jimin to his right. 

“Min Yoongi,” Wheein beams as she sits high on her knees and reaches over the low table, emitting a calming bouquet of lavender. 

Yoongi offers his hands to her, smiling as she takes them and squeezes them between both of hers. There is an unmissable sadness in her eyes, but she smiles widely as she pats his hands before letting them go. 

“When I read your name on the list of potential surrogates, I just knew it had to be you,” she continues, taking Yoongi by surprise. He and Wheein have never, to his knowledge, said a word to one another. 

“You did?” Yoongi asks, deep voice trembling slightly as he settles his hands over his knees. 

Wheein nods enthusiastically while the man to Yoongi’s left begins to pour tea for the four of them. 

“I just had a feeling. You went into nursing, right? You like to help others?”

With a demure nod, Yoongi says, “Yes,” surprised to find Wheein remembers him, and that she knows details of his life. He dreads the thought that Namjoon might, as well. 

“I just knew you would be perfect for us,” she continues as her eyes travel to the man sitting at Yoongi’s left. “Don’t you think so, Jeonggukie?”

The man nods his head once, eyes fixed on Jimin as he mutters, “Yes, Wheein-ssi.”

“This is our in-house help, Jeon Jeongguk,” Wheein says, patting the hand of Jeongguk, who responds, “Lovely to meet you,” without taking his eyes off Jimin. 

Yoongi mutters a greeting under his breath but does not bother trying to get the man’s attention; he is more than aware of the effect Jimin has on others. Instead, Yoongi picks up his small ceramic tea cup and holds it to his lips, blowing on it slightly before taking a sip. The faintly-earthy taste of herbs and leaves covers his tongue with warmth, instantly soothing at least some of his worries. Certainly not all of them. 

“Sorry Namjoon couldn’t join us,” Wheein says with a hint of annoyance in her voice, cracking a smile that looks forced and does not reach far. Earthy, bitter hints of patchouli hang in the air as she chuckles under her breath as she mutters, “Gods forbid he leaves his precious office for one fucking meeting with our surrogate.”

Yoongi shifts on his knees and takes another sip from the cup. Meanwhile, everyone around him lifts their cups to drink, and he is relieved to see Jimin’s spell on Jeongguk seems at least temporarily be broken, allowing the three of them to have a conversation with Jeongguk present and quiet. 

“I figure that for the first week, you’ll stay by my side and bond with me a little,” Wheein begins, surprising Yoongi with how suddenly she wants to get down to business, “and then we’ll knock you up and have you stay in a guesthouse that is scented like Namjoon so that the baby knows who his or her daddy is.”

“Pretty standard stuff,” Jimin mutters beside him, and Yoongi smiles as he nods along. 

Wheein’s candor feels welcoming to Yoongi. The last two couples he worked with were rather depressed and embarrassed to need assistance with having a baby. It is his hope that, in the next ten or eleven months, he and Wheein can become close friends, making his stay in the large homestead a little less lonely.

"Do you remember Namjoon at all?" Wheein asks eagerly. 

Yoongi glances over the teacup that he holds near his mouth, breathing in its comforting aroma, and he screws up his face just slightly enough to seem impassive as he shrugs and says, "The name sounds familiar. Perhaps when I see him, I will remember."

A lie, of course. If Yoongi thinks hard enough, he can remember precisely what Namjoon smelled like the day they spoke. He thinks, faintly, that Namjoon may have even had a mole or two on one of his cheeks, and has never forgotten his dimples. 

"Do you need some time to consider the job, or would you like to move in tonight?” Wheein asks once the four of them have had a chance to discuss specifics a little more and finish the pot of tea. “We will want to go over a few specifications on the contract once everyone is here, but it should be pretty standard."

"I can move in right away," Yoongi says without giving it any thought. The sooner they get started, the sooner it can be all over with, he reasons. He already has a suitcase packed and waiting in the car.

"Wonderful," Wheein says as she stands and waits for Yoongi to do the same. 

Once Yoongi is on his feet, Jimin bows and wishes him well, saying they will meet again tomorrow when Namjoon is around to go over the contract. Jeongguk leads Jimin back out to the front door, standing quite close and muttering quietly as the two of them leave the room together. 

"I can't wait for the two of us to become best friends," Wheein says sweetly as Yoongi steps from the table and joins her at her side, allowing her to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him into a side hug. 

The smile that creeps over Yoongi's lips is genuine, and he allows himself to be hugged, lifting an arm to delicately caress her back for just a moment. He familiarizes himself with her scent of lavender with hints of patchouli – sweet with an undercurrent of spice and wet soil. 

Wheein leads Yoongi into a large kitchen and sits him at the tall white marble counter. Yoongi marvels at the blend of traditional and modern, with the general foundation of the hanok resembling what it may have centuries ago despite the marble counters and stainless steel appliances. 

"Let's make a list of all the things you love to eat, especially when you are in heat and when you are pregnant."

Although Yoongi cannot imagine why he would need to accommodate a heat cycle, he rattles off everything he can think of, making sure bases are covered. There is a chance that his pregnancy cravings will be similar to those he gets while in heat, once they inject the little cub cells into his uterus and the growing begins. 

He also makes note of some herbs that he needs to avoid in order to not counteract the heat-blockers he takes, and Wheein smiles to herself as she circles ginger, ginseng, and sage while adding three large exclamation marks next to the words to signify what he must avoid. 

About an hour passes with Yoongi and Wheein chatting in the kitchen about food, being pregnant, and anything else Wheein thinks of. She is great company, offering Yoongi white wine and keeping his glass topped off as they talk. He feels hopeful about his stay in her house, looking forward to getting to know her more as she opens up. 

And then Namjoon returns home, and things…shift. It is subtle, but noticeable. Wheein's voice quiets when the front door opens, and she keeps her eyes on the foyer once the sounds of shoes getting kicked off thuds one after the other. 

"Someone here?" a deep, familiar voice calls, causing Yoongi's skin to break out in goosebumps, and Namjoon steps around a corner, stopping in his tracks when he meets Yoongi's gaze. 

Namjoon is just as tall as Yoongi remembers, and quite a bit more built, chest and arms bulging against the thin white shirt that covers him, which is tucked into fitted grey slacks. His hair is overgrown into a bit of a dark mullet, and he shakes it from his warm, sharp eyes, only for it to fall back in place again. 

"Oh," he says. "It's you."

Yoongi opens his mouth to respond, lifting a hand to wave, but Namjoon mutters, "Should the two of you really be drinking?" while walking in the opposite direction, toward a hallway that Yoongi surmises must lead to the master suite, or perhaps to an office. The familiar scent of warm musk wafts through the air, with faint hints of cinnamon, and as soon as it is there, it is gone again. 

Wheein lets out a petulant, "Humph!" and grabs the bottle of wine, dumping the rest of its contents between their two glasses as if in protest to Namjoon's question. 

Then, as soon as the man of the house is down the hallway and disappears into a doorway off to the left, her face brightens once more, and she continues asking Yoongi about childbirth as if nothing had happened. Wheein is a curious woman, eager to know every gritty detail from cell growth to carrying a baby to term. And although Yoongi finds the process a little disgusting, he gladly answers all of her questions. 

Tipsy from drinking and only having snacked on crackers and tiny slabs of cheese, Wheein decides that the night is over once the glasses of wine are empty. She takes Yoongi by the crook of an elbow and leads him over to the hall in which Namjoon disappeared. 

"Bedrooms are here," Wheein says, waving her hand in the general direction of five doors – two on either side of the hallway and one at the far end. "That one on the end—" she points straight ahead, "—is the bathroom. And this—" she places her palm on the first door on the right and presses it open, "—is your bedroom. The bedding smells faintly like Namjoon so that you can get used to it. Hopefully you don't find it too unpleasant. In the morning, Park Jimin-ssi will return and we will go over the contract."

Yoongi nods along, smiling while staring ahead at the bathroom door, trying to imagine which door on the left Namjoon went through. Not that it is any of his business – nor should he care – but he is…curious. The Namjoon he encountered all those years ago seems so different from the terse man who Yoongi hardly caught sight or whiff of tonight. 

"S-sounds good," Yoongi finally responds, and Wheein pulls him into a half-hug from the side before letting him go and walking straight across the hall, opening that door just enough to slip inside, and closing it softly behind, taking the lavender with hints of patchouli with her. 

Yoongi hesitates a moment – hovers in place and holds his breath as if to listen for any sound to come from Namjoon through that door. But all is still, and Yoongi shifts left to right on his feet before turning to the guest room and feeling around the wall for a light switch. 

The room is furnished with a bed, bedside table, dresser and mirror, and a wall-mounted television. Beside the dresser is Yoongi's suitcase, which he surmises Jeongguk must have brought inside, and above the suitcase is a large window. Yoongi approaches his suitcase, lays it down, and unzips it, finding a set of light blue pajamas, and running his fingertips over the soft flannel material as he looks around, taking in the sight of his temporary home. 

How did he end up here, he wonders. Standing in the mayor's home – Kim Namjoon's home – wine drunk with Jung Wheein, the valedictorian who Yoongi was certain until this point had never been aware of his existence. 

As he sheds his clothing and gets dressed in the pajamas, sleep begins to claw at Yoongi, pulling his subconscious down, and making him want nothing more than to crawl under the covers. He picks his clothing up from the floor, approaches the dresser, and tosses the garments into a small pile in the corner. 

Outside the room, he thinks he hears the sound of a floorboard creek, and he stands still, listening for more movement. Seconds pass, heavy and full of anticipation, and Yoongi could swear the scent of tangerine and warm musk fills his senses, making him sway slightly where he stands. 

But then, he reasons that it must just be the bedding that Wheein said would hold Namjoon's scent, and he brings his drifting thoughts to a stop, making his way to the bed and pulling the pale yellow covers aside to climb under. 

Only in his wildest dreams would Namjoon be in the hallway, filling the space with more of his calming scent, and Yoongi tells himself that he needs to snap out of it and come back to reality before he gets too caught up pining for a married man he hardly knows. 

But, for now, he shuts his eyes and allows himself to imagine.

Yoongi is barely alert, sitting at the tall dining table nursing a steaming cup of black coffee when Namjoon enters the room in what Yoongi surmises is his standard work uniform of a white button-up tucked into grey slacks, taking a seat to his right. The coffee is peculiar, giving off an herbal scent that Yoongi cannot quite place, but it is not unwelcoming, and he gulps some down, feeling his nerves spike.

Wheein sits in front of him, and to his left, Jimin is present and far too perky and alert considering the ungodly hour, wearing a pair of wire-framed glasses that rest at the end of his nose and a white button-up tucked into black slacks. The house-help Jeongguk, who is dressed in all-black casual clothing, busies himself in the kitchen.

"Now that we are all here," Namjoon begins, voice hoarse and far deeper than Yoongi remembers, causing the little hairs on his arms to stand to attention, "we have the final draft of the contract to look over."

Namjoon slides a small stack of papers to the center of the table, which Jimin shifts forward to collect, and their scents collide somewhere in the middle – warm musk, lilacs, tangerines, and a salty hint of sea breeze. Yoongi feels a wave of dizziness hit him, and he sits back, letting his coffee cup thunk a little too hard against the restored wooden table. 

A delicate hand reaches over, tapping him on the wrist and adding tangy patchouli to the ever-engulfing blend of aromas, and Yoongi's eyes snap upward to find Wheein smiling with her brows knit. 

"Are you alright, my dear?" she asks, and Yoongi nods, swallows a lump, and mutters, "Fine. S-still waking up, I guess."

Heat prickles under every inch of skin that is covered with clothing, making Yoongi shift uncomfortably and yearn for cool air or a nice cold shower. It is almost as if a heat is coming on, which is impossible, because of the medication he takes to block it. 

"The only order of business in this contract that should differ from how your company ordinarily proceeds," Namjoon continues, ignoring the exchange between Yoongi and Wheein, "is the method of becoming pregnant."

At this, Yoongi sits alert and turns to Jimin, who is looking over the contract with too trained of an expression. Something is absolutely off, and Yoongi's heart begins to pound wildly in his chest. 

"D-different method?" Yoongi asks, feeling as if the room is spinning and too fucking warm.

"My family is very…let's say…traditional," Namjoon clarifies, and Yoongi turns to him with wide, worried eyes, only to find that he is staring ahead at the table with a somewhat distraught look on his face. "Any insemination and childbirth practices need to be performed as rituals to the old gods and the new…if you catch my drift."

At this, Namjoon's eyes lift, but to Jimin, across from him. Yoongi turns sharply and finds his boss looking up at Namjoon before his eyes trail to Yoongi. A cloying mix of calming aromas wafts from every side of Yoongi, and he practically gags on it. 

"Yoongi, baby," Jimin utters softly – sweetly, as if he knows that the information he has for Yoongi is going to send him into a tailspin. Only, Yoongi is already in a tailspin because he has just been told that, in order to perform the duties which he has been hired to perform, he and Namjoon are going to have to— "Are you still with us?"

"Did you…do something to my coffee?" Yoongi asks against his better judgment, feeling nausea creep at a rapid pace, clouding his vision in the corners. 

At this, Wheein slams her hands on the table and stands, sending her chair grinding backward while shouting, "What did you just say?"

"I'm s— I'm sorry," Yoongi tries, placing his palms face-down on the table and gripping tightly to the edge. He feels like he might vomit, and he needs to find his way out of this conversation. 

"How dare you accuse us of such a thing!" Wheein continues, voice fading in and out as if Yoongi's head is bobbing above and below water. 

"Sir," Jeongguk speaks softly, placing a hand on Yoongi's shoulder that feels too hot to the touch. "Could this reaction possibly be from the herbal blend?"

"H-herbal blend?" Yoongi asks, feeling panic quake through him.

Yoongi's mouth feels terribly dry, and he picks up the coffee, pulling it to his lips and gulping the tepid bitter liquid down. Perhaps he should ask for water instead, but his body is drenched, his mouth is parched, and he can hardly form his thoughts coherently enough to turn them into words. He can practically feel a new layer of sweat break over his forehead, and he sets the cup down with shaking hands while reaching up to push the overgrown dark brown hair away from his forehead. 

Jeongguk hums and says, "The herbal blend that Wheein-ssi likes me to add to her coffee and tea contains extract of ginger, ginseng, and sage. I saw that on your list and assumed you would like more than what was added to your tea last night, so I gave you twice the amount."

The sweat that covers Yoongi goes cold, and he sits up suddenly, knocking the wooden chair onto its back in the process, glancing up at the occupants of the table to see if perhaps this is some joke they are playing on him. Jimin appears horrified, Namjoon stares down at the wooden table, and Wheein's eyes widen. She looks to Jeongguk with knit brows, shaking her head in small movements, and something in her expression suggests he should not have said what he just said. 

"But, Wheein-ssi, your list—"

"Jeonggukah, those were items Yoongi was not supposed to consume!"

"But we want him to go into heat, so he becomes pregnant," Jeongguk continues innocently, forcing Yoongi to spin on the balls of his feet to stumble out of the room. 

The air is stifling, the room is spinning, and Yoongi is going to vomit any minute. He fumbles toward the hallway, stepping through the threshold just in time for the corridor to stretch impossibly long. Before he knows it, he is on his hands and knees, barely aware of the feeling of his impact against the floor, doing his best to crawl to where he needs to go.

"Alright, you," Jimin's voice greets Yoongi, causing tears to well in his eyes. "Let's get you on your feet."

Yoongi feels embarrassed, having made a terrible impression on the family for which he has been hired to surrogate. Surely, someone like Namjoon is not going to want a weak, sniveling omega in his home, carrying his child. And the idea that Yoongi will have to do everything the traditional way sends a new set of fears quaking through him. 

Despite his line of work, Yoongi has never had sex with an alpha. He has never experienced a knot, nor has he been marked in any way. Everyone at the clinic assured him that folks these days do not tend to have traditional pregnancies, so Yoongi assumed it would not be an issue. Or, at the very least, he assumed the conversation would take place before he was sat in their home, drinking their herbal-infused coffee.

Yoongi smells the musk before he feels two large hands lift him, and he yelps when he is suddenly up on his feet with his arm draped over the muscular shoulders of Namjoon, who is crouched forward to accommodate his height. 

"Bathroom is straight ahead," Namjoon mutters, and Jimin scurries forward, opening the door and switching on a light while Namjoon assists Yoongi in walking down the hallway. 

The musk is far more overpowering than anything Yoongi has experienced, radiating from Namjoon's neck and armpit, blanketing him in warm intoxication, and Yoongi leans his head to the side, eager for more. He wonders what Namjoon's sweat must taste like, licking his lips at the thought. 

But then Namjoon gets him through the doorway and maneuvers him against the sink with his butt resting against cold marble, and he slides away, taking much of the musk with him, only allowing hints laced with cinnamon and tangerine to linger. 

Yoongi can hear rustling – the opening and closing of a cabinet door and the running of water behind him – all while the blend of scents from Namjoon and Jimin mingle and dance through the small space. Yoongi's eyes rest closed, and he breathes deeply in through his nose, letting the air escape shakily through his mouth. 

"I didn't mean to accuse—" Yoongi begins, but Jimin shushes him at the same time a cold cloth is pressed against his forehead. 

"I imagine all of this is…a lot for you," Namjoon says softly, taking Yoongi by surprise. He expected Jimin to be the one with calming words, not the gruff alpha who hasn't so much as looked him in the eyes since their so-called meeting began. 

Yoongi keeps his eyes closed, determined not to ruin the moment. If this is the only way he can get the man to speak to him, then so be it. 

"I really like Wheein-ssi," Yoongi continues, knitting his brows beneath the cold cloth. It feels nice and pulls him from the jumble of physical and emotional overstimulation, grounding him somewhat while his own scent of chamomile engulfs and calms him. "I hope that I didn't hurt her feelings."

"We'll talk more once you're feeling better," Namjoon says. 

Yoongi wants to open his eyes and look at the man – really search his expression for how he must be feeling – but he keeps his eyes closed and lets out a deep exhale. 

"If you change your mind about doing this—" Namjoon continues, and Yoongi shakes his head. 

Long ago, when Yoongi was too weak to stand up for himself, Namjoon was the one who helped him. Namjoon was his beacon of hope in a dark, confusing time, and Yoongi wants to repay him in any way he can – in the only way he can. 

"I won't change my mind," is all he can bring himself to say, eager to keep his emotions at bay, lest a spike in pheromones tattles on him. At some point, he and Namjoon are going to need to have a conversation. 

