#the MAGNITUDE of that moment and them playing that song at one of the most iconic festivals in the world is just extremely special to me

[daddy-long-legssss]

save me glastonbury 2013 save me

[oftenderweapons]

Bourbon Bossa Nova | MYG | Pt.2

This story is part of the Blue Crush Collab

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (nicknamed Sunny)

Wordcount: 11.4k

Rating: 18+

Genre: strangers to friends to lovers, composer!Yoongi x lifeguard!YN

Content warning: Allusions to death, child abandonment and family loss. Swearing, Alcohol. Sexual content (switch!reader, switch!yoongi; unprotected sex (plz be smart, use condoms); masturbation, both male and female receiving; oral sex, male receiving; powerplay with sub!yoongi; plenty of emotional, intense moments).

Synopsis: when you start your summer at Honeycomb Cove, you're only expecting sunshine, waves and annoying teenage bravado as you work as a lifeguard. What you don't expect is Min Yoongi. He wasn't expecting you either. Soon your morning walks are your favourite part of the day, until you realise it's not really the walks, maybe it's always been him you are, after all, waiting for.

Shoutout: to my lovely readers first, and my moots too. Thank you for staying around. This is all for you 💜

Here's part one, in case you missed it

And here's my complete masterlist, in case you're new HEHE

Six days went by without you seeing Yoongi. First you had your day-off, and though Yoongi waited for you by your tower, you didn't come. 

Truth was, you spent your day off working at the Firefly Ball at The Orchard, the retirement home you had been volunteering at for years. It took you about two and a half hours to realise you truly didn't have Yoongi's number, which reminded you of your short conversation before your non-kiss debacle. You couldn't tell him about not being there for the day; after all, you'd always gone on a walk even on your day-off during the previous weeks. Mostly, you couldn’t tell him about Laura helping you with the german short rows you needed to shape the sweater that had become his. You couldn’t tell him about Marvin trying to set you up with his lovely nephew — who is already very taken, of course, except Marvin doesn’t really like the girl and you’re already like family. You couldn’t tell him about that song you hate coming on thirteen times on the radio, and you couldn’t tell him about the excellent songs the people at The Orchard recommended you. You couldn’t tell him that you told Orla about him and Beatrice and she said she has some pictures of her in high school, from the days she started dating her future husband. You couldn’t tell him that she told you about Beatrice and Antonio, how she would have loved to spend more time with them, and get to know them, weren’t her husband so opposed to her hanging out with such ‘uncivilised extravagants’. Orla also told you about the samba that used to come from that house, how she loved walking by it. And then she asked to hear the young man play just once, with the guitar, because he was so good at it since when he was just a child and he must have become even better now that he’s a man.

The day after that, you did go to the beach, but this time it was Yoongi that didn't come. 

You had broken him, you told yourself. You had broken the beautiful, timid bond between the two of you. You had slashed it away. And once again, the day after that, you were left by yourself, dashing away from the tower before you could sink in the magnitude of your loneliness. 

You were sad. 

You felt like an empty fishbowl, a broken diapason no longer giving the right frequency. It was like a crack had damaged the truest, most intimate part of you. 

It was excruciating to feel so lost after knowing Yoongi for so little. It was as if the sun had dulled. You felt underwater, suffocated, with the ocean above you weighing you down. 

Being in that kind of mood meant that it was hard to convince you to join your coworker Hoseok at his friend's party — you had given up exclusively because the man was incredibly persistent and he was very hard to turn down. So you had done your hair up pretty and you had worn your cute white dress, checking yourself in the mirror before heading out, forcing yourself to put a spring in your step and not throw yourself at some regrettable glass of exceedingly sweet liquor. 

Once you reached the beach, you recognised the party immediately, a large group of people gathered around the fire, the full moon lulled by the sea as it laid a couple inches above the horizon. You scanned the crowd for the only person you knew, spotting the two bickering employees of the ice cream parlour. And a man that looked like the surf instructor who worked in the school a mile away from your tower. And there was Hoseok, surrounded by cheering people. Of course he was the life of the party; still, though everyone looked at him when he cracked a joke, he always looked at the same girl, over and over again. 