There is the question of why Wheein never said anything last night, when she and Yoongi were making their list. She had to have known that the three ingredients that Yoongi stressed he could not have were in the herbal blend that he presumes has been added to both his tea and his coffee. Was she hoping to force Yoongi into a heat cycle as soon as possible?

Whatever the reason, Yoongi is concerned, but he is certain that her intent could not have been malicious, and so he lets it go. Perhaps they will discuss it down the line, but for now, he just wants to lie down. He has no idea how long it may take for the herbal mixture to induce a heat, and he is not eager to be standing in the bathroom with his boss and an alpha who he hardly knows, when the time comes. 

The herbal blend causes Yoongi's entire system to go haywire quickly. Perhaps it is because he only allows for a heat to come after giving birth before continuing on the blockers – about once a year – making his body desperate for a cycle, but he hardly gets through the afternoon before every inch of him yearns for Namjoon. 

The alpha's scent on his bedding drives Yoongi wild, and he rubs his face against his pillow almost frantically, letting out soft whimpers and growls when it is not enough to stave his desires. There is a part of him that wonders if anyone might be able to overhear him, and shame simmers just beneath his skin. But he is so overcome with desperation that he cannot bring himself to care very much. 

Yoongi must fall asleep at some point, because a light knock at the door rouses him, causing him to sit up with a start, groaning and wiping drool from his chin. 

"Yoongi-ssi?" Jeongguk's voice calls through the door. "Would you like to join us for dinner?"

Although Yoongi would like nothing more than to eat something, and to sit in the presence of Namjoon’s inviting scent, leaving the room and being present in front of everyone feels daunting, at best. Overwhelming. He is not ashamed of his body's natural functions, but he feels hesitant to encounter people he hardly knows when his hormones are running amuck. 

Another soft knock comes, and Yoongi clears his throat before hoarsely shouting, "N-no thank you."

After a pause, there is another knock at the door, but this one sounds different – more purposeful. 

"Yoongi?" Namjoon calls. "Can I come in?"

Suddenly, faced with the prospect of being in Namjoon's presence makes Yoongi panic, and he curls in on himself, tugging the yellow comforter over his body and up to his chin. 

"I—" Yoongi calls back, eyes searching the room aimlessly while he tries to think of something to say. "Now isn't the best time."

Yoongi is unsure if he hears a sigh on the other side of the door, and he listens for an indication that Namjoon has walked away. To his chagrin, Namjoon responds. 

"Are you indecent? Can I at least crack the door open?"

"Fine," Yoongi replies, screwing his eyes closed to take a deep, fortifying breath.

The door opens a few inches, and with the head of the bed against the same wall, Namjoon only has to peek in a little for their gazes to meet. Although it is subtle, Yoongi sees Namjoon's nostrils flare and eyes widen. 

"I'm—" Yoongi feels apologetic and shy, "s-sorry, I guess my heat has come."

"Don't apologize," Namjoon responds, voice sounding a bit hazier than Yoongi is used to. "Just wanted to make sure you don't need anything. I can have Jeongguk bring you some food and a cup of tea. Do you usually take any medications?" 

"I don’t usually take medicines," Yoongi responds softly. Ordinarily, he gets the typical hot flashes and neediness; cramping is rare. He tends to it by holing up in his apartment and drinking herbal teas that quell some of the more primal instincts; he has no idea what it is like to go into heat surrounded by the alluring stench of an alpha. "Do you have any hibiscus tea?" 

Namjoon's face disappears, and then Jeongguk appears, making Yoongi clench onto his blanket in disappointment. 

"Hibiscus tea, got it." Jeongguk responds. "I can make you a pot of kimchi soup if you would like?"

Although Yoongi would rather turn away the offer of anything more than a cup of tea, already feeling like a burden in someone else's home, the thought of the tangy, rich broth and a bowl of steamed rice makes his stomach growl loudly.

"That would be nice," Yoongi responds, squeezing his eyes tight to the sound of the door closing quietly. "Thank you."

Yoongi has no idea how long it takes for Jeongguk to return. It feels like only seconds pass, yet some of them could have been stretched for eons. The atmosphere around Yoongi is thick with tense confusion and desire, and he has no fucking clue how to proceed. 

A knock at the door startles Yoongi, and he sits up, pushing and kicking the yellow comforter away, embarrassed by how his body oozes with the heady scent of pomegranate, tangy and clinging to the air with trace amounts of chamomile. His limbs wobble, heavy and shaking like a tree caught in a storm, and it takes him a moment to catch his breath once he is on his feet. 

"Just a second," Yoongi grumbles, adjusting the white tee that has come untucked from his fitted light blue jeans. The materials cling to him, and he avoids checking his reflection in the mirror across the room. 

Yoongi opens the door a crack, just enough to see through. He does not miss the way Jeongguk's nostrils flare and eyes widen as he takes in the state of Yoongi. And although he feels embarrassed suddenly to be perceived this way, he swallows a lump and opens the door further to reach for the tray in Jeongguk's hands. 

"Why don't you let me bring it in?" Jeongguk offers, making Yoongi feel even more put on the spot than before. But Jeongguk has a good point. After all, the tray contains two items storing hot liquid, and Yoongi is just jittery enough to make the task extremely precarious. 

Yoongi nods and grumbles, "Oh–okay," as he takes a step back and allows Jeongguk to enter the room, closing the door quickly behind him. He is not eager for Namjoon or Wheein to smell him in this state – not until he can shower. 

"Your heat must have come on fast," Jeongguk states evenly as he walks to the bed and places the tray on top. It is wooden, with four small legs, creating a nice little table atop the ruffled comforter. With him, a light floral scent carries through the space.

"Yeah," Yoongi responds sheepishly, hugging his arms around himself. "I use the same herbal mixture to induce a heat once a year, and typically only one cup of tea does the trick."

Jeongguk turns with wide eyes, repeating, "Once a year?"

"Typically, my job is done in vitro," Yoongi explains, eyes trailing around the room, unable to settle on one spot. "I find that it is best if my hormones are kept under control. I only induce a heat once the baby has been delivered, to help my body restart, and then I take heat-blockers once the cycle ends."

"Ahhh," Jeongguk mutters. "Well, I am quite used to helping Wheein-ssi through her heats, so if there is anything you need, don't be shy."

Yoongi is surprised by this information. Shouldn't the alpha of the house be helping Wheein? Jeongguk – who, Yoongi surmises, must be a beta – seems like lovely help, but is he really capable of helping Wheein with all of her needs? The man hardly has a scent, only radiating hints of something sweet and floral that Yoongi cannot place.  

"Thank you, Jeongguk-ssi," Yoongi responds with a bow of his head. "I appreciate all you have done for me, already."

Silence hangs, and when Yoongi glances up, it seems as if Jeongguk has more that he would like to say. He stares ahead, clearly processing something, with his lips hanging slack. But then he blinks heavily and gives his head a little shake before saying, "Also, when you are ready to, Namjoon would like to meet with you to go over the contract and discuss a timeline."

"Oh," Yoongi says, realizing they never finalized it earlier. "Yes, of course."

"His phone number is on a little slip of paper, sitting beside your rice," Jeongguk instructs with one more bow of his head. "Please text him at your earliest convenience."

Texting Namjoon rather than knocking on a door seems somewhat silly, but Yoongi does not argue. He supposes he is grateful to have a simple way to get in touch with him that also allows for there to be some distance. 

Jeongguk exits the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and Yoongi lets out a deep breath and rubs his sweaty palms against his jeans. The smell of the soup and tea dance beautifully, covering enough of Namjoon's lingering musk to allow Yoongi's head to clear as he approaches the bedside table and picks up his phone. 

He settles slowly onto the bed, careful not to jostle the tray, and finds the small piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. The numbers are clean with very straight lines and circular loops, and Yoongi lifts it before he can think better of it, sniffing the paper, picking up hints of tangerine and cinnamon. So this is Namjoon's handwriting, Yoongi thinks, inspecting it closer. It looks nice. 

A soft haze settles over Yoongi – a humming that vibrates just below his skin – and he takes a slow breath as he begins to punch Namjoon's number into his phone. He considers all the things he could say to the man, worrying in circles over whether he should apologize for his entire existence. In the end, he settles for something simple. 

Yoongi Hello, Namjoon-ssi. This is Yoongi. Jeongguk-ssi mentioned you wanted to talk with me.

With a tremble in his hands, he sets his phone down and begins to eat. Jeongguk brought kimchi soup, rice, glass noodles, and a cup of hibiscus tea, and everything is flavored perfectly – savory with tangy and sweet notes here and there, the way mom makes it. Although the soup and tea are both hot, they soothe Yoongi, putting his hot flashes at bay. He is nearly done with his meal and feeling much calmer than before, when his phone vibrates.

Namjoon Yoongi-ssi, I would like to meet at your earliest convenience. No rush; eat first. 

Yoongi has to scoff at how stuffy Namjoon seems, even over text. He supposes he is the one who set the tone in the first place, but he has to wonder if the detached alpha would text the same way, regardless. Yoongi nibbles on the inside of his cheek, deciding what would be best. On one hand, he hates to keep someone waiting, but on the other…he cannot decide whether he wants to face Namjoon smelling the way he does. 

Yoongi Perhaps after I freshen up a bit? A fever hit earlier, and I am not at my best.

Before Yoongi has a chance to set his phone down, it vibrates; he is surprised by how quickly Namjoon responds. 

Namjoon Of course. Take your time! I usually go for late jogs, so if I am not in the house, I'll be out back. You are welcome to join me if you would like.

Namjoon's hanok is situated at the end of a suburban area, with enough land between his place and the nearby houses to have seclusion. Perfect for an alpha who likes to let off some steam in a bit of nature. Although Yoongi does not jog often, the primal part of him loves to get lost in the thick of trees, listening to branches crunch underfoot while he exerts himself and lets his worries breeze away. Perhaps jogging with Namjoon is just what he needs.

Yoongi A jog would be nice. I'll shower now and join you in just a bit.

Namjoon Sounds good. 

Yoongi makes quick work of finishing his food, suddenly feeling excited at the prospect of getting some fresh air. He grabs a pair of black joggers and a black tee, and leaves the room, turning briefly to see Wheein and Jeongguk sharing a glass of wine in the kitchen. He wonders if Namjoon is already getting dressed and waiting, and scurries to the bathroom at the end of the hall, closing the door tight behind him and switching on the light. 

Yoongi peels the sweat-drenched clothing away and drops them into a pile on the floor, then figures out the knobs of the shower, setting the water nice and temperate – not too hot – before slipping in. The water is a warm embrace, instantly shedding some of Yoongi's anxieties, and he smiles to himself, tipping his head back with his eyes closed, allowing the steady spray to wash over him.

After a few calming moments, Yoongi peeks his head from the shower curtain to find small cloths folded on a shelf at eye level and grabs one, then assesses the bottles for body wash. To his surprise, everything smells like chamomile or tangerine, making Yoongi chuckle. He wonders if it is a coincidence or if they planned for this. Had Namjoon remembered what Yoongi smelled like, after all this time?

Yoongi scrubs his body with chamomile, then washes and conditions his hair with tangerine. Once he is satisfied, he stands under the stream with his eyes closed for another twenty seconds or so, then shuts off the water, pokes an arm past the shower curtain, and grabs a large towel from the same eye level shelf. He dries off quickly, then changes into his clean clothing and shoots a text off to Namjoon.

Yoongi Just finished showering. Are you inside or outside? 

Namjoon I’m still inside. Meet in the hallway?

Yoongi See you there.

Yoongi brushes his teeth and slaps some moisturizer on his face – beauty products courtesy of Namjoon and Wheein – then hangs up his towel and grabs his discarded clothing, which reek of tangy pomegranate. He scrunches his nose, tired of smelling it.

When he exits the shower, Namjoon is standing in the hallway, and the sight of him makes Yoongi halt in place, nearly tripping over his feet. He wears a tight black tank top and black athletic shorts that stop mid-thigh. And oh, Namjoon's thighs…He knew Namjoon was ripped, but seeing him in athletic wear is something else altogether.

Yoongi has to force his eyes up and tell himself that staring is impolite. But the man is built like a sturdy tree that Yoongi finds himself wanting to climb — a dangerous thought, and one he brushes off as a product of his heat.

He is relieved to find Namjoon turning his attention from the phone in his hands to him only after he finishes ogling him, and Yoongi clears his throat quietly before making his way down the hall. 

"Just gonna toss these clothes into the room quick," Yoongi mutters as he approaches.

Namjoon regards him with a brief nod, then continues typing on his phone, and Yoongi opens the door to the room and slips in, tossing the clothing toward the bed and grabbing a pair of sneakers before returning, doing his best to keep his stench of pheromones and sweat trapped.

When he returns, Namjoon is standing straight up with his arms at his sides, and his head tipped slightly back. His eyes are closed, and he appears to be taking a deep breath in through his nose, filling his lungs. Yoongi wonders if he does this to get into a proper headspace to run – calmly intake oxygen to help his muscles relax. 

But when Namjoon opens his eyes and looks at Yoongi, his pupils are blown wide and there is something burning in his gaze that causes Yoongi to instinctively take a step back. The way Namjoon looks at him makes Yoongi feel vulnerable and exposed. If he didn't know any better, he would think the alpha wants to eat him. 

Namjoon heavy-blinks and clears his throat, dispelling the tension between them, and turns to exit the hallway. To the left, through the main living room, is a door that appears to lead to the back of the property. Namjoon approaches, bends to pick up a pair of shoes beside the exit, and begins putting them on, while Yoongi slides into his sneakers, staying a good six feet or so away from Namjoon, trying his best not to get too much of a whiff of him, breathing primarily through his mouth.

By the time Namjoon straightens out, Yoongi is finishing up tying his second shoe. In the other room, Yoongi can hear Wheein and Jeongguk laughing together. He finds it a bit strange that Namjoon and Wheein do not seem to communicate much, but assumes that is how it is, sometimes. He wonders if being unable to conceive has put a strain on their marriage before deciding it is none of his business.

"Ready?" Namjoon asks, voice deeper and breathier than Yoongi remembers, making him stand alert. 

"Yeah," Yoongi responds, sliding his hands into the pockets of his joggers as Namjoon opens the back door and steps outside, audibly taking a deep breath and sighing. 

Yoongi nudges the door with his elbow on his way out, then half-turns to pull it closed quietly. The sun has already begun to set, painting the sky orange and pink, and there is a chill in the air that makes Yoongi scrunch his shoulders to his ears momentarily as he steps out onto the small wooden deck. It feels nice, and he rolls his shoulders back, taking in a deep breath of dirt, grass, and citrus. 

"Shit," Namjoon mutters under his breath, turning back toward the house.

Yoongi hums and looks at Namjoon, feeling momentarily worried that something may be wrong.

"The contract," Namjoon clarifies, shifting in place as if he is unsure where he wants to be. "I wanted to go over the terms and finalize everything, but I left it in the office."

"Ah," Yoongi says. He wonders if having a paper contract outside while they intend to exercise is practical in the first place, and suggests an alternative. "What if we discuss the terms, and when we return inside, we can sign it? I assume you have gone over everything, and I can give it a quick read."

Namjoon knits his brow, considering Yoongi's proposition, then nods. "Yeah," he says, eyes on the wooden floor of the deck rather than meeting Yoongi's gaze, "that sounds good."

Yoongi nods and takes in the scenery around him. Behind Namjoon's hanok, the land opens up to a large yard with an inground pool. Past the pool ahead is a wooded area, with thick trees and brush, and to the left is a small bungalow that he surmises must be the guesthouse. Yoongi wonders how much of the land belongs to Namjoon; how far they can run. 

"This path zig-zags through the trees, out the other side," Namjoon explains as if reading his mind. "I like to run the path, and continue along the residential area on the other side, to a park that is a few miles away. We don't have to run the entire length…whatever you feel like."

"Sounds good," Yoongi responds, waiting for Namjoon to lead the way.

Namjoon walks ahead, down the three steps that lead to a path that wraps around the pool to the right and into the trees, slowly picking up his pace. Yoongi follows, then steps in pace with Namjoon. It is a leisurely jog, and Yoongi instantly feels a calm rush over him at the feeling of the evening wind in his shoulder-length hair, though he wishes he had brought a hair tie. 

"The main clause in the contract is that we have to actually, er—" Namjoon begins, cutting himself off until only the sound of gunite underfoot can be heard. 

"Procreate," Yoongi offers, cringing instantly at his choice of word. 

Luckily, it makes Namjoon chuckle, lightening the mood. "Yes, procreate."

Silence falls between them, and they approach the edge of the wooded area before Namjoon asks, "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

Yoongi takes a moment to answer, curious how forthcoming he should be with Namjoon. He wonders if it is necessary for the alpha to know that he has never taken a knot before. Underfoot, the path becomes dirt with twigs and leaves crunching as they begin to jog past the edge of the trees.

"Not uncomfortable," Yoongi says, eyes on the path, which is more than wide enough for two. "I was a bit surprised, since that is different from how things are typically done these days, but I respect the old ways just as much as the new. As long as you and your wife are comfortable."

For the briefest of moments, Yoongi could swear Namjoon's cinnamon scent bitterly stings the air, but just as soon as it arrives, it is gone. It is not uncommon for the tangier or sharper of the smells someone has to be strongest when they are feeling heightened levels of irritation, anger, annoyance, depression, and so on. Briefly, Yoongi worries whether something he said bothered Namjoon. 

"I am comfortable as long as you are," Namjoon responds somewhat tersely as they take a left turn and the path straightens out before turning right up ahead. 

Again, silence falls, and Yoongi listens to the scurry of rodents and the soft calls of birds. To the right, through the wooded area, Yoongi can see more of the path. It appears to snake through the trees from right to left to right again with wooded areas in between. It is peaceful, and Yoongi is grateful that Namjoon invited him. For the first time since his heat began, he feels calm and in control of his own body.

Once his heat fully hits, he will not be so mobile. The first wave is a bit of a warning, ebbing and flowing before coming in full swing. In a day or two, he expects to lock himself in that small bedroom and hide away from everyone until it passes, or at least until they mate. Although omegas are most fertile while in heat, he and Namjoon still need to discuss a timeline for everything.

"Is there a good time for us to…" Yoongi trails off, taking the curve to the right and continuing in step beside Namjoon. He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second and curses himself for being so awkward; he is an adult, discussing a contractual agreement with another adult. Just because there is sex involved, does not mean he should struggle to discuss it. 

"For us to…?" Namjoon asks when the silence draws on a little long.

The thought of laying sprawled out beneath Namjoon, looking up at him while his hair clings to his sweaty forehead flashes in Yoongi's mind, and all at once, he trips over his own feet and topples forward, knees and palms meeting the ground before he corrects himself. The tumble is small and hardly disrupts their pace, but Namjoon is close in an instant, filling his senses with tangerines and warm, calming musk.

"Are you alright?" Namjoon asks, voice low and soft, giving Yoongi goosebumps. 

Yoongi hums in response, eager for Namjoon to not be quite so close, despite how much his body longs for him to touch him. They run in silence, snaking around to the left and to the right again, while Yoongi attempts to clear his head, and he is grateful for Namjoon's patience while he gathers his thoughts. Once they start reaching the end of the path, Yoongi takes in a fortifying breath. 

"What I was going to ask is whether there is a good time for us to get started," Yoongi says, keeping his eyes ahead. "On the whole…er…process."

"The procreation," Namjoon adds, and Yoongi wonders if there is a playful tone to his voice, but he does not want to face the man and check his expression. 

"Yes," he says, cracking a soft smile. "The procreation."

As they come around the final curve, the treeline ends, opening up to a well-trodden grassy area. Up ahead is a round cul-de-sac and sidewalk that leads to a residential neighborhood, and further down, there appears to be a playground of some sort.

"Whenever you feel most comfortable," Namjoon says, which, if Yoongi is being honest, is not the most helpful statement. 

Yoongi hums and glances around, not very focused on anything in particular; more eager than anything to get a plan of some sort finalized. 

"Well, I am already at your house and more or less ready to begin," Yoongi huffs, finally feeling the exertion of the run. "You are the one with the career, so really, it is up to you, depending on how hands-on you would like to be. And if you would rather wait for my heat to be over, we can."

The sound that comes from Namjoon is somewhere between a hum and a groan, and Yoongi is unsure how to parse it, but certain that he would rather pretend he never heard it. All the little hairs on his body stand at attention, and he does his best not to trip on his own feet again.  

"It may be best if we wait until after," Namjoon finally responds. The soft tone of voice has returned, and it does wonders for Yoongi's already wild imagination. "Not to be dismissive or anything, but since omegas tend to get…shall we say…needy during their heats, I should probably keep my distance."

At this, Yoongi laughs – a burst at first that blooms into something melodic and impossible to contain. Namjoon lets out a surprised sound before he, too, chuckles, and Yoongi slows their run to a stop in order to catch his breath. 

"What is it?" Namjoon asks, laughter in his voice. 

For the first time since coming outside, Yoongi allows himself to glance at Namjoon. He realizes too late that he made a mistake when a sheen of sweat that glistens on Namjoon's neck is hit just right by the streetlights and diminishing sun rays, making his golden skin shine. Namjoon cracks a hint of a smile, watching Yoongi as if he is waiting for a response; Yoongi has no idea why they were laughing, anymore, brain muddled by the alpha's beauty. 

"Uh—" Yoongi mutters, pulling his eyes from Namjoon to glance around and attempt to clear his head. "What were we talking about?"

Namjoon scoffs and reaches up, leaning into Yoongi's personal space and taking him by surprise. When Namjoon's warm hand comes into contact with Yoongi's forehead, it makes him freeze in place. 

"Do you have a fever or something, omega?" Namjoon asks, moving his hand to Yoongi's cheek as if comparing the two temperatures. 

Yoongi ducks dramatically to the side, swatting at the air, doing his best not to touch the alpha who evidently has no respect for personal space. 

"Excuse you," he grumbles, watching as Namjoon cracks more of a smile, cheeks delicately dimpled. "I feel fine, for the most part. Just…I don't know…I'm tired."

A lie; Yoongi is not remotely tired. In fact, this run has him feeling more invigorated than he has in months. 

"We were discussing the possibility of waiting until after your heat," Namjoon responds somewhat under his breath. He averts his gaze to the road, and Yoongi wonders if the topic of conversation actually makes him feel shy. 

"Ah," Yoongi says, remembering Namjoon saying he would become needy and feeling warmth flood to his cheeks. There is a part of him that feels disappointed that Namjoon will want to keep all of his strong, calming alpha scents away when Yoongi desires them most, but he does his best to tamp those thoughts down and remind himself once again that Namjoon is not his. 

But what if Namjoon were his, Yoongi's heat-addled mind suggests, unhelpfully. What if, just once, Namjoon could cradle him the way he needs while he fights through his heat? What if Namjoon enveloped him in a warm cocoon of spicy-citrus heaven?

Warmth rushes through Yoongi at a dizzying pace, making his chest feel tight, and he takes a deep intake of cool night air, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the sky. Suddenly, his limbs feel al dente and ready to collapse, and his heart pounds. 

"You alright?" Namjoon asks, and Yoongi notices his own tangy scent of pomegranate permeating the air.

"Y-yeah," Yoongi responds, turning back toward the house. "Just got hit by a hot flash. I might head back to the house."

"Alright," Namjoon mutters, taking a step closer, emitting a soothing wave of musk. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Yes, Yoongi thinks. He would love for Namjoon to come with him. Only, he fixates on Namjoon towering over him, sweaty and eager to placate his hormonal urges, which is the opposite of what Namjoon can do for him. 

"No, I'm good," Yoongi insists. "I'll see you back there."

Yoongi does not wait for Namjoon to respond before he begins jogging toward the trees. Although the cool night air is relaxing, Yoongi feels warm and worn out. He worries his knees might give way, but he presses ahead. The sound of Namjoon's feet jogging in the opposite direction can be heard, and once the lingering scent of tangerine fades, Yoongi lets out a deep breath, slowing down to intake air uninhabited by him.

Being in the presence of Namjoon almost feels like a pull – like there is an invisible string connecting them, causing Yoongi to get caught in Namjoon's gravity. Yoongi wonders again what life might be like if Namjoon were his to orbit. He knows the thought is silly, and it does nothing to tamp the wave of loneliness he feels as he picks up his pace and jogs back toward the large home alone.

He takes it slow, not entirely eager to return too soon before Namjoon. Although Wheein was nice to him last night, her behavior this morning and distance all day has Yoongi feeling unsure of what to think of her. It must be strange to have another person in the house, and Yoongi can only imagine how she must be feeling knowing that he and Namjoon will have to mate the traditional way. Still, he cannot help but wonder if she really meant it last night when she said they would become friends.

Yoongi enters the trees and takes a deep breath of fresh air, letting it settle in his lungs before it rattles out with each movement of his legs. Without Namjoon’s musk, Yoongi feels a bit brighter, oxygen coming to him a little easier. He follows the path and curves to the left, glancing through the trees to his left, toward the residential area for a glimpse of Namjoon, finding a distant figure that may be moving toward him. 

He wonders if it is possible for Namjoon to have already run to the end of his route, and glances again, seeing him advance quickly from between the trees. Briefly, Yoongi imagines Namjoon as his alpha coming to give chase and capture him, and instantly, his pheromones spike, creating a cloying plume of chamomile with hints of pomegranate. 

“Gods damn it,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, feeling embarrassed by the possibility of Namjoon catching up and running straight through the scent. 

But then he imagines Namjoon sniffing the air with blown pupils that blaze with a fire just for Yoongi. Perhaps he has worked up even more of a sweat – dewy and dripping, tasting salty-sweet. The thought stirs arousal in Yoongi’s tummy, and although it is a small amount, he can both feel and smell the slick that he produces – a headier, muskier mixture of his scents. 

With a groan, Yoongi follows the path around to the right and picks up the pace. No longer is he concerned with returning alone and having to face Wheein. Now he just wants to get back to the room and bury himself under the warm, soft blankets that smell just like the alpha he cannot stop thinking about, contract be damned. 

Yoongi begins to huff and grunt as he jogs on. The small amount of slick he has produced feels uncomfortable, and the more he dwells on it, the more his pheromones seem to seep into the air, clinging all around him like a mist. He wonders if it would be excessive to take another shower.

As he follows the path around one more curve, Yoongi hears a branch snap to his left, in the direction from which Namjoon runs, and he turns his head to find Namjoon running straight through the trees, toward him. Fear and adrenaline spike in Yoongi, and he picks up the pace, running faster. If this is a game Namjoon is playing with him, Yoongi is unsure whether he finds it amusing. 

Another branch snaps, this one much closer, and Yoongi turns his head to find Namjoon leaping out from the wooded area, onto the path behind him, watching him with wide eyes and a stance that almost looks like Namjoon is going to get onto all fours and give animalistic chase. Yoongi turns his gaze ahead and approaches the next curve in the road, taking it rather quickly and checking to see that he is not too far from the house. 

But as soon as Yoongi is around the bend, Namjoon is ahead, exiting the wooded area and running straight for him. Yoongi falters in his steps and nearly trips over himself, then he veers off the path and begins to run through the last strip of woods in the direction of the Hanok. The sounds of leaves and twigs underfoot snap loudly, causing Yoongi's heart to pound impossibly harder, and he runs as if his life depends on it, hopping over fallen branches and zig-zagging around trees. 

And then he trips. Yoongi's right ankle gets caught on a large branch, and he falls forward, bracing himself for impact with his hands outstretched. He feels foolish and confused, heart booming loudly in his ears, and more than anything he just wants to get away from this stupid fucking path and out of all of this nature. 

Just as Yoongi's already sore palms hit uneven ground, two strong, warm arms wrap around him and yank him back. Before he can make sense of anything, Yoongi is firmly pressed against the thick trunk of a maple tree. Namjoon's arms cage Yoongi in, hands on either side of his face, and he leans in close, loudly sniffing the air around them.

"N-Namjoon?" Yoongi mutters as his entire body trembles. 

From this proximity, the aura of musk and tangerine is strong and sweet – intoxicating. His eyelids flutter shut as more pungent slick is produced, feeling a primal calm wash over him despite being caught by a man who had just given chase. 

"What are you doing?" he tries, tilting his head away from Namjoon, who continues to sniff him. 

"Smells so good," Namjoon groans after a pause, voice deep and lust-laced. 

Yoongi wants to shove Namjoon away and continue back to the hanok, but he finds he cannot move. The alpha's presence is strong and commanding, and Yoongi likes this attention from him; he likes the idea that his scent is alluring. And so he stands with his back pressed against the tree, panting through shattered breath as he attempts to even his heartbeat and ignore the flooding arousal that pools in his tummy. 

Then, as if ripped from a trance, Namjoon stands straight up and blinks heavily, taking two steps back. He glances around at his surroundings and, with wide, apologetic eyes, he mutters, "S-sorry. I didn't mean to—that was an accident."

Yoongi clears his throat as disappointment builds and builds and crashes throughout him. He feels shipwrecked at sea – splintered wood left to drift aimlessly in open waters. Because of course, it was an accident; why would Namjoon desire him?

"It's fine," Yoongi responds as he peels himself away from the tree and slowly begins to walk back toward the path. 

Namjoon leads the way, jogging without a glance back. Yoongi follows behind. Not another word is exchanged between them, and when Yoongi returns to the hanok, he kicks his shoes off and heads straight to the room.

Namjoon I left the contract on the dining room table. Please read it over and let me know if there is anything we need to amend. If everything looks good, we can sign it and work out a timeline. We discussed waiting until your heat is over, if you recall. Just let me know when the time comes, and we can begin making arrangements.

Yoongi blinks sleep from his eyes as he reads over Namjoon's message. The feral part of him wants to ignore everything contract-related and ask him just what the fuck happened last night, while they were jogging. Had Namjoon caught a whiff of Yoongi's arousal and begun to take chase without thinking? That is the only conclusion Yoongi is able to draw, and he has given it a lot of thought. 

But Yoongi decides not to interrogate the alpha. It is not as if he can fully control his urges; some instincts are too primal. Just because his arousal may be inviting does not mean Namjoon wants him. 

Yoongi gets dressed for the day and exits the room, feeling a sheen of dewy sweat cover him. He is warm and irritated, and he wants to grab some fruit and a cup of tea and return to bed. To his delight, only Jeongguk is in the kitchen, and as Yoongi approaches, the man turns quickly to face him with wide, curious eyes. 

"What?" Yoongi grumbles, uncomfortable with the way Jeongguk's gaze roves over him. "Is there something on my face?"

Jeongguk blinks several times, then shakes his head, and says, "The smell," almost more to himself than to Yoongi.

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Yoongi approaches the dining table and finds the aforementioned contract, picking it up and glancing over it. 

"Could I trouble you for some fruit and tea?" he asks softly, watching as Jeongguk – who seems to be preparing tofu – nods, and hums.

"Anything else?" Jeongguk asks, not turning around to address Yoongi directly. 

"Nah," Yoongi responds as he turns and makes his way back to the room. "Feel free to shout and I'll come get it."

Yoongi hears Jeongguk hum in response, and he returns to the room and closes the door tightly behind him. He shuffles over to the bed and has a seat, then begins to read over the contract. It looks like any other contract he has had to sign for work, with the amendments of a traditional mating ritual. Ordinarily, when he surrogates, the egg belongs to the other parent, and it dawns on Yoongi that this child will be his DNA, not Wheein's. 

The thought of it makes his hands tremble, and he gnaws on the inside of his mouth. How will he feel, knowing years from now that the baby Namjoon and Wheein raise as their own is his? Will he be given rights to be in that child's life? Will he even want that?

Yoongi stares at the page until the words blur and jumble, turning into black smudges against white – incoherent and impossible to parse. He feels anxious and suddenly so terribly alone, and he begins to worry that maybe he cannot do this. Maybe he needs to back out. Maybe he should just go home. 

The sound of knuckles rapping against the wooden door pulls Yoongi from the fog, and he sits alert and looks in the direction of the sound. 

"Yes?" he calls, heart pounding at the thought that it could be Namjoon on the other side. 

"Tea is ready," Jeongguk responds softly. "I didn't feel like shouting."

With a hum, Yoongi tosses the contract aside and gets off the bed. As he steps closer to the door, he begins to feel a bit shy about how much the room must reek of him. In the kitchen, Jeongguk seemed dazed by his mere presence; what might it smell like contained in such a small space, even with the window cracked open?

To his surprise, Jeongguk's expression seems rather schooled as he opens the door and greets him. He reaches for the tray of tea and fruit, but Jeongguk shakes his head and nods his chin as if to motion for Yoongi to get out of his way. 

"Fine," Yoongi mutters, stepping aside and allowing him to enter. The aroma of the tea is strong and soothing. 

Jeongguk makes his way to the bed and sets the tray down. His eyes seem to linger on the contract, and then he straightens himself out and turns back to Yoongi. With a concerned pinch to his brow, he opens his mouth, but then he seems to think better about what he might say, and he closes it, floundering.

"Is something the matter?" Yoongi drawls, unable to hide his impatience. He just wants to return to bed and enjoy his tea and fruit, and Jeongguk is standing in the way. 

"No," Jeongguk responds after a moment, shrugging as he leaves the room. 

"Weirdo," Yoongi mutters under his breath once the door is closed tight. He feels hormonal and irritated, and he is not in the mood for a cryptic beta sniffing around in his personal space. 

Yoongi would throw himself onto the mattress in a disgruntled huff if it weren't for the tray of hot tea sitting atop. Instead, he slowly gets onto his knees and shuffles over, plopping onto his butt once he is close enough, causing the porcelain to rattle on its wooden surface. 

The tea is perfect, lightly sweetened with honey and soothing on the throat. Yoongi allows himself to be grateful for Jeongguk despite how annoying he finds his presence today. He wonders if Jeongguk likes being employed by the couple because he enjoys doting on others. He even wonders if Jeongguk will dote on him throughout the pregnancy. Or if that is something Namjoon will do?

Namjoon. Yoongi grimaces at the thought of him. Last night, in the woods, pressed against the tree and caged in by Namjoon's arms, Yoongi felt truly alive. Something primal sparked inside him after being chased and captured by the alpha. Just thinking about it has slick threatening to stain his pants. 

But then he remembers the look on Namjoon's face when he said it was an accident, and the arousal turns acidic, giving Yoongi a stomach ache. With a frown, he enjoys his fruit – sliced pear and watermelon – and considers once more the thought of backing out of this situation. 

Does he really want to be tied to Namjoon for the rest of his life? Is it worth the paycheck? Yoongi is happy to let his body be used to carry a baby to term, but his baby? His flesh and blood, sharing physical features and primal, innate instincts with Kim Namjoon? Can he really go through with it?

This time, when knuckles rap gently at the door, Yoongi huffs out a sigh and shouts, "What?" He is not in the mood to be bothered; can't he wallow in his moodiness alone? 

"Yoongi-ssi?" Namjoon calls from the other side of the door.

Namjoon is possibly the last person on this planet Yoongi wants stepping foot into this room, especially with his arousal cloying the air. Even if Namjoon does not desire him, the alpha in him will likely become aroused, and he would rather save all of that for when they actually have to mate. 

A shudder runs down Yoongi's spine, and he calls back, "Don't come in here!"   

"I just wanted to make sure you got the contract," Namjoon responds, and Yoongi nods to nobody but himself as he mutters, "I got it."

"Okay, good," Namjoon says, and that is it. Silence from the other side of the door, just as Yoongi likes it. 

He reminds himself that Namjoon stood up for him all those years ago, and that he should stop second-guessing whether he wants to help him or not. He should help Namjoon; he likes to help others. So he picks up his phone and thumbs around for his conversation with the alpha.

Yoongi Contract looks good. I have a few things I would like to discuss, but it can wait until after my heat ends. 

Before Yoongi has a chance to set his phone down, it rings. Namjoon's name flashes on the screen, filling Yoongi with a wave of anxiety. Of course, it is fair that Namjoon would want to iron out any details, but now?

Yoongi answers the phone with a hum. 

"We can talk about it now if you'd like to," Namjoon says, tone low and concerned. Hearing Namjoon's voice spoken so directly in his ear gives him goosebumps; he sounds good. 

"Uh—" Yoongi clears his throat and runs a hand through his long, messy hair. "Alright. Well, I guess I was wondering about after the baby is born, since, you know…it's going to share my DNA too, if, uh…"

He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Suddenly, he feels embarrassed to care this much, especially being unable to see and gauge Namjoon's reaction. 

"Never mind," he mutters when the silence becomes overwhelming. "Forget it."

"Yoongi, listen," Namjoon says, voice stripped of any hint of concern; stern. "I know the process will likely be really stressful, and very personal to you, but I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to come around once we've finished. At least not until the baby is older. The media might turn it into a mess, and we need to think about our reputations."

"We what?" Yoongi responds sharply, unable to hold in the surge of anger that burns behind his ribcage. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Namjoon has the audacity to sigh, and Yoongi spirals.