There she was then. His crush. 

And there he was. Yours. 

Yoongi, sitting on a bench, hands tucked in between his knees, shoulders squished together as he tried to make himself less noticeable. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him. 

Still, his shy wave in your direction made you change your mind. 

Confused, you made your way closer to him. To hell with fear, you would get your answers tonight. 

“Hi,” you spoke, and your voice could barely be heard with the crowd and the noise, the music, the chatting and screaming. 

Yet, Yoongi heard you. And he smiled. It was like getting kicked at the back of your knees. “Hello, Sunny.”

Your insides fluttered. You didn’t have much history with boys or men, only a couple relationships behind you and maybe three or four sexual partners with varying degrees of success. And apparently, Yoongi had been engineered to be your kryptonite. He was just the right side of shy, and introverted, and quiet and soft spoken, despite the bite in his sense of humour. After those initial adjustments during that first awkward dinner, he’d become so incredibly suited to you. As you looked at him, you suddenly felt so very known, maybe because anyone else at the party was more or less a stranger. 

And in all that strangeness, there was Yoongi’s warm, steady gaze. Familiar and gentle. To you, he was irresistible. You’d hoped that the days spent apart would have cooled your spirits; instead, seeing him again after so long made you appreciate those details you’d almost grown accustomed to. The way his hair curls softly when dried by the ocean breeze. The way his pale, pale skin contrasts so beautifully with the black of his hair. The way his gums show when he smiles, and how damn perfect his teeth are. And then those hands. Good lord, those hands. 

A part of your brain screeched to a halt. He’s abandoned you, Sunny. He’s left you alone. You left him alone once, after almost kissing him, and he realised you’re weird and embarrassing and inappropriate. And your sense of humour sucks. And you can’t make friends because when people get to know you they find you a lot worse than they thought you’d be. You frowned and shook your head at your own limiting beliefs, but you forgot to adjust your facial expression and your greeting to him came out sour. “Hello, Yoongi. Glad to see you.” You managed to pull your face into a smile. “Finally.” Very smooth, Sunny. Very damn unsuspectable.  

He blushed and looked down. “I was in the city. I had to deliver my mixtape.” The fact that he was seated, lower than you, and he had to tip his head back to look at your face made you even weaker. His jawline was splendid, but that was not the point. 

His glance was so intense, with his obsidian irises glimmering with the fire and the night sky. He looked beautiful and you were so damn fond of him. He was the best thing you had seen in a while, and quite definitely the most attractive man you had ever laid your eyes on. Had he put on something special tonight? 

You checked his outfit, but it was a simple black button down in some flowy, glossy material, some white flowers printed on it — probably lilies? — and he was wearing some undyed cotton jeans underneath. Plain, usual Yoongi fashion. 

And you checked his hair — slightly longer, but still inky black, still curled in the softest little bouncy waves at the bottom. It looked extra silky tonight. Very soft. The kind of soft you can comb your fingers through as you’re making out. The kind of soft you can caress as he’s kissing down your—

“You didn’t come either. On Tuesday,” he reminded you.

You shook the steamy thoughts off your brain, terrified by the way you were dangerously getting increasingly affected by his presence. “I had a day off for the Firefly Ball. At the retirement home,” you explained. “I always came here for our walks so I never really mentioned I have Tuesdays off. And then I didn’t have your number to call you.” You asked to sit beside him through awkward body language, a whirlwind of arms and wrists and hands until he nodded with a little laugh. 

He was impressed by the fact that you had come to meet him even when you could have slept in or done whatever it is that athletic, stunning, too-out-of-his-league girls do. “How was your time in the city?”

Boring. Sad. Lonely. Agonizingly slow. He had wanted to see you. He would have all summer with you; nevertheless, he would much prefer spending it in your arms, as your crush, rather than the sweet introvert who you pitied. He wanted to confess. He would do so at the end of the night, with the fireworks. He would sing you ballads all night and exchange shy or flirty looks and then he would confess. And if you liked him back, then good. 

If you didn’t… 

“It was sad… I don’t like the city. You can’t hear your thoughts.” He inched closer towards you. 