"You know what?" Yoongi says through a sardonic chuckle, shaking his head, "Fuck you, and fuck this contract. I'm packing my shit and going home."

"Yoongi," Namjoon groans impatiently, "why don't we discuss this once your heat is over?"

"Once my heat is over?" Yoongi practically shouts, voice steeped in sarcasm. "Why, because I'm hormonal? Surely my judgment is being clouded because my omega instincts are making me overreact."

Namjoon hums and responds, "Pretty much."

"Oh, I fucking hate you," Yoongi says, getting up from the bed and pacing around, grabbing his discarded clothing from the floor and walking toward his suitcase to shove the items in unceremoniously. "And stop addressing me without honorifics! I am older than you!"

The tone of Namjoon's voice as he says, "I'm the alpha of this house," is almost playful, and Yoongi finds it infuriating. 

"Can't even get your wife pregnant," Yoongi mutters under his breath. "Some fucking alpha you are."

As soon as the words leave his lips, Yoongi braces himself to be yelled at. He really has a lot of nerve saying shit like that to the man whose house he has been staying in. It takes Yoongi by surprise, however, when the door to the bedroom flies open, and Namjoon comes barreling in. 

"Say that to my face, omega," Namjoon challenges, standing tall while Yoongi still holds his phone to his ear, crouched over his suitcase, and too dazed to move. 

The bitter sting of cinnamon permeates the air, and Yoongi stumbles back, feeling dizzy.

"Not so tough are you now, little wolf?" Namjoon snarls, stepping forward and crowding Yoongi's space. 

Yoongi wonders if Jeongguk or Wheein are around and can hear them. He wonders if they would intervene if things got physical between them. 

He does not want to fight Namjoon, however. He wants to fuck. 

Seeing him worked up with his jaw set and nostrils flaring, muscles strained behind his white button-up does something to Yoongi, and he is unable to stop himself from leaking a little at the sight of him. This must catch Namjoon's attention because he sniffs the air before his eyes widen, confusion laced with anger. 

"If you want to leave, then get the fuck out," Namjoon says, blinking heavily and appearing less confident than just a moment ago. "Otherwise, watch what you say to me."

"Alright," Yoongi mutters, eyes traveling over Namjoon, past the hint of skin that peeks past his collar – two buttons left undone – to the shape of his waist and hips, no detail hidden behind the white fabric. "S-sorry."

"Are you?" Namjoon asks, making Yoongi's eyes snap back to his face.

"Yeah," he mutters, and he means it. All the fight has drained out of him, and the bedroom stinks of negativity and arousal.

"If you stay, we can discuss all of this in better detail," Namjoon says, taking a step backward. Sweat shimmers on his throat, and once more, Yoongi cannot stop himself from imagining what it must taste like. 

"Later," Namjoon adds, eyes glancing around the room, dazed. 

And then he walks out, closing the door behind him. Yoongi's phone remains clutched in his hand, and he glances down to notice that the call was never hung up. Seconds tick by uselessly on his screen until finally, the line goes dead. 

"Fuck," Yoongi mutters, tossing his phone to the bed as he lets out a deep exhale. "Holy fuck. That was hot."

No longer is Yoongi considering packing and leaving; he is desperate for Namjoon to mate him. 

Tonight, it is Wheein who brings Yoongi dinner. She looks tense as she holds the tray of kimchi soup, rice, and tea, and thankfully, she allows Yoongi to take it from her in the doorway. Yoongi hopes she will excuse herself immediately. 

"What did you say to piss off Namjoon earlier?" she asks, voice full of mirth. 

Yoongi stops mid-turn and looks over his shoulder to find her standing with her arms crossed over her chest. Heat rises to his face, and he spins away to continue carrying the tray over to the bed.

"Oh, nothing, really…" Yoongi mutters, unsure what he could possibly tell her about what happened. He is almost certain Namjoon did not confide in her, if the lack of conversation he has witnessed is anything to go by. "I misunderstood a line in the contract, and overreacted. My hormones have been super off balance."

Yoongi turns and feigns concern as he adds, "Why? Did he—did he say anything?"

Wheein squints and appears to study Yoongi, then she shrugs and responds, "No. Just heard him storm in here, that's all."

"Ah," Yoongi mutters, feeling uncomfortable. "Well, thank you for the food. I appreciate it."

"The thing is," Wheein continues, straightening her posture and taking a step into the room, "he seems to be coming down with a fever. I'm worried that something may have stressed him out so much that he has become sick."

Yoongi swallows a lump, feeling a prickle of sweat on his forehead. Just what the hell is Wheein trying to accuse him of?

"I don't think that's how stress or sickness works," Yoongi mutters, somewhat defensively.

With a devilish grin, Wheein says, "True. Maybe he got a whiff of your horny omega slick and now he's going into a rut."

Yoongi's heart pounds wildly in his chest, and he racks his brain…is that how ruts work? He is not entirely sure; alpha ruts are not exactly part of the in vitro birthing process. 

"I'm…not—" Yoongi begins, wanting to argue that he has not been excreting slick willy-nilly for all the house to smell. Sure, he is sweating a lot, and producing a bouquet of scents, but his slick has been more or less kept under control. 

But then he remembers the jog in the woods. Not only that, but Namjoon chased him through the trees and pinned him in order to get a better sniff of him. And he did leak a little earlier today when Namjoon stormed in and loomed over him like a threat. Could that have caused a rut?

Yoongi begins to panic, feeling his pulse rage. He knits his brow and shakes his head, attempting to think of something to say, but Wheein just giggles and walks out, closing the door and leaving a spattering of patchouli behind her. 

Briefly, Yoongi wonders if she is drunk; she does seem to enjoy her white wine. Or is she being malicious? Does having another omega in the house make her feel insecure? 

There is a part of Yoongi that wants to reach out to Namjoon and ask him what is wrong – to make sure that it is not, in fact, a rut that he is going through. But Namjoon has been so hot and cold toward Yoongi since his arrival, and more than anything, he wants to get the procreation done and over with so that he can carry their child to term and never see them again. 

However, if he is going to be in this house for a year, give or take, then he needs an ally. So he climbs onto the bed, finds his phone, and makes an attempt at opening a dialogue.

Yoongi I have a feeling Wheein hates me.

He sets his phone down and takes a spoonful of soup, raising it to his lips before stopping and giving it a whiff. Certainly, if she were going to poison him, she would do so with something undetectable, Yoongi thinks, but he takes precautions anyway. After all, she is not above having things added to his food that should not be in there.

Yoongi has a spoonful of the soup, then a bite of rice, and a spoonful of soup again. He closes his eyes, savoring the broth with a tiny smile, deciding it is probably not dosed with poison. Beside him, his cell phone buzzes.

Namjoon To be fair, she hates everything.

This makes Yoongi snicker and roll his eyes. 

Yoongi How reassuring. 

Namjoon Why? Has she said something to you?

Yoongi feels a little surprised by Namjoon's concern. Of course, this could be a robotic response, seeing as Yoongi is a guest in his home. Or a response born out of boredom, if Namjoon really is sick. Still, Yoongi takes what he can get. 

Yoongi She asked me what I said to anger you. I lied a little, because I wasn't sure if you told her, and I was already embarrassed enough that I didn't want to run the risk of offending her, as well. 

Namjoon She's good at smelling lies. But it's probably best that you didn't tell her. 

Yoongi I figured.

Yoongi continues to eat, staring at his phone, which rests on his knee, waiting for Namjoon to respond. It only takes a few minutes for him to become antsy.

Yoongi She mentioned you've been feeling sick. 

Namjoon A fever, I think. Nothing concerning. 

Yoongi Wheein said it might be a rut. She even teased me, saying it was probably my fault. 

Namjoon She said that?

Yoongi I’m sure she was joking, but it did make me a bit uncomfortable.

Yoongi wants to ask directly. He wants to interrogate Namjoon about what happened in the woods last night and ask him what he thinks they should do. If Namjoon is reacting to his scent in a primal way, is it safe for them to be in the same house?

He stares at his phone, waiting for a response to come in, feeling disappointment well inside his guts with each moment that passes without one. He even considers calling Namjoon just to clear things up. 

But instead, he decides he would rather eat his dinner. Already, the food and tea have begun to turn cold, so he slurps everything up, intent on finishing rather than savoring. 

Since Namjoon is likely confined to one of the rooms, Yoongi decides to take his tray back to the kitchen. Perhaps he can engage in more friendly conversation with Wheein, or find out what Jeongguk is up to. 

Yoongi slides off the bed and grabs the tray, balancing it on one palm spread across the underside as he walks to the door and opens it. He peeks out briefly, and upon finding only Jeongguk in the kitchen, he exits the room and pads over. 

As he approaches, Jeongguk looks up, and with widened eyes, he trots over, reaching out for the tray before getting close enough to take it. 

“I got it,” Yoongi grumbles, but Jeongguk takes it anyway, spinning on the balls of his feet to place it onto the counter. 

“Yoongi-ssi,” Jeongguk says as he turns his attention back to Yoongi. “I was just going to come talk to you.”

“Oh?”

Jeongguk hums. “Being that you are in a heat cycle and Namjoon is feeling unwell, we would like to move you.”

"Like, what, to another room?" Yoongi scoffs; what difference would it make if he were across the same hallway, one door over. 

"It's…more like a guesthouse," Jeongguk responds with a look of concern, possibly because he can see how Yoongi is responding to the request. 

"A guesthouse," Yoongi mutters under his breath. 

So, essentially, they would like to further isolate Yoongi and keep him away from Namjoon. And he is supposed to carry a child under those conditions…he wishes he could say he is surprised, but isolating the surrogate does seem to be the way couples handle the process, and a guesthouse had been mentioned before. 

"Fine," Yoongi grumbles, feeling exhausted. 

Perhaps it is for the best that he is away from this weirdo family and keeps to himself. The pay that will come at the end of this whole ordeal will be enough that he can take a vacation to clear his mind, and he decides to begin looking forward to that. 

Yoongi leads the way back to the bedroom and pushes the door open, leaving it hanging rather than bothering to close it behind him. Let his stench fill the hallway, for all he cares; if Namjoon really is rutting, then he hopes the man feels miserable. 

First, he picks up his phone – checking for messages and rolling his eyes when he finds none – and then he shoves his strewn clothing back into his suitcase and zips it shut. Jeongguk arrives and waits in the doorway, seemingly surprised to find Yoongi is already set to leave. 

"You never bothered to unpack," Jeongguk mutters, a statement rather than a question.

Rather than respond, Yoongi shoves past and walks down the hallway, toward the bathroom, to retrieve his toothbrush. For a brief moment, he considers taking the amenities that have been provided, but he decides to wait and find out what the guesthouse has to offer. Yoongi pads back and finds that Jeongguk already has his suitcase handle extended and in his grasp, so he approaches and waits for the beta to lead the way.

"It's out back," Jeongguk mutters as he wheels the case toward the back door, and Yoongi trods ahead and slides his feet into the sneakers that were left the night before, not bothering to untie them or straighten out the backs that bend beneath his heels. He stands off to the side as Jeongguk slides into some sandals and opens the back door, leading the way to the left, where the wooden deck extends past the pool, along the side of the house. 

Past the pool, between the hanok and the wooded area, is a small wooden bungalow – a tiny version of the hanok, with matching ornate black roof tiles. It runs the width of the pool, although how deep the structure is, Yoongi cannot tell. Jeongguk leads down the wooden path until he reaches the door, then he pulls out a key and unlocks it.

As soon as Yoongi steps close to the front door, he is hit with the scent of warm musk, tangerine, and cinnamon, stronger than it had been in the other bedroom. Petulance rises, and he cannot decide whether he is more annoyed at having to smell the alpha because he wants him close, or if he simply wants nothing to do with his presence at all. 

This building is far more quaint, with a large room that has a bed set up in the far corner, raised from the floor and covered in furs – what one would expect from a wolf home centuries ago – with a dresser and mirror nearby. There is a low square table in the center of the room, around which sits four yellow-brown cushions. To the right is a window, and to the left is a door, through which Yoongi expects to find a bathroom. 

There is no kitchen, nor hint of space in which to prepare meals, making Yoongi uncomfortable. Sure, he had been accepting Jeongguk's insistence of preparing and delivering his meals, but out here, away from the house, he practically feels like a prisoner. The space is bare bones, and appears hardly used – though immaculate; Yoongi does not see a speck of dust. He wonders if Jeongguk recently cleaned in here. 

"What do I do about food?" Yoongi asks, already knowing what the answer will be.

"I already prepare all three meals for Namjoon and Wheein," Jeongguk responds simply. "And I was already bringing your meals, before we moved you here. It's no trouble for me to make the extra trip with a tray."

Yoongi sighs and digs the palms of his hands against his eyes, feeling tired, but more in an emotional way than a physical one. 

"I guess I was hoping that on days I felt better, I could have a little more independence."

Jeongguk nods, then shrugs and says, "I understand it must be strange to live with a family who has hired help, but I assure you that nobody cooks or cleans in that kitchen but me."

"And if you're sick?" Yoongi challenges, raising an eyebrow.

"I rarely become sick," Jeongguk responds. 

Yoongi simply hums. Must be nice, he thinks, to be a beta with no heat or rut cycle to care about. Still, the thought of having to rely on someone else for all of his meals feels…well, annoying. But he swallows down the rest of his remarks and accepts things as they are. Jeongguk is, after all, a great cook.

"Take down my number so it will be easier for you to let me know when you are hungry," Jeongguk suggests, and Yoongi fishes his phone from his pocket, unlocks the screen, and thumbs through to open an empty contact, then hands it over. 

"And if I want snacks?"

Jeongguk takes the phone, glancing at Yoongi for just a brief moment to smirk, before looking down and muttering, "I have already purchased the items on your list, and if you would like, I can bring all the snacks here. If there is anything else you crave, just let me know and I will add it to the shopping list."

"Alright," Yoongi concedes with a sigh as Jeongguk hands his phone back. Yoongi snatches it and slides it back into his pocket, then continues to glance around the room. 

"I will leave you to it," Jeongguk says, turning on his heels before adding, "and if you would like to go for a swim, please feel free. I bought a set of shorts in case you didn't pack any. It's in the dresser, which you are welcome to store your things in." 

Yoongi nods and hums in response, then stands stiff with his arms hanging at his sides, unsure what to do with himself as Jeongguk leaves. A swim does sound nice, but he hesitates, letting his gaze drift around the room. He supposes it couldn't hurt to take a dip and get a little sunshine. There really is not much else to do, and although Yoongi has a laptop packed in his suitcase and can always find something to stream, he really is not in the mood to watch anything. 

"Everything feels like a concession," he mutters under his breath as he kicks away his bent sneakers and pads over to the dresser. "For once, I just want to feel relaxed."

And if that is not reason enough to take a swim, he really does not know what is. 

Although the furniture seems somewhat contemporary, the dresser has a vintage look, designed like older pieces of furniture with ornate iron fastenings, but rounded edges. Yoongi opens the top drawer and finds a folded pile of black cloth, which he lifts and discovers is the shorts Jeongguk had mentioned. 

Although they are longer, they are also rather tight, and Yoongi snickers to himself, wondering if they provide more coverage than boxer briefs – which he has aplenty, and could have worn. He strips down, out of his light blue jeans and black briefs, and shimmies one leg at a time into the shorts, pulling them high and adjusting the crotch. 

"Good enough," he mutters as he crosses the room and enters through the only other door, feeling around for a light switch before finding one and flipping it up. The bathroom is spacious, with a shower stall – containing the toiletries he lamented leaving behind in the old bathroom –  and a large sink with an overhead mirror. Above the toilet is a shelf holding rows of towels, and he grabs one, switches off the light, and shuffles out.

Yoongi makes his way to the door and exits the bungalow, leaving it unlocked since Jeongguk did not provide him with a key, and he walks over to the pool. The end closest to his new home appears to be the deep end – which Yoongi thinks is quite suitable for the situation he has found himself in – and he decides he is not eager to jump in all at once, so he walks around to the far end, where a small set of steps sits nestled in the corner closest to the back porch of the hanok. 

A light breeze gusts by, covering Yoongi in goosebumps, and he wonders if perhaps it is getting too cold to take a swim. Already, the day is beginning to wane, the sky turning a golden hue. Yoongi shuffles over to the steps and dips his toe into the water, snickering to himself because of course their pool is heated. Why wouldn't the mayor, who lives in a beautiful home with his beautiful wife out on this beautiful stretch of land, not have a heated fucking inground pool?

The water feels perfect, and Yoongi peels off the plain white tee he had been wearing and flings it and his towel over to a wicker chair with white padding that sits a few feet away. Briefly, Yoongi wonders if it is likely that anyone might join him, but considering Namjoon is unwell and the other two live in the kitchen, glued to their glasses of wine, he finds it unlikely. 

Good, he thinks. All the better. 

Yoongi starts slow, walking one step at a time while the water licks his ankles – cool on the very surface but warm just below. Then, with a deep breath out, and a deep breath in, he falls forward, skimming the surface as he lowers little by little until he is somewhat wading, somewhat walking, sinking down into a half-seated position hovering just above the floor. 

Below the surface of the water, everything is calm and peaceful – a gentle roar of nothingness, heavy and weightless and so, perfectly alone. Above, the water sways, dips, and peaks, casting light and shadow in ever-changing patterns, glimmering and fading, ebbing and flowing. He wishes he could sit down here much longer than his body allows, and he lets out air gradually, expanding his diaphragm slowly, slowly, slowly, until his lungs begin to burn with the need for oxygen.

Yoongi lets the rest of his air out in a huff as he stands in shallow enough water that it rests at his hips, making his torso cool instantly in the evening air. A chill rocks through him, quaking in a shiver that feels so visceral – makes him feel so alive. And, with a smile, he spins and squats, walking with the water to his shoulders until, little by little, he can stand tall again with only his neck and head sticking out. 

As the sun gradually works its way closer to the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in pink and gold, Yoongi swims and swims, spinning onto his back for a few laps before turning onto his front, dolphin-diving below and floating listlessly back to the top. He lays on his back and lets the water rock him to and fro, drifting with no direction – with no care in the world. He closes his eyes, he listens to birds and insects, and he simply exists. 

The sound of the back door to the hanok closing stirs Yoongi, and he opens his eyes, body dipping into the water as his muscles respond to the feeling of surprise. Namjoon shuffles down the deck, along the path, and disappears into the trees, running much faster than he had the other night. 

Strange, Yoongi thinks, that he is out for a run when he is unwell. Perhaps he is feeling better. Or, perhaps he is the foolish type who likes to push himself too far when all he needs is rest. 

Or…perhaps he really is in a rut. 

His fever – and whatever else he experiences during that time – could come and go the way Yoongi's does, building and fading gradually until it hits hard all at once, debilitating and overwhelming, or whatever alphas experience.

Yoongi continues to float, but the weightlessness feels stifled; his limbs are just a little too heavy. The euphoria has been tamped down, and he begins to slowly spin and walk around somewhat mindlessly, unsure what to do with himself. The thought of Namjoon returning and regarding him feels daunting…but, somehow, the thought of Namjoon returning and pretending he does not exist feels worse.

With small, bouncy steps, Yoongi returns to the steps in the corner of the pool, standing tall as the water pours down his torso and turns cold. Goosebumps cover his skin, and he breathes deep, relaxing breaths as he exits and pads over to the chair for the fluffy white towel that lays in a pile, tangled with his shirt.

Yoongi picks up the towel and starts with his shoulders, rubbing away water while standing with his head leaned just forward enough that the water drips onto the tan gunite floor. He rubs the towel over his arms and down his legs, not worrying too much since his shorts are sopping wet; he really just wants to get his shirt back on so he can dry his hair a little and then wrap the towel around his hips. 

As he flings the towel aside and reaches for his tee, the sounds of feet tromping through the woods can be heard behind him. He holds the garment in his hand and rotates, curiously searching for the source of the sound. And when Namjoon breaks through the trees – off path – Yoongi sucks in a breath and holds it for safekeeping. 

Namjoon shines in the faint rays of the quickly setting sun, hair stuck to his forehead in stalactites of sweat. His black athletic tank and shorts cling to his skin, outlining firm muscle and soft curves; he looks like a modern depiction of a god, chiseled in stone, preserved in all his glory, too good to be true. 

As the musky-sweet stench of chamomile wafts from Yoongi, he turns his head away quickly and begins to shove his arms into his shirt, punching material before finding the wrong holes and then the right ones. He swallows a lump and stares ahead at the wooden deck of the hanok, waiting anxiously for Namjoon to pass and go back inside. But instead, the footsteps advance, slowing in step and at war with the accelerated pace at which Yoongi's heart pounds.

"Hey," Namjoon mutters, making Yoongi gasp, and he turns, feeling his face warm as Namjoon approaches. "Are you done already?"

Yoongi's entire nervous system screeches to a halt as he does his best not to notice the dips and curves of pectorals and abdominals, and so, so many muscles his foggy brain fails to cling to the names of. Somewhat frantically, his tongue pushes and pulls inside his mouth, forming consonants and vowels that never find sound, until finally, he mutters, "Huh?" 

To his surprise, Namjoon chuckles – a soft thing with barely any sound following an abrupt gust of air, accompanied by gentle dimples creasing his cheeks. It is absolutely devastating, and Yoongi heavy-blinks and pleads silently with himself to get his shit together and think clearly.

"Are you done swimming?" Namjoon clarifies. "I was going to jump in."

All at once, Yoongi spirals. On the one hand, it would be an actual dream come true to swim with Namjoon – to be weightless and wet, and engulfed in his scent. But on the other hand – the practical hand that reminds him that Namjoon is unattainable and not his – determines that all of that is an absolute fucking nightmare.

What if the sight of Namjoon's bare chest causes Yoongi to produce slick, filling the atmosphere with his arousal? No, he thinks. Swimming with Namjoon is off the table.

And even as he deliberates, searching the darkening sky for answers, warm musk laced with sweet, tangy tangerine tickles at his senses and sends him reeling. He needs to get away, fast. 

"Y-yeah," Yoongi mutters. "I feel kinda tired. I might shower and turn in."

Namjoon's brows knit ever so slightly, and Yoongi does not let himself dwell on it – pushes out the thought that Namjoon might be disappointed, of all things. As he takes a step back and lifts his hand to give a weak wave, he mutters, "Nice pool, though. Thanks for letting me swim."

A weird thing to say, Yoongi considers, since Namjoon did not really let him do anything; he is a guest in this house and was given swim shorts. But the words are already out there and it feels weird to take them back.

"Use it all you'd like," Namjoon responds politely, reaching for the bottom hem of his shirt and lifting. 

And with that, Yoongi turns quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet to scamper away, back to the bungalow. He imagines he can feel Namjoon's gaze on him as he retreats, swallowing a lump of determination and disappointment as he reaches for the knob. He will not turn back and see for himself; he cannot do that. 

Yoongi steps inside quickly and leans his back against the closing door, allowing his body and gravity to do the work as he sinks into the cold surface and closes his eyes. He needs to stop swooning over Namjoon; these feelings – whether a product of his heat, or genuine, or some dreadful place in between – are no good. They can only cause him hurt, in the long run. He needs to steel his heart and stop pining over the alpha who can never be his. 

Days pass in the bungalow with Jeongguk bringing him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and keeping him stocked with snacks. The food changes, sometimes braised pork belly, sometimes pizza. Each meal comes with tea and water, and a packet of bupropion in case Yoongi feels any swelling or pain. He lets the medicine pile up on the small wooden table. 

Yoongi's heat is beginning to hit hard, keeping him bedridden during the day. He peels himself out of the sheets when the sun begins to set to swim by himself, desperate to calm his nerves. Then he showers and returns to the bed. When Jeongguk stops by with meals, he switches out the sheets and towels, keeping Yoongi stocked with anything he may need.

But what he really needs, deep down, is the scent and comfort of an alpha. He needs to nestle and cuddle; needs to smell and lick and feel. Already traces of Namjoon are dwindling, and he finds himself desperately rubbing his face against the thick fur blanket, in search of more.

In the past, Yoongi has been able to tamp down these urges, never having had a tangible person on his mind while his hormones rage. But this time, he aches and yearns for the man whose scent is faint on the fur – only present enough to provide an illusion of comfort, driving him mad when his thighs clench together, and he leaks with wanton need.  

Yoongi has no idea how late it is when a light knocking on the door that is very clearly not Jeongguk stirs him from a restless sleep. Outside, the sky is dark, and he cannot fathom who may need him at this hour. 

"Hang on," Yoongi groans as he sits up and begins to push at the sheet, tangled in fabric and sweat, drowsy and disoriented. "Just a moment."

Yoongi stumbles when he gets to his feet, breathing shallowly and attempting to press forward despite how badly his body wants to sink down, down, down to the floorboards, and seep into the earth. He reaches for the knob and turns, finding his hand is too sweaty and rubbing his palm against his briefs in order to try again. 

It occurs to Yoongi in a brief, passing thought that he is completely undressed, answering the door in his underwear, but he has neither the heart nor mind to care. When he finally gets a grip on the knob to twist and pull, he lets his eyes rake up the body of his guest, to his face, taking several moments to process the sight before him. 

"Yoongi?" Namjoon asks softly, covered head to toe in soft black cotton – a hoodie pulled over his head, and matching joggers.

Yoongi hums in response, not entirely certain that Namjoon really is standing before him; could he be lucid dreaming? Does it always feel so real?

"Can I—I wanted to talk to you. Is now a bad time?"

"I'm…not fully awake," Yoongi mutters. Then he chuckles, shoulders and stomach bouncing as he asks, "Am I awake? Are you a dream? This is a weird dream. Ugh, this heat is making me crazy."

"I'm—" Namjoon begins, hesitates, and shifts on his feet, eyes searching past Yoongi's head. 

Yoongi thinks his pupils are blown wide, that his nostrils are flared, but of course they would be; dream Namjoon would desire him. 

"Maybe I should come back another time."

With a shrug, Yoongi backs into the room, deciding that he may as well let Namjoon in; he has no idea when, in the foreseeable future, he might feel better. He pads over to a cushion and allows his body to bend and crash down into it, catching himself with his palms against the floor before he can topple completely. Namjoon enters the space and softly closes the door behind him, then he takes a much more graceful seat on the cushion to Yoongi's right. 

"I was thinking…" Namjoon says, trailing off as he glances around the room, seemingly unable to hold his gaze on Yoongi. "I don't know if you know this, but I began my rut."

Yoongi laughs softly to himself, though what he finds funny, he is not certain. "Sucks to be you," he mutters with a sigh, feeling sorry for anyone who may be feeling as awful as he feels in this moment. 

"I wasn't expecting it to happen, but I think it came about from…in the woods…when we were running. Your smell, and…my instincts…I—I don't know. I'm sorry, this must be awkward."

Gradually, as if ice water were trickling down from above, onto his head and pulling him from the fog of his heat, Yoongi begins to become acutely aware of the fact that this conversation is real – that he is definitely not dreaming. He watches Namjoon with wide, eager eyes, feeling a dizzying euphoria blanket him as their musks and scents mingle in the air. 

"Ok," is all he can bring himself to say in response.

Namjoon chuckles, light and soft, just like the day at the pool, sending Yoongi's heart haywire. And Namjoon has to know; the way his scent hangs in the air, clinging to every corner and surface, it is unmistakable how Yoongi feels. 

"I wonder if perhaps this would be a good time to…you know…" Namjoon says, cheeks darkening with blush. 

"Procreate," Yoongi blurts with a heavy scoff.

Namjoon's cheeks dimple just enough to devastate as he says, "Yeah. Procreate."

"I am the most fertile," Yoongi mutters, letting his gaze drift to Namjoon's sweater, to a spot that blurs as he lets his vision drift, then sharpens as he blinks. 

"And I'm the most virile," Namjoon adds. 

"This is probably an opportune time," Yoongi mutters. 

Silence hangs, but, for once, it is not uncomfortable. Namjoon seems to be intentionally delivering a calming scent, and Yoongi takes a deep, fortifying breath. 

"Tonight is likely too soon," Namjoon responds, voice small. 

Yoongi gasps, eyes flying to search Namjoon's face for any hint that he is joking, finding him looking shy. 

"Yeah, maybe." Yoongi says, weighing the possibilities. "It would…gods, it would be a huge relief for me, but…maybe it's too soon."

"I'm sorry you're in here alone, dealing with this," Namjoon says, bashful. "I was too worried about, well…having you across the hall. The smell…"

"I get it," Yoongi responds. And he really does; being away from Namjoon has been for the best, he thinks. Especially with his treacherous heart desiring more than just the alpha comfort he could provide. Yoongi finds himself curious to know Namjoon too, as a person. Horrifying; it must be stopped. 

"Tomorrow?" Yoongi suggests, half-joking, and Namjoon regards him with wide eyes, visibly swallows, and then nods in quick, shallow movements. 

"Alright," Namjoon says, wetting his lips and standing quickly. "See you tomorrow, Yoongi."

And then, without another word or glance back, Namjoon makes for the door and exits, leaving Yoongi to spiral and spiral. 

Jeongguk arrives bright and early with a bowl of fruit, water, and tea. He mutters something about Yoongi refraining from showering, no matter how sweaty he may be, and he hands over a packet of vitamins, waiting to watch Yoongi take them.

He also brings incense sticks and candles that he lights, ornate figures and shimmering crystals that he sets here and there, wreaths of dried plants that he tacks around, and soft, satin black sheets. It smells faintly like a smoky forest, but also a valley of flowers.

"Namjoon will return within the hour," Jeongguk says once he is done, holding the old bedding in his arms. "It will just be the two of you; the ritual is modern enough that there is no need for an audience. Is there anything else you need?"

Within the hour, in broad daylight. Yoongi swallows thickly. "N-no, thank you Jeongguk."

"Best of luck," Jeongguk says with a nod, "I pray for your fertility, and to your healthy body, mind, and spirit."

"Oh—okay, thanks," Yoongi mutters, stunned and unsure what to say.

With a bow of his head, Jeongguk departs, leaving Yoongi to stare at his fruit bowl.

Namjoon's knocking is recognizable now; two short taps and three quick ones. Yoongi is sitting at the table finishing his fruit and tea, and he calls, "Come in," with a quaking voice. 

Seconds pass before the door opens, and Yoongi wonders if Namjoon is just as nervous as he is. He walks in wearing a black satin robe, and he kicks off sandals as he closes the door, then approaches with soft steps. He kneels beside Yoongi, and glances around the room for a brief moment before finally speaking. 

"Are you ready, little omega?"

The nickname makes Yoongi's head spin, and he heavy-blinks and nods, letting his gaze drift and return. 

"As ready as I'll ever be."

With a lift of one eyebrow, Namjoon says, "You don't smell ready," and Yoongi absolutely spirals. He attempts to find the words to say, failing around each syllable before Namjoon continues, saying, "I can change that, don't worry," in a voice that is deep and inviting and far too enticing for his own good.

Yoongi pushes away from the small table and stands, wearing only black briefs and a black tee. The material clings to his skin with sweat, but he has followed directions and has not showered. He makes his way to the bed and sits on the edge, and Namjoon turns, gets onto his hands and knees, and crawls. 

No, not crawls – Namjoon stalks. His gaze is pointed, lips pulled into a sneer, and he slowly makes his way to Yoongi as the bone and muscle in his shoulders rise and sink hypnotically. 

The dark material of the satin robe falls open, showing hints of chest, and Yoongi allows himself to look. When Namjoon gets close, he nuzzles his cheek against Yoongi's knee, and sparks fly inside him, building the aching need, causing every muscle between his legs to twitch and flutter as he produces slick. 

"That's more like it," Namjoon groans, making a show of sniffing the air.  

"Gods, you're infuriating," Yoongi mutters as his eyelids flicker.

"Lay down," Namjoon instructs as he sits up and begins to disrobe. 

Yoongi nods and backs up, digging his heels as he pushes the blankets away and finds the center of the bed, soft and cool and covered with satin. Namjoon stands, drops the robe to the floor, and Yoongi gasps as he takes in the sight of the alpha nude with his cock hanging heavy and half-hard between his legs. 

"Like what you see?" Namjoon teases, and Yoongi laughs, forcing his gaze to reach the ceiling. 

"You wish," he responds, breathy and unconvincing. 

The mattress dips, and Yoongi's heart becomes frantic. He has to keep reminding himself that this is really happening – that Kim Namjoon is going to breed him. When he allows himself to look at Namjoon, he finds the man towering beside him on his knees, laughing. 

"What?" Yoongi asks, petulant.

"So stiff," Namjoon teases, and Yoongi realizes that he is lying in a straight line with his arms flat to his sides, and yeah, sure, he probably looks really funny. "Loosen up, omega."

"How do you expect me to do that?" Yoongi asks somewhat indignantly, tilting his head up, off the pillow, as if that will give him a better view of the man.

Without another word, Namjoon reaches down, takes Yoongi's plain black tee in both hands, and – with a growl that roars from deep in his chest – he rips it wide open, causing Yoongi to gasp and scramble as the alpha holds what is left of the material, trapping him somewhat suspended with his heels digging desperately against the mattress. 

Slick trickles from him, mingling in the air with tangerine and musk – dizzying. Arousal floods and floods to the tips of his fingers and toes, his cock twitches half-hard, and his breaths heave from his lungs. He smolders under Namjoon's heated gaze, and his body begins to sink, pliant and eager. So, so eager. 

Namjoon releases Yoongi's tattered shirt and leans close, caging him in with his arms and sniffing just above his shoulder, making Yoongi instinctively tilt his head to give him more access. 

"Finally," Namjoon groans, voice hazy and somewhat distant, covering Yoongi in goosebumps. "I finally get to have you."

ahhhh, are we having fun, yet??? gosh, i love them so much. fun fact: this fic was written for a fest that had a 20k word cap for one shots and 40k word cap for two shots, and i ended up running out of fucking space. i went into a trance and wrote this fic like my life depended on it. and i have zero regrets.

thank you so much for reading!!! reblogs and comments are the lifeblood of this hellsite and likes are appreciated too!!! i love you!!!

tags: @codeinebelle @dasexydevitt13 @giriiboyy @mgthecat​ @moonleeai @m1sss1mp @spookyminyunki @yoongoboongo0🌙 comment or dm to be added to the tag list!

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One Day at a Time is copyright 2023 theharrowing, all rights reserved. 

[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift’s catalog re-recording campaign continues with a thoughtful version of 2010’s Speak Now that tempers teen angst with the ageless quality of lullabies and folk songs.

Taylor Swift emerged in 2006 as a 16-year-old wunderkind with a gift for articulating all the intimacies and humiliations of falling in love. But throughout her early career, her image was predicated on her youthful innocence as much as her outsized wisdom. Swift “does not drink or swear or flash cleavage,” remarked a profile from around the time of her third studio album, Speak Now—a point that stood in opposition to peers like Miley Cyrus and Demi Lovato, who were quick to jettison their tween-friendly branding. Swift seemed to take up the mantle of youth role model with pride. Though she was careful to never disparage anyone directly, she told The New Yorker in 2010, “I don’t feel completely overcome by the relentless desire to put out a dark and sexy ‘I’m grown up now’ album.”

Speak Now, released in 2010, emerged at an inflection point in Swift’s life. She had recently turned 20 and moved out of her parents’ home, had toured the world, and, as evidenced by gut-wrenching tracks like “Dear John” and “Last Kiss,” had experienced heartbreak that shook her sense of emotional security. On this album, she struggles to balance her love of fantasy and escapism with her new responsibilities. Throughout Speak Now, she asks, How do you believe in fairytales and also acknowledge the depth of your pain?

As with her previous re-recordings of early work, Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) remains largely faithful to the arrangements and lyrics of the original. But Swift is not the same singer she was at 20. In more recent material, her starry-eyed optimism has been replaced with nuance and caution. She’s learned to voice regret as much as rage; in songs like Lover’s “Death by a Thousand Cuts” and Reputation’s “Dress,” she drinks and allows her sexual fantasies to run wild. On the new recordings of old Speak Now songs, her maturity is revealed not through the words themselves, but how she chooses to deliver them. The angry songs are presented with a sigh rather than a vindictive grin. The songs about heartache are sung carefully and patiently. It feels less like she’s sending a message to any particular ex than she is conveying a generalized weariness about how draining young adulthood can be.

Written between the ages of 18 and 20, the original tracks on Speak Now depict Swift clinging to her girlhood like someone trying to hold water in their palms. “Never Grow Up,” an acoustic ballad, was ostensibly written for young female fans. But by the end the song reveals itself as a means of mourning her past self. She promises the impossible: that no one will ever leave her deserted, that there will be no pain in her life. “Innocent,” a song about forgiving someone who wronged her, evokes the subject’s childhood—chasing fireflies, relying on someone bigger to get things off the shelf—in order to find something worth redeeming in them. Thumping rocker “Long Live” uses images of castles and dragons to celebrate the larger-than-life experience of touring with her band. It’s full of love but sung in the past tense, as if to memorialize the moment while it was still happening. Hearing these songs on Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), there’s less fear and more gentleness. Losing some of that teenage angst makes the songs less immediately enthralling: In the originals’ jagged inhales, sneered words, and ad-libbed laughter, you could hear how deeply these stories affected their author. Hearing her sing them now, they sound slightly anonymous, more like lullabies and folk songs than expressions of pressing concern.