Sitting beside him had been an awful idea. He smelled like his usual self: a deeply set salty smell mixed with lemongrass and incense. Was it incense? Something spicy, but deep. It smelled like inspiration and artful meditation and invention. It also smelled like the kind of sex that resets your whole existence. What in the world do you mean? the rational side of your brain — not your strongest — objected, but it was quickly coerced into silence. “Excuse me, what?” You said, not even remembering what he’d told you mere seconds before. 

He tipped his head to the side and repeated. “I was saying the city is really loud. Lots of stuff happening and you can’t focus on your thoughts, because you know, the noise and stuff keep interrupting you and—”

You nodded eagerly in understanding, “Oh yes!” God, he must think you’re dumb or something. Of course he’s smart. Smarter than you, clearly. Living with all those academics must have helped with the braincells. His mom probably listened to Bach while pregnant. Or maybe he—

“How was the ball?” Yoongi asked, his face serene as he looked at you. And yet there was a certain gleam in his eyes, the kind of gleam you’d seen in the restless beast he’d become the last time you saw him, on his porch, drenched in rain, desperate, burning. 

You needed to slap your face and get your mind all in one place. Since you couldn’t quite slap yourself in public, you settled for a nice pinch to your leg and nodded, grounding yourself to the current conversation. “It went okay,” you replied. “The usual. Old people dancing, spiced punch, dreamy jazz and blues.”

And there it is, gummy grin all out. Perfectly symmetric pearly whites flashed to your face. “Seems like my kind of night.”

You snorted loudly, your laugh erupting without grace or composure. Yoongi was amused by it: he would make fun of himself forever if that meant making you happy like that. “You’re unbelievable” you murmured, half to him, half to yourself, for being this rowdy, antisocial mess.

Yoongi’s eyes fell to your lips. God, he loved them. So rosy, not too plump but always so happy. And he was pretty sure there were some freckles on them too. He was about to give in. There was nothing he wanted more than to touch your lips with his. Not even kiss you, just… Just touch you. 

“Come on, guitar boy, make your show!” a moderately tall, moderately tanned man hollered. He had impressive shoulders. “Who’s your friend?” he questioned, studying you. 

“____, this is Seokjin. You can call him Jin, but it’s better if you don’t call him at all.” Yoongi bared his teeth at the man as you introduced yourself, but it was only half disguised as a smile. Seokjin shrugged and cocked an eyebrow as he stared at Yoongi, daring him to make a move. 

It took half a second for Yoongi to realise how easily you and Seokjin would get along, how the adventurous, athletic, extremely sporty man could charm you with his stories and take you surfing at midnight to look at the stars from the sea, where no artificial lights could taint the immensity of the night. It bothered him. Bothered him and saddened him, and he just shook his head and let go. If that’s how it was supposed to go, then he would let it.

Seokjin passed a sticker-covered guitar to his friend, forcing the two of you up from your seats and away from the main location. It was just a few metres away, someplace more quiet, where the guitar could be heard over the blaring music. 

Only a couple people followed, and it felt like a true concert, a miniature one, mostly because of how skilled Yoongi was. After all, he is a professionist, and the fact that he has never mentioned playing live doesn’t make the experience any less exquisite. 

Soon more people were coming around, a few women sitting way too close for your eyes not to look at them with scorn. Were they thinking…?

No. You had no right to feel the tightening sensation around your stomach, not when Yoongi would look up and search for your eyes, to make sure you were watching — that you never stopped watching. You wouldn’t want him to find your eyes away from him to stare down at some dumb girl whose only fault was fawning over the same man you had a crush on. 

It was almost midnight when a loud beeping sound broke out from across the beach, blue lights in tow. The beach patrol. “This party is unauthorised!” An officer ordered from a megaphone. “You must leave the premises immediately.”

Your eyes met Yoongi’s, then Seokjin’s, whose face looked very white as he glared at a woman in shock, then in full-blazing hatred. No, not hatred: disappointment. The object of Seokjin’s pointed stare seemed equally shocked. 

Yoongi placed down the guitar, immediately reaching