Swift’s youthful naivete peeks through in the way she sings about other women. In her professional life, she had benefited—however passively—from comparisons to women deemed less wholesome and pure. And in her songwriting, she depicted them as unworthy rivals and master manipulators. In “Speak Now,” Swift’s narrator disrupts a marriage ceremony in hopes of separating the groom from his snotty, overdressed bride. On “Better Than Revenge,” she chastises a woman who supposedly stole her boyfriend. She later revised the sentiment, saying in 2014, “No one can take someone from you if they don’t want to leave.” Since the announcement of the re-recording, it has been speculated that she might edit the song’s most cutting and criticized lyrics: “She’s better known for the things that she does on the mattress.” On Taylor’s Version, this line becomes, “He was a moth to a flame/She was holding the matches.” The change feels half-hearted: Diss tracks aren’t supposed to be respectful. No one listens to “Better Than Revenge” expecting a measured response or nuanced feminist take. The song was satisfying precisely because Swift captured the nearsighted perspective of a teenager; in the attempt to distance herself from that person, she sacrifices resonance for optics.

“Dear John” remains the emotional centerpiece of the album, and one of the most devastating songs Swift has ever written. Across a lonely, warbling guitar lick and patiently unfurling blues-rock arrangement, she details mistreatment from an older partner: his wild oscillations between hot and cold, his ever-moving goal posts. John Mayer, whom the song is ostensibly about, was 32 when he dated a 19-year-old Swift in 2010. The new version, released by Swift at the same age that Mayer was then, is more powerful than ever. It provides a showcase for her deeper vocal range, and the way she enunciates each syllable adds weight to every word. When she belts out his name in the chorus, she sounds completely in control.

Since 2010, Swift has written another song about a torturous relationship she was in at age 19, presumably the same one. “Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve,” from last year’s Midnights, reveals the lasting impact of the memory. She wails, “Give me back my girlhood, it was mine first.” It’s colored the way I hear “Dear John” and all of Speak Now: This wasn’t run-of-the-mill teen angst or ego that Swift was singing about back then. It was a coming-of-age moment turned crisis of faith, the kind of experience that reveals people’s capacity to inflict hurt. When you’re a 19-year-old girl curious about the world, it’s often implied that older men with deep eyes and brooding stares should be your teachers. But the lessons they offer are not always the ones you expect. Growing up is learning how to hold that knowledge without giving up hope of finding the pleasure and love you deserve.

Like prior album re-recordings, Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) includes a handful of newly released tracks that emerge “from the vault.” Hayley Williams joins for “Castles Crumbling,” which repurposes the same fairytale imagery from “Long Live” to relay her paranoia about a dramatic fall from grace. On “I Can See You,” which sounds more like the inky, lilting trap-pop on Reputation than anything on Speak Now, Swift describes an illicit workplace romance with sultriness and authority that stand apart from the album’s otherwise chaste perspective. On the breezy country-pop song “Foolish One,” Swift reminds herself that she is not the exception to the general rule that if someone is acting disinterested, they probably don’t want to be with you. Just one album prior, she was so confident in her exceptionalism that she re-wrote Romeo and Juliet as a love story starring her. Now, she tempers her romantic fantasies with pragmatism and a sense of jubilant freedom, encouraging a younger self to broaden the scope of her desire.

This re-release doesn’t benefit from the same novelty as Fearless (Taylor’s Version) in 2021, when the endeavor of re-recording her catalog to regain control over her masters felt rare and exciting. And musically, the Speak Now material doesn’t stand up to Red (Taylor’s Version), which presented perhaps her strongest album along with an extended version of fan-favorite “All Too Well” and a number of excellent vault tracks. In recent weeks, news of the latest re-release has been overshadowed by intrigue and minutiae from her current Eras tour. Throughout Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), Swift sometimes mutes the messy adolescent impulses that gave these songs their spark. But elsewhere, she divests from fantasy archetypes—the knight on a white horse, the helpless child—that once limited her. Think of the new Speak Now as a call and response between who she was and who she is: a teenager full of questions about what it means to grow up and an adult woman who’s still turning them over to find new answers.

[omegalomania]

i actually have to wax lyrical about fourth of july for a minute because it might legitimately be one of my favorite fall out boy songs ever written primarily because it's not a song i think could have been written prior to the hiatus. it feels a bit like a logical extension to "miss missing you" in how it's a song that discusses what it is to live without someone more than anything else.

say you loved someone. could be a friend, a family member, a significant other, whatever. say you loved them. say that relationship split apart for some reason or another. say it's been years since you thought about them and you realize you can't picture them so easily anymore. the little details that once shown so clearly in the walkways of your memory have begun to fade, and in a strange solemn kind of way you feel like you have to mourn that, the entropy hemorrhaging away your recollections of them. you have a weakness for nostalgia. you obsess over old scars. you obsess even more over the way that they dont ache the way they used to unless you pry them open of your own accord.

here is a song that presents an old, fractured relationship. here is a song that says that maybe it was for the best that it fell apart. it is not spiteful or angry or resentful of the other party. it's almost apologetic. it acknowledges that you're so far out of each other's lives at this point that it doesn't really matter, whether or not you miss them, or whether or not they miss you. sometimes things simply don't carry out to completion. and that's okay. the torture of small talk with someone you used to love.

it's the refrain that sticks with me, more than anything. it's a lyric i carry so close to my heart to this day:

may the bridges i have burned light my way back home.

this part of your life ended. the bridge was burned, it collapsed beneath its own weight, it is nothing but cinder and fucking ash underfoot. this person in your past is not who they once were to you, and they never will be again. you used to love them. you don't anymore. maybe sometimes you miss them, but they'll never get to know that now. you burned that bridge and you found hope in it - you found such hope and earnest joy and relief in that part of your life being sent for the burning. you watched that relationship fall apart and you were better for it, you turned its embers into a beacon, you saw your way out of it and maybe sometimes it still hurts, maybe sometimes you still feel lonely, sometimes you miss this specific persons company, but thats okay.

its a song about grief, more than anything. you mourn the people you used to be. and you live without them anyway. you live without the version of you who loved this person. you live without the person you once loved. past tense. and it burns a little venom out of your veins when you think of them, but you feel better and you breathe a little easier afterwards.

it's a song that has all the affectations of a love song but is anything but. it's a farewell song. it's a song that acknowledges that maybe once you loved someone, but you don't anymore. and that while maybe you were better off for having loved them, you are better still for having walked away in the end. for all its upbeat nature, the son lux sampling that picks up the whole tempo and transforms the chorus into a soaring, almost triumphant anthem, "fourth of july" is about what it means to walk away from a relationship and realize that you are better for having done so.

like i said. it's not a song they could have written pre-hiatus. it's utterly devoid of the spite and agitation that permeated so many of their early songs. it's about acceptance and the way some things end, and that's okay. they were meant to. and you're better for it. and if anyone turns this post into about a ship i will be coming to your house and peeling off all your skin like a fucking orange.

[rorywritesjunk]

Let’s be one another’s present tense

Buggy ‘rescues’ you from an abusive situation, and after a less than stellar introduction, he has you audition for his crew to keep you safe. You want safety, security, and joining a circus seems like the best idea.

Rating: R-ish for now. Warning: Swearing, brief nudity, snarkiness to one another. A/N: This has been sitting in my head as I worked it out for an Anon’s request. I have been really intrigued by this and wanted it to be just right. Also, it gave me the chance to ask my circus obsessed friend about different routines and we bounced some ideas off each other. This is also a touch different than other things I’ve written, which is why I’ve been taking so long to work on it and get it posted. Enjoy!

Title comes from “Crater Lake” by Lady Lamb.

Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7 + Chapter 8 + Chapter 9 (NC-17) + Chapter 10 + Chapter 11 + Chapter 12 + Chapter 13 + Chapter 14 + Chapter 15 (NC-17) + Chapter 16 (NC-17) + Chapter 17 TAGLIST: @lostfirefly @neuvilleteismybby @fluffybunnyu @sinning-23 @the-angriest-angel @ane5e

Chapter 3

Settling into life in the tent was easier than you thought. The cot wasn’t that comfortable but you had a blanket and a pillow and it was your bed that you didn’t have to share. No one on the crew made any comments about the newcomer sharing a room with the Captain, but they knew better than to start gossiping. And it was just the room, not the bed. That was very clear and you were grateful for the space.

Though Buggy needed to work on not being naked in the room when you were in there. In the weeks since you arrived, you had woken up at least five times to a very naked pirate getting dressed and while you shrieked at him the first three times, the fourth time you tried to pretend to be asleep while the fifth and final time you allowed yourself a moment to see what he looked like underneath the makeup and uniform. You liked seeing his long hair that he kept hidden away, and he was quite hairy on the chest and stomach, with the color matching what was on his head. You tried not to look down further past his waistline, but you got curious and so you looked and well, damn. 

He caught you looking that morning and said nothing, but he winked at you before pulling his pants on.

You couldn’t look him in the eye the rest of the day. 

You were ending your fourth week at the circus, now having been there a month. Your black eye was long gone, bruises healed, and you were already feeling more rested from your time in the tent. You had acquired an old Marine uniform for your gig, somehow finding enjoyment in wearing the uniform while pretending to drown. Buggy wanted you to make it a performance with you faking the drowning while you held your breath under water. He refused to let you go longer than three minutes and there was a freak ready to pull you out of the water if you tried to push it. 

And while it was… different having someone looking out for you, it was nice. You were friendly with them now, some offering you tips on your performance to get the reactions from the audience (who, as you learned, had no choice but to watch the show as they were chained to their seats). It was, for you, a nice restart to life.

You interacted with your captain the most when you were in the tank, practicing holding your breath. He did it ever since your audition and you wondered if he was worried over you pushing yourself, but at the same time, he also paid that much attention to the others, though he started waiting for you to get out of the tank with clean towels to get you dried off faster and Cabaji was standing by with a hot cup of tea for you. 

No one else got a hot cup of tea, just you, but it was just to warm yourself up after being in a tank full of cold water for almost an hour. Lemon ginger seemed to be what was available, and after you mentioned in passing to Cabaji about once having a lavender and mint blend, you were surprised to have it a week later. Cabaji said nothing as he handed it to you, though he glanced at his captain as Buggy handed you a warm towel.

You didn’t say anything to Buggy but you did smile at him as you took a sip of it. He pretended not to notice.

After a month in the tent you felt a little more comfortable with him. You called him Captain, he called you Cupcake, but occasionally you’d call him an asshole when he annoyed you or he’d call you a diva if he felt you messed up your routine (how do you mess up holding your breath?). It was chaotic at times, the two of you throwing petty insults at each other while everyone listened. 

After one rehearsal, where you kept coming up for a breath every 45 seconds, Buggy finally couldn’t take it. 

“Did you forget how to hold your breath already?!”

You spat water in his direction before splashing some out of the tank at him. “Hard to concentrate when you keep staring at me through the glass, you asshole!”

“I’m making sure your technique is right!”

“You don’t even know what I’m doing!” You shot back. “Why don’t you get up here and show me?”

“Did you forget something?” He looked at you like you were an idiot as his hands popped off his wrists. Oh, well, you kind of did forget he couldn’t get in the tank because there was occasionally sea water mixed in and you didn’t think it would be fair if the captain drowned during your practice routine. One hand flipped you off while the other went to the top of your head, dunking you under water just for a moment before returning to Buggy. 

You came back up and grabbed onto the ledge, sticking your tongue out at him before your helper hoisted you out. Buggy didn’t wait around with towels, but Cabaji was there with your tea while you climbed out of the tank and went down the ladder. You took the cup and grumbled something about annoying captains and he needs to shut up while taking a few sips. Cabaji did get you one towel in the end, which really didn’t do much to dry you off, so you marched back to your shared room, leaving a wet trail behind you. 

The room was empty, which was perfect because you didn’t need him critiquing you getting undressed. You shut the door and set your tea down before grabbing a dry pair of pants to put on.

“‘Oh, I’m just making sure your technique is right!’” You repeated mockingly as you pulled your wet clothes off and draped them over a chair. “‘Oh, did you forget how to hold your breath?’ Blah blah blah, I’m Buggy, I know everything even if I never did that routine before.” You dried your face with the towel before moving onto the rest of your body. “Asshole, distracting me while I’m trying to practice not drowning.” 

“I wasn’t distracting you, just making sure you weren’t distracted.”

You stopped what you were doing and turned around to throw your wet towel at him. He managed to enter the room without you noticing and he was lucky it was just a wet towel you threw at him and not your tea. You were very naked and you really didn’t need him in the room with you while you were that exposed.

“Really? The door was shut!” You snapped as you hastily pulled a pair of pants on. You didn’t grab a shirt so you went to the wardrobe to find one, grabbing the first thing you saw. It was one of his, but honestly, you didn’t care because you didn’t need to be yelling at your captain while topless. “Learn to knock, asshole!”

“It’s my room first!” He shot back as he threw the towel on the ground. “You get the privilege of sleeping in here, so watch it or you’ll sleep in the lion’s cage!”

“At least the lion wouldn’t barge in on me when I’m naked!”

“You’ve seen me naked countless times! What’s the big deal?”

“I told you to stop being naked when I’m in the room!” You exclaimed. “Boundaries, Captain, boundaries!” 

 “You never said anything about me being in the room while you’re naked!”

“I shouldn’t have to!” You rubbed your face as you sat down on his bed. “It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“At least I’m better looking than a brick wall.” He grumbled as he kicked the towel away. You sighed and nodded.

“You’re not wrong about that.” You retorted. “I’d rather look at you than a brick wall. You at least talk back.”

Buggy crossed his arms and just shrugged as he looked you over. “Well, you seem okay. Just don’t drown. Cabaji likes having you around and he’s been more focused since you arrived.”

Huh, weird, okay. You shrugged as you looked up at him, your hair damp and hanging loosely around your face. It was a bit of a nuisance in the water and you thought about cutting it short, not to mention drying it was obnoxious. Buggy looked you over again before he walked over to you. He reached out and touched a lock of your hair before tucking it behind your ear.

“You need a better hairstyle, Cupcake.” He told you as he pulled his hand back. With how loud he was, passionate, intense, he had these random moments of being soft and gentle around you which completely threw you off. You never knew when to expect it but you liked seeing it wondering if he was like this with the others. “That’s the next thing we have to work on. It’s only been a month, y’know, but I want you to look your best when you perform.”

“What d’you have in mind for my hair?” You asked. You almost regretted it because he was now grinning at you and in the short time you knew your captain, that grin meant something chaotic was about to happen.

~

So, you didn’t really hate the haircut but you didn’t love it. 

Neutral, you were neutral, and you whispered to yourself that your hair will grow back. You shouldn’t have let Buggy near you with a knife after you two argued, and you made the mistake of telling him he was getting your hair way too short and… he may have taken a chunk of hair off that he didn’t mean to because you jerked away from him suddenly. 

At least he evened out the mistake by doing the same to the other side. 

Your hair was shorn on the sides, with it tapering up to the top of your head where he trimmed it so you still had some body to your hair. You could style it if you wanted, letting it stick up in any direction, or let it sit on the top of your head. Cabaji thought you copied his style, and maybe you did, but his hair was at least longer and could easily comb over to either side. Your hair looked like you let someone with a knife too close to your head and that someone didn’t quite know what they were doing, but they wanted to try it anyway.

Yea, you weren’t going to let Buggy near you for a haircut again.

“It’s going to grow back, it’s going to grow back.” You chanted quietly every day for two weeks. Admittedly, having less hair meant you spent less time drying your hair, and you now didn’t have to figure out how to keep it out of your face when you were getting out of the water. Before it was just a rubber band, but your bangs had been at that length of too long to be out of your eyes but too short to be in a ponytail and since Buggy gave you a new style, your bangs sat just above your eyebrows now. 

It wasn’t a terrible haircut and he had looked rather proud of his work. He even gave your cheek a pinch when he was done, and it didn’t really hurt but your skin was pink where he touched you, and honestly, you were starting to get used to him touching you.

A month and a half under the tent and you were seeing that Buggy was often touchy with his performers. Not in a creepy way, but his hands would guide them to make sure they hit their mark right, or he’d detach his feet to use as markers for Cabaji to steer his unicycle towards. It was at your seven week mark that you saw him start to get a bit touchier with you.

He kept a hand near the tank while you practiced holding your breath, ready to pull you out if your helper wasn’t fast enough. His other hand would take the tea from Cabaji and give it to you by the time you got down the ladder while he walked up to you with warm towels. The hand that was at the tank grabbed a towel and draped it over your head to help get you dry faster. You appreciated the help, recalling your audition when several of your fellow freaks swarmed you with towels, drying you off quickly to make sure you were okay. 

Now it was just the captain taking a few minutes to help you out.

It was kind of nice. He made sure your hair was dry before wiping your face with the towel, though you had to tell him to be a little gentler as he poked you in the eye twice. 

“Oh please, that’s not the worst thing I can do to you.” He said with a smirk as you stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch it with that or I’ll cut it out.” 

“You haven’t yet.” You shot back playfully as you draped the towel over your shoulders. “I’m going to change into dry clothes so please don’t walk in on me this time.”

He winked at you and you just rolled your eyes as you left the area. The banter was something you started to get used to. Yea, you two still got into petty little arguments, but who didn’t when you worked together? Buggy knew what he wanted from his performers, and while you never ever thought you’d be any kind of performer, you found you liked it. You liked the reactions from the audience, and you liked watching the others perform (watching someone breathe fire never ceased to amaze you). 

Honestly, you wished you joined the circus sooner.

[leohttbriar]

"if I hadn't realized what he had done"-- there are two very separate people in this sentence. the verb tenses are insane, too, because, like, kira is dead. but here jadzia is trying to blame yedrin for the second death-yet-to-come. making this the first time that jadzia has not claimed the shared-person of the symbiont as some form of self. maybe it's because yedrin is a future Self? but it doesn't ring true to how jadzia has acted about her various Persons before. in an almost mirror to the fake-doubling/separation that yedrin has "proposed" as a way for the crew to leave the planet while also staying, jadzia is not claiming yedrin's actions, even if he is technically jadzia (and curzon and joran and...) as well as himself. his decision to lie to them belongs, in some part, to her--it has to, since joined trill have never been shown to be able to truly distinguish their complex actions and decisions from one person to the other.

which means that jadzia is in this scene not just realizing she's responsible for kira's death (i mean, she's not) from the first time through the barrier but also responsible for kira's death again for this maneuver from yedrin (which, like, yes. she is within yedrin the whole episode. there are in fact two jadzias present).

with all time-traveling stories, there's a circular nature, since it's not like any of us are capable of imagining going faster than the speed of causality and escaping the single-direction-move along the temporal dimension of all 3D beings; which inevitably turns our time-travelling-stories into closed-circuit-deterministic-circular narratives or makes us lose our minds about butterfly theory. which is probably why the character who seems most comfortable with this whole situation is kira who's used to considering a future-already-written as just a law of reality. she references the prophets to odo and the others several times and you can't really argue that much with her because so far everything her gods have spoken has come true.

but jadzia i think is running up against determinism here not just from the situation itself (her future being told to her by her ancestors and the future dax host--her obvious discomfort with the idea of marrying worf according to their relationship in the present moment with the sort of flip side that is miles's discomfort with marrying someone who is not his wife in the present moment). in addition, i think she's struggling with the determinism associated with being joined. there's a weight to the fact that her person is not wholly controlled by her but cannot be separated from her. would jadzia choose to let kira die? no, not at first. but then she does because that's what kira wants--and everyone else sort of agrees. would jadzia lie in this way yedrin does to get her way? would jadzia "save" the lives of 8000 at the sacrifice of one? would jadzia betray her own self? would jadzia take a very difficult decision out of the hands of a past life, another self? she can't answer that question now, but also she can--because a future self does all of that, a future self that cannot be separated from her.

before this episode, obligations to the past-lives of the symbiont seemed to come easy to jadzia. well, not easy, but she doesn't spend a lot of time struggling with accepting them and carrying their burdens. here, she realizes she will be a burden for yedrin. so, on top of everything she thinks she's to blame for, she also now has to confront yedrin's existence, who carries kira's death as jadzia would. all of this seems exactly the kind of thing that jadzia, who will happily deal with the consequences of her past lives' crimes or the personal heartbreak of her own decisions, is not prepared for. she has not yet been in a situation where someone else has to carry her.

[physalian]

POVS and Past vs Present Tense (Or, the Pros and Cons of Limiting your Narrator)

This blog got over 300 notes in a single day, I'm almost at 1000! Thank you to everyone who likes, reblogs, and subscribes, you all keep me motivated in these dark times.

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Today we’re looking at the pros and cons of the different points of view through which you can tell your story, but full disclosure, sometimes it all comes down to how you as the author feel most comfortable writing, regardless of the story you are telling.

So this is less *what you should do* and more *what you might want to think about but don’t have to do*.

Narrating POVs come in these flavors:

First Person (FPOV)

Second Person (SPOV)

Third Person Limited (TPL)

Third Person Omniscient (TPO)

What you decide for your story doesn’t really matter, only that whatever you pick, you *must* stick with (unless you’re James Patterson who doesn’t give a damn). The same applies with whether or not you decide to write in past or present tense, so I’ll be covering both topics in this post.

You can choose whatever you want, but the type of story you write can benefit from different POVS. An intimate romance with few characters? FPOV, possibly with alternating narrators. An epic fantasy with an ensemble cast that spans the globe? You’d miss out on so much of the story trapped with one narrator.

First-Person POV

I… hate writing first person POV. I don’t hate that it exists and I love reading it, I just can’t write any of my characters in FPOV, it’s too weird. To anyone struggling to give their characters strong and distinct personalities, stepping away from the “I/me” pronouns may help you.

With that said! FPOV is by no means any lesser than any other POV. FPOV is, obviously, when your narrator narrates with terms like “I, me, we, us.” You are reading in their head, their train of thought, their internal monologue.

Pros: This about as intimate a look inside the story as you can get, you are zero degrees removed from the action. The biggest benefit is how well the audience comes to understand the narrating character as all your time is spent with them exclusively, unless the story head-hops. Every scene is colored by the lenses of the narrator’s biases and the knowledge they have of the story.

Cons: Unless you head-hop, you risk losing out on much of the rest of the story. Other characters can only be viewed through the biases of the narrator and any story happening away from the narrator is unseen, because they’re not there to witness it.

FPOV gives you the most flexibility in coloring your text with personality, think Holden Caufield from Catcher in the Rye. Every page bleeds with Holden’s thoughts and musings on his world.

However, FPOV, versus TPL, traps you within the senses of the narrator. You can’t get away with lines like “he didn’t notice XYZ happening in the background” or “he might have missed this subtle tell” because there’s zero room for ambiguity unless your tone allows for some comedic freedom.

You *can* say things like “Later, I would reflect back on X” or “Had I been paying attention, I might’ve seen Y” but those lines are almost always followed up with “But I didn’t in the moment and now I’m screwed regardless.”

If you find yourself stuck with a scene of a bunch of characters of all the same gender and you have to balance your paragraphs with names versus pronouns, FPOV does, at least, remove one of them for you with “I”.

Beyond simply using “I/me” pronouns, you can go the route of Anthem. Ayn Rand’s Anthem is written in first person, but with plural pronouns and when I read it in middle school, I spent the entire novel thinking all the different “theys” and “we’s” were entire groups of people acting and not the a singular being because it was middle school and pronouns weren’t a topic of discussion.

There was a scene where “we” (gender neutral singular protagonist) sees “them” (gender neutral love interest) doing… yoga or something beyond a fence, and in my head I was picturing like, ten dudes watching ten ladies all do synchronized yoga. It was funky.

Second-Person

This one almost doesn’t count because it’s so rare. Second person is reserved, I think, for three situations: Romance/erotica, self-help books, and horror/thriller works.

SPOV uses terms like “you think, you see, you feel, you do X”. It’s self-indulgent and I’ve never actually read a fictional work written in it because it’s too weird. SPOV is as intimate as you can get, because *you* are the protagonist.

I scroll right past all the "character/reader" fanfics but they have their audience, and I've never picked up an actual published romance novel written in SPOV, but I'm sure they exist for their own wish-fulfilment purposes.

SPOV in horror deserves more content and attention. The most iconic example I can think of is the storyline through Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. In it, the narrator tells the tale of you, intrepid hero, who find yourself in the middle of the Thriller, and details your demise at the claws and teeth of disco zombies.

Second-person fiction relies on what your protagonist does more than who they are, as too-strong of a personality limits the reader’s ability to get in the headspace of their fictional VR-goggles. In the “Thriller” example, the story tells entirely of your physiological reactions (you’re paralyzed with fear, unable to scream, etc), not your desires and emotions, beyond terror.

Third-Person Limited

*cracks knuckles* My Favorite! TPL is very much like FPOV, except instead of using “I think” you’d use “He/she/they/it thinks”. TPL is still contained within the box of following a singular narrator at any given time, but the audience isn’t experiencing the novel through the eyes of the narrator, they’re watching it through the imaginary cameraman following them. Depending on how much personality you write your narration with, TPL can be nigh indistinguishable from FPOV.

If your narrator experiences pain, or gets knocked out in a car crash or a fistfight, the narration is still limited by their consciousness and awareness. The scene doesn’t continue on after the narrator passes out.

Also, as a writer, it’s a *lot* easier to write scenes your audience demands (like romance) if you’re aro/ace and/or too squicked out trying to write it in first person but still wanting to deliver. Same goes for violence/ horror/ combat, anything with a lot of emotion and drama that you can’t bring yourself to write as “I feel such and such so much right now” can be intimidating. Then it’s not happening to you, it’s happening to those poor schmucks unlucky enough to be characters in your book, and then it’s much more fun.

TPL and FPOV both favor the internal monologue, the only difference is the pronouns through which the narration is given. TPL also tends to distinguish direct thoughts by the narrator within the style of the text. This means putting the thought in italics most of the time, or adding in a “she thought” like a dialogue tag.

Third-Person Omniscient

If third-person limited was being the cameraman, third-person omniscient is being the bird watching from above, or God. TPO is a “third” narrator who tends to not be an active character within the story, just “the narrator” watching every other character go through life.

In some cases, you could make the omniscient narrator also in first person as a non-character, but they would have to be some higher power, or make your story a fourth-wall-breaking meta commentary, a story within a story told by an unrelated storyteller.

TPO suffers from lacking intimacy. You’re two degrees removed from the thoughts and feelings of the character and the story is colored with the personality of the narrator, not any one character you’re following (if there is at all a personality to the narrator).

Children’s books tend to be TPO because they’re not that deep. When I say children’s books I mean like Rainbow Fish, or the Very Hungry Caterpillar, not children’s chapter books.

But on the other hand, many classics are written in TPO. I believe the A Series of Unfortunate Events books are written in TPO with a *very* colorful omniscient narrator. The Chronicles of Narnia are also, I think, written in TPO with the absence of a distinct narrating personality, it’s simply the voice through which the story unfolds (it’s been a while since I’ve read either and can’t recall).

TPO tends to lend itself toward fantasy and fairytales because a colorful narrator just fits the tone and the unnatural reality of your world. The narrator of A Series of Unfortunate Events would be very out of place in a book like The Great Gatsby because it would only distract from the story, instead of enhance it.

Head-Hopping and Multiple POV

Head hopping should only be used when you do it on purpose in an established FPOV or TPL work. If you change perspectives mid-narration without any indication that you’re doing it on purpose, that’s just sloppy writing and you’ll confuse the heck out of your readers.

The term “head hopping” tends to be used when writers do it poorly, versus simply “multiple narrators”. This works best with an ensemble cast, or when the author doesn’t want to limit the breadth of their story to only the protagonist’s perspective.

The narration can shift between any number of characters, but I wouldn’t go higher than five or six with rare exception because it’s too many characters to follow. You can follow the protagonist and a couple of their friends, the protagonist and the villain, the different members of team protagonist – the list goes on.

It’s entirely up to you how you want to physically structure your POV shifts. Some authors jump between multiple narrators within a chapter (myself included), some give entire chapters to one narrator at a time, or a chunk of chapters in a row. Sometimes the narrating POV is signaled with a giant banner for their name or the scene opens with the narrator’s name within the first few sentences to let you know who you’re following.

POV shifts without the big banner works best when your narrators have very distinct personalities coloring their narration, see this post about humanizing your characters and giving them voice.

How each character speaks, how they see their world, the idioms and metaphors they use in their internal monologue, the cadence in how they tell the story, the syntax -- all of these help justify your choice to shift POVs beyond the flexibility of telling more story. You know you’ve succeeded when you can write an entire page in the new POV without naming your narrator and your audience still knows who it is.

Head-hopping in bad form can be an easy mistake to make, and easiest to make in third-person limited, because you’re already one degree removed. Unless you are writing from a telepath’s perspective, any time you begin writing the thoughts and feelings of a non-narrating character in TPL, you are head-hopping.

If Jane is narrating an argument with Mark, and we cut aside to suddenly start detailing Mark’s feelings on the matter, we have broken the POV. Jane cannot know exactly what Mark is feeling, she’s not Mark. Instead, Jane can look at him and assume what he’s feeling based on his expressions and extrapolate on what he might be thinking.

In which case her thoughts on the matter would be tagged with “Mark seemed to think X,” or “Mark looked hurt”. Doing it incorrectly looks like “Mark thought X” or “Mark was hurt”.

You can get away with “Character was hurt” with any of the following tacked on:

“...they thought/presumed/assumed/suspected/guessed”

“... that much obvious”

“... they could tell”

So long as the tag reflects how the narrator interprets the scene.

Multiple narrators inevitably lend themselves to a longer story and thicker book and a perfect example is the Percy Jackon series and its follow-up, Heroes of Olympus.

Percy Jackson is a rather unique case of shifting POVS. The first five books of the series are entirely FPOV from his perspective. We follow Percy and only Percy the entire time.

The second series hops between TPL perspectives, with the benefit of exploring other characters…. and the massive disappointment of your protagonist for five whole books being completely omitted as a narrator from his final run (but that’s for another day).

The books of the second series are doorstoppers because there’s so much more plot with multiple arcs now being written for each one. HOO is a “banner style” head-hopper, giving chunks of chapters to a narrating character at any given time and following only three to four narrators for a given book.

There was a book our teacher read in elementary school, blandly titled School with a peace sign and a bus on the cover and I have no way to google it because of its stupidly generic title. In it, the entire short story has at least ten narrators and it worked because there weren’t ten different story arcs, it was all the same story just told through ten different perspectives. It was less an “ensemble cast of rich and fulfilling heroes” and more “ten children each argue why they remember the incident the best”.

Twilight hops in later books, with entire swaths of Breaking Dawn divvied up between the three main characters. The Red Queen series and Throne of Glass also hop and it seems, to me at least, that, regardless of genre, multiple narrators are much more common in recent publications.

Maximum Ride is a funky rule-breaker. For reasons unknown, the author decided to write in FPOV for the protagonist, then jump perspectives to TPL for the other characters. It’s incredibly distracting. Why not just write the entire story in shifting FPOV? Or entirely in TPL?

There is plenty of merit to *not* rotating narrators. I like doing it because I like not being limited to only following one character through the entire story. However, creativity thrives in a box and not knowing what's happening outside that box can be equally entertaining. Following one character also forces the plot to center on that character (though doesn't always give you a protagonist with agency). It leaves plenty of holes for the audience to fill in missing information as well when side characters are off doing whatever and the narrator isn't there to witness it.

Present vs Past Tense

Tense, like head-hopping, is easy to mess up if you’re not careful, and both have their pros and cons.

Books written in present tense have the benefit of being “present”. You follow the action as it unfolds, uncovering mysteries as the characters do with the added oomph of it simply being written as it happens.

Hunger Games is written in the present and the added “oomph” is that this is a hellish dystopian battle royale and it being “present” subconsciously clues the reader in on the possibility that Katniss might not survive to tell the story back to us, she can die at any moment.

Books written in past tense have the option to get cheeky, since the narrator survived the story long enough to go back and write it down for you. Some books might begin with a retrospective in the opening lines or the prologue by the narrator warning the reader about the story ahead or insisting they were an idiot for letting things play out the way they did.

Most stories written in past tense don’t think twice about it. Past tense is simply comfortable for the author to write in and it by no means spares their heroes from dying simply because of the narration having to exist.

If you tend to write in one or the other and you switch it up for a different story, you, my friend, have quite the uphill battle. You might find yourself having to comb back through entire chapters worth of content fixing your verbs because you just didn’t notice the accidental shift.

Future tense does exist, but it tends to go with stories written in second person and I’ve never read a fictitious work with it, only in bits and pieces in self help books and, again, that doesn’t really count.

—

TL;DR: How you narrate your work and in what tense it’s written is generally divorced from the genre and story you’re writing and has no impact on how the story reads. Any book with an ensemble cast benefits from multiple POVS and books in the fantasy/ supernatural/ fairtyale genre can benefit from an omniscient narrator, but it’s hardly required. First person POV gives the broadest opportunity to develop one singular character as intimately as possible, at the cost of everyone else. Third person POV removes the reader directly from the action, but is hardly inferior and can be nearly identical to FPOV save for the difference in pronouns used.

Regardless, inexperienced authors beware, head-hopping and tense-changing are easy mistakes to make. Stay vigilant and keep practicing and anything is fixable.

[dynamic-k]

this idea just popped up in the middle of school-

i couldn't focus in class XD

But:

Dark and Second are like really chaotic, right? Add Ballista as well, but he's not here for simplicity's sake-

So I was just imagining them playing a prank on the villains:

Velvet, Black, and Ginger are on patrol.

Chosen is teaching Second about using his powers etc. , with Dark occasionally adding his own input.

A group of villains -Mudd, Vodka, and Whiskey maybe?- show up.

Black sighs, annoyed by the interruption.

The villain trio had been constantly disrupting every chance Chosen had gotten to teach Second. They couldn't do it at home, as there was a risk of Second destroying a wall, again-

Black turns to face the villains, expecting his allies to come help him fight as he released fire from his hands.

[Side note: Grammarly says it should be 'releases'. Do you know if this is true?]

However, the two brothers did not do that, instead opting to step backward.

SPASH!

The three villains, as well as Black, suddenly find themselves soaked in water.

Chosen spun around, his flames now extinguished, and glared at the two chaotic menaces. His hand shot up, grabbing a dark red robot from the sky.

Skree!

Dark's eyes widened as he sees his precious creation destroyed by who he once called a brother. It wasn't actually broken, he's being dramatic.

"Give Ted back!"

Chosen smirked, holding the spider high up, where Dark couldn't reach.

"You should have thought about that before you got me all wet."

Dark lunged forward, tackling the black hollow head to the floor.

As the pair wrestle on the ground, the three villains stare at the duo incredulously, with their clothes dripping water onto the floor and shivering from the cold.

"You know what; I think we should go wreak havoc somewhere else."

XD I feel like dark and chosen would just go on a wild goose chase around the city, scaring off any other villains with their feral actions.

And then second would just be going around with the rest of the button-robots, traumatizing villains.

I added some of my own headcanons, like Dark being shorter than Chosen.

What do you think about this? Is it okay if I use your characters to write stuff, or do you want me to not do it?

how did i write 264 words on my own and Have a nice day,

-R

Second and Dark are the Scarlet Mayhem duo in Super Sticks, yes. Q w Q My chaotic boys are such sillies. [*stares intently at the Sprinkler Prank*]

This. What you have done. This entire plot was EPIC.

The start of it: setting up the initial problem of trying to help Second train, but they keep experiencing interruptions. AMAZING. I loved how that was done. And this was only a few hundred words, too, so even more so you were very efficient with your usage of the words describing the idea! :D

Grammarly is correct, because you were speaking in present tense at the beginning. "Black turns to face the villains, expecting his allies to come help him fight as he released fire from his hands."

Because you used "turns" instead of "turned", therefore "releases" is correct rather than "released" because there shouldn't be a sudden switch in tenses mid-sentence. I did struggle with this mistake myself not actually that long ago, around the time Arc One was still being written-

Eventually, I just learned to mostly use only past tense, and that made things a lot easier. Literally go to any action scene I have written, actually any scene scene, and you'll find "turned" "flung" shot" and literally only past tense words. [My Logic: Because the fictional actions happen (in my imagination) before I could type them out, so I'm narrating what has already happened. /silly]

Favorite part, by far:

| Dark's eyes widened as he sees his precious creation destroyed by who he once called a brother. It wasn't actually broken, he's being dramatic. |

That should be "saw" because of "widened", but meh- I understand the words, and this is so very much like Dark to do, I literally do not care it isn't perfect grammar. Who does perfect grammar anyway-?! Not me- Even- Even one of my favorite books of all time, by my second [*cough-laugh*] favorite author (Brandon Mull) has a typo in it-

Dark is canonically a drama kid. Theater kid. Whatever. IT IS CANON.

[Here, have a photo album of Dark being a theater kid: I tell you. IT IS CANON. We all knew this, I'm sure, but I wanted to share the photo album because I find it comedic.] Q > Q

Dark and Chosen would make a great chaotic duo in the world of Super Sticks, as well. Chosen would need a kickstarter though, some sort of prompting. (which your snippet here wonderfully provided-)

Typically, Chosen is the more responsible hollowhead, alongside Vic. But Dark knows how to get Cho started on mischievousness with the right setting and corresponding actions, so that any and all semblance or pretense of posture is thrown out the window.

Any hey- In the end, Dark actually helped drive away the interrupting villains! He could use that as a counter claim to Chosen's indignant stance and reasoning, making the statement that getting the water-related prank involved to spark a chase actually ended up working out for the better.

...Until Chosen makes the counter-counter claim that Second still didn't receive his training because of said feral chasing and running silliness- XD

I love this.

You also have a lovely day! You're so nice to me, ehbhjfawfnajwkgnae

[billybabear]

Some BillyBabe fanfic-writing advice needed ⊂⁠(⁠(⁠・⁠▽⁠・⁠)⁠)⁠⊃

So I fell madly in love with the Thai BL 'The Sign'. So much so that it had a horde of plot bunnies run wild in my head.

It gave me so much inspiration that I decided to just start writing again, which makes me unbelievably happy because I definitely forgot how much I enjoyed it.

My story is a RPF about the cast of the show, specifically Babe and Billy, because I just love their relationship (other cast members are featured as well, primarily Heng and Akk).

I don't have a good summary yet, but it's roughly this:

Babe Tanatat never anticipated how much his life would change the moment he stepped onto the set of 'The Sign'. He finds incredible new friends among his co-stars, experiences things he never imagined he would and gets to be part of something truly special.

But every success has it's downsides. From mishaps to accidents to sheer bad luck, everything that can go wrong does.

And if that doesn't make his life complicated enough, Babe finds himself grappling with some unexpected yet very confusing feelings for one particular coworker.

Babe has no idea how he got himself into this mess, nor how he can get out of it.

(Seriously, trying to come up with a half-decent summary is way harder than any writing I've done so far. But I guess coming up with a title will be worse 🫠)

In my story I'm following the episodes, going through them one at a time, picking out scenes that have the potential to go wrong / be funny / etc.. I'm also using the bts-material, as well stuff they said in interviews or offhand comments in their reaction videos (I'm a sucker for details, if you can't tell 😆)

Also, it might have gotten a little out of hand. I've already written around 130k words (not edited or in the correct order, but still), before I decided it might be nice to publish it. And I'm not even halfway through the list of stuff I want for each episode.

And yes, I actually made a list. A (not so) little file for each episode, detailing what scenes and prompts I want there with bullet points for the actual plot. So basically I already have a rough concept/script, but with enough space in between for new ideas.

Since this will be the first time I ever upload a story (on AO3), I'd like to get some opinions on it first.

What do you think about the overall idea? Is it something you might be interested in?

What tense do you prefer while reading - present or past?

What is your preferred chapter length (especially in longer stories)?

What do you think about pictures at the beginning of a chapter? Since I'm following the episodes/bts, there will almost always be a specific scene tied to each chapter. I'm playing with the idea of adding a picture/gif at the start of these. For easy reference where in the storyline we are (or just because they're all cute (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)). Is that something you'd enjoy? Or do you find it more disruptive/annoying?

And I'm always open to new prompts or plot ideas (tied to specific scenes or not).

I hope some of you can share your thoughts, since I'm a complete newbie to publishing stuff. Any other tips and tricks are always greatly appreciated as well 🤗

Have a good one!

(+ I promise my actual writing is better than whatever weird rant this is. Never done a blog post either, and I'm guessing it shows 😂)

[tothemeadow]

Commissioned by anonymous

Rengoku Shinjuro x (Male) Reader

With a life full of hardships and never truly knowing "peace", maybe it's about time for Shinjuro to truly let go.

warnings: NSFW, Shinjuro's alcoholism and depression, hair pulling, some humiliation, lol he's a bottom, age gap

notes: just some angst and Shinjuro getting it up the butt, modern AU where demons are still a thing, written from a past tense and then in present

words: 2.1k

-

Rengoku Shinjuro, by all means, is not the soft, compliant type.

No, throughout his years, it’s always been Rengoku, do this or Rengoku, do that. Hailing from such a prestigious family, he’s never been granted a true taste of freedom, a true taste of himself. Ever since he was young, he’s been subjected to harsh training and grueling lectures of how terrible the real world is. For centuries, the Rengoku name has been a stone in the demon slaying world, and – quite literally – a pillar for others to look up to.

His personality became sour as thus. He was lucky enough to score himself such an incredible wife (at least that’s what the others whispered behind his back). Even more, that very wife bore two heirs. The Rengoku bloodline has never given birth to females; they always relied on outside sources to keep that pure bloodline flowing, to keep the locks of flames and sunburst eyes carrying from generation to generation.

Shinjuro should’ve been happy. He had a beautiful wife, a set of boys, was alive.

But.

And that’s what it is, the but that comes with everything in life.

He would never grow to know true peace. His sons, also born in this cruel, cruel world, wouldn’t be able to dream of it. They are Rengoku’s, after all, and they’d be damned if they didn’t carry on the tradition of their ancestors.

His bitterness only grew when Ruka, his beloved, passed. His sorrows could only be drowned out by limitless booze, the pain in his heart much too suffocating for him to bear. It didn’t take long after that for him to rid himself of the Flame Hashira title and close himself in from the world. He was no longer Rengoku Shinjuro, whoever the hell that even was. He was only the husk of a man, the pathetic wick left behind from a burned-out candle.

Drinking became Shinjuro’s new passion. The bottle became his best friend. His fist rarely became lonely, knuckles long gone white from the ceaseless clasp. Both of his sons became strangers, struggling to withstand the man their father had become. The eldest, Kyojuro, eventually took his brother away, the two of them moving in with Uzui-sama, the smug bastard.

Things had never been easy. Not when he was a child, and certainly not when he grew into adulthood.

The strong pillar of a man became nothing more than a pile of rubble.

It began with a single drink and a prolonged stare.

Shinjuro (unsurprisingly) frequented many bars, usually too stir-crazy to stick with one for too long. It was only when he found a hole-in-the-wall that he finally settled, decided that this was it.

He’d spent too many nights staring into the bottom of empty glasses, wondering if he would pass out in the bathroom and never get up again. Perhaps someone would start a fight and try to swing a stool at his head – no, that wouldn’t work, he’d been beaten up by too many god-forbidden creatures for a stool to do any real damage.

Needless to say, when the bartender silently placed another glass of his go-to before him, Shinjuro was surprised. Normally, he would signal for another round with a grunt or a slew of drunken words. The bartender only gave him half a smile, his head jerking to the other side of the bar. Shinjuro’s eyes merely followed, a strong brow quirking up his forehead.

Hah.

You were just some punk ass kid, most likely the same age as his son. Granted, he kept his hair long, but that was about it when it came to feminine qualities. Thick hair, though blond, covered the entirety of his arms and chest, and his face was in a constant stage of stubble. Shinjuro knew he wasn’t a looker. Why had you looked at him from everyone else in the bar, he couldn’t possibly fathom. He figured it had to deal with the dim lighting.

But no, you took that glance as the greenlight and hopped from your stool, scurrying your way to where Shinjuro sat. You gave a simple May I?, body hesitant and eyes hopeful. Frankly, Shinjuro couldn’t care. A free drink was a free drink and if he was lucky enough, he would forget all about this encounter anyway.

Or so he hoped.

He wasn’t sure how it happened. One moment, you were trying to crack jokes and butter him up with saccharine words; the next, he was flat on his back on his mattress, in his home, with you in between his legs. Your pants were hot and heavy in his ear, lips skimming the stubble adorning his jaw as your cock pounded in and out of him.

Shinjuro would never.

He wasn’t the kind to lay dormant and let others take control of the reins. He was a Rengoku, for fuck’s sake. He used to be a goddamn Hashira. He’s a man, not some broken down little whore who’s prying for attention or money or-

And then he came, all hot and thick, coating his abs in a sticky feeling he’s not used to. His mind cleared, heartbeat shuddered, back ached – he’s not cut out for this shit.

But.

It’s always the fucking buts that come with life.

A good lay is a good lay, and god knew how long it’s been since Shinjuro had one of those.

Getting drunk is all that mattered, no matter the method.

­“I need you to relax, love,” you breathe into his ear.

A shiver ripples down Shinjuro’s spine. A shaky sigh graces the air as he snuggles further into the pillow. Splayed out on his stomach, Shinjuro’s completely at your mercy; you straddle his behind, hands slick with oil as they rub and dig into the many knots throughout his back. Unlike you, Shinjuro is bare naked. Your clothed groin grinds into the split of his cheeks, just barely a chub.

Glancing over his shoulder, Shinjuro catches the quick glint of the band encircling your finger. Heart leaping to his throat, his insides squeeze as water gathers in his eyes (it might be because of the particularly deep knot you’re pressing at, but still.)

The universe… finally decided he deserved a break.

After that fateful encounter that night (and the back-breaking sex), you somehow… got into Shinjuro’s good graces. You made breakfast for him the next morning, rubbed his sore muscles, joked about his bedhead and morning breath… It was so domestic. It had been too long since another soul had graced his home, and it was almost too overwhelming…

A date led to another, sex became a regular thing, and Shinjuro found that he enjoyed letting loose and having someone else take hold of the reins. There wasn’t any Rengoku, do this! screaming in his ears, only your gentle tone telling him to take it deeper and praising him for being such a good boy.

It didn’t take long for you to ask for his hand in marriage. For one, Shinjuro never dreamed of remarrying, much less to a person of the same sex. Two, for that someone to be just as kind and gentle as Ruka was, only to totally switch sides behind closed doors, was something else entirely. Shinjuro never pictured himself as the type to be physically or romantically involved with another man, but life had other plans.

“You’re tensing up,” you murmur, your voice stirring him away from his thoughts. You place a kiss to his spine. “What are you thinking about?”

What did I do to deserve this?

It’s not like Shinjuro is a kind man. He did his job, put another generation of Rengoku’s into the world, then sank into a depressed stupor full of alcohol when he couldn’t find the will to live anymore. So what did the universe see in him? What did you see in him?

“Shinjuro, answer me.” Your voice, although soft, carries a harsh undertone.

“I’m a piece of shit,” Shinjuro grunts. It’s all too easy to see your displeased expression in his peripheral.

“We’ve talked about this,” you tell him.

And yeah, you did. He came clean about his trauma, about the demons plaguing the world, his dead wife, his estranged sons. You had some daddy issues of your own (surprise). The two of you were floating in dead space, drifting with the passing days. It was sort of a miracle when you two met.

“I know,” is all Shinjuro says, the words dissipating into a sigh.

Scooching off from his bottom, you easily push the muscular, hairy thighs apart and settle in between. Slicking up your thumb with more oil, you press the digit between his cheeks, slowly caressing the pursed hole.

“Obviously, we have to go over it again,” you tell him. “Tell me why I love you.”

Heat floods to Shinjuro’s face. Mind you, he never blushes. He stares hard at the wall across from him, thankful for the pillow smooshing the other side of his face. He knows he should answer. Last time he disobeyed, you bent him over your knee like a bratty child and spanked him until the skin matched the red in his hair. He almost craves for you to be rough with him, to put him in his place.

“I’m the father you always wanted to fuck.” It’s a poor attempt at a joke. Humor has never been Shinjuro’s strong suit. He does, however, receive a light swat against his behind in warning.

“Horrible answer. Try again.”

He grunts when you grasp onto a meaty asscheek, your hand roughly kneading it. Your thumb barely presses against his hole.

“Brat,” Shinjuro mutters. How ironic. If anyone is the brat in this relationship, it’s him. “Husband loves my physique, the hair on my chest, my ass-“ he wiggles his butt as he says this, “-and how I’m such a good boy.”

You reply with a snort. “Wouldn’t kill you to indulge me a little…”

A groan gets bit short when you abruptly grasp onto the loose strands of blond hair and yank. Shinjuro’s head cranes backwards, his neck screaming from the effort. Hot kisses land on his spine, the thumb encircling his hole dipping in slightly. Easing out and in, you tease him slowly, relishing in his heavy breaths and foggy eyes.

His cock stirs; Shinjuro wastes no time grinding it into the mattress, knees and hips raising to meet your touch. Hardened nipples graze the sheets, his heavy tits heaving with each ragged pant. It takes practically no effort anymore to get him stirred up, to have him hungry for your cock.

“My big, muscular boy,” you say, teeth skimming along the line of his spine, “so desperate to be fucked like a whore. Is this what a fall from grace looks like? To be on your hands and knees, waiting for someone to belittle you and make you theirs?”

Your dominance is unlike anything Shinjuro has ever seen. Usually, you’re all soft words and warm hands, willing to help him with anything. A perfect little househusband, you told him once, a giggle hanging from your lips. Someone to be there when you need them most.

But this…. This is something else.

You grope at the muscles of his back, his ass, his tits – you leave nothing untouched, besides his cock. A hand keeps his hips steady as you slip your cock inside, the hot resistance clasping down in a vice-like grip. Shinjuro moans weakly into the pillow, precum leaking from his neglected cock. You waste no time pulling back and snapping your hips into him, cock plunging in to the hilt. Your balls slap heavily against his ass, fingers moving from spreading his cheeks further apart to pulling at his hair.

“Mine,” you hiss into his ear, but then follow up with a quick kiss. “So soft, compliant… What a spectacle you are. I bet no one would ever have guessed that the former Flame Hashira would like getting cock so much…”

Blood thunders in his ears. With a slight whimper, Shinjuro buries his face in the pillow, shame and arousal making his skin simmer and cock leak like a faucet.

“Ah, ah, ah, honey, don’t hide your face, it’s just us here,” you say, tone switching to something buttery smooth and sweet. Your actions clearly contradict your words; you snatch his head back with a firm grasp, fingernails grazing against his skull. Your cockhead attacks his prostate with a deadly precision. Soon, Shinjuro is nearly sobbing, mouth lax and fingers clenching onto the sheets.

You fuck him to completion, his eyes rolling back in his skull as his balls pull tight and he cums in several long, drawn-out spurts. Your hands easily reach around his chest and clutch onto his pebbled nipples, your lips finding the side of his neck.

He expects you to finish inside him and leave it at that, but…

As he learned long ago, there are always buts.

You never get to let him know what that but is.

[bluecatwriter]

⭐ Step into the Light, which deserves way more attention

Thanks so much for the ask! This is one of my fics I'm most proud of. :)

The fic in question: "Some scenes from Quincey Morris's and Jonathan Harker's complicated relationship, from their time in Varna to the end of the novel, told through their alternating points of view."

Spoilers ahead…

-I know that, like most of my fics, this one was inspired by a Tumblr discussion, but I can't remember who started it or exactly what it was about, other than something about being able to surmise a very interesting relationship between Quincey and Jonathan near the end of the book, culminating with Quincey dying in Jonathan's arms. There was just a lot to explore there, and the idea of doing a back-and-forth perspective switch came to mind.

-Figuring out which beats of the story would be from which perspective was a little tricky; this was one of the few fics where I created a rough outline, and some of the perspectives got shuffled one to the other in order to keep them alternating.

-I usually write in third person, but the idea of using first/second person, with Quincey and Jonathan referring to each other as "you" in their respective scenes, got stuck in my head. It gave the story such an interesting intimacy to it, showing how these events are causing their worlds to sort of revolve around each other. To lend a greater sense of immediacy, I made it present tense instead of my usual past tense.

-Writing Jonathan's scenes came fairly naturally, since I've written a lot from his perspective (albeit in third person) and my third-person voice for him isn't that different from his first-person speaking voice. 

-Quincey's scenes were much more of a challenge; I ended up drafting them in my "normal" narrative voice and then went back later to rewrite nearly every sentence, taking into consideration his speaking patterns. Although I don't know anyone from Texas very well, I drew a lot from my extended family who live in the South, trying to capture the vivid phrasing and storytelling sensibility that goes into a lot of their speech. 

-I always have a hard time coming up with titles (which is why half my fics are named things like "Two Men Talking" LOL). But I was pleased with the title from this one, alluding to the lines: "I feel you staring at us like a coyote outside the light of a campfire ring…I wish I could grab your hand the way you grabbed mine just days ago. Draw you into this ring of light, hold your hand till you know you're safe."

-I decided that I wasn't going to explicitly say whose perspective we were in during any given scene, relying on the line breaks and the different in dialect to get it across. I think I succeeded.

-My preferred headcanon of Jonathan during this time is actually a lot less bitter and standoffish, but it was interesting to explore this version of him in this fic. He's running on pure animal instinct at this point, and Quincey is (wisely) treating him as such.

-I got a bit obsessed with the dynamic of Quincey being fully aware that Jonathan would kill him if he ever tried to stake vampire Mina— and him being cool with that. They've each made their promises, and it's Quincey's job to make sure that this clash never has to happen (but to accept the consequences if it does).

-I had to throw in a lil Quincey pining over Jonathan (and vice versa) because I am a big sucker for Yeehawrker. :D

-I am still very happy with the lines, "You'd look good spattered in the blood of a fresh kill. You'd still look good, even if the blood was mine." (Foreshadowing babey)

-Had to let Jonathan have a good cry! I thought this was an important moment, too, because Jonathan being able to not only break down in front of Quincey, but accept his comfort, was a big turning point for the two of them. Live in the moment, Jonno. You got this.

-Originally Quincey's death scene was from Jonathan's perspective, which makes more sense than writing from a guy who's dead, but I actually really like that my back-and-forth formula ended with Quincey's view of his own death; I think it gives the scene an eerie, almost dreamlike feel, and nicely bookends the whole fic through Quincey's eyes. (Present tense to the rescue, too.)

-I decided to draw out Quincey's monologue a bit more, and give Jonathan a couple words, as well as tying back in the imagery of Jonathan covered in Quincey's blood. And of course, we gotta have the final image of Jonathan (metaphorically stepping) into the light, smiling in the light of the sunset. It was a nice image to end with.

I'm enjoying these Director's Commentaries a bit too much! ;) Thanks again for asking!

(Ask game here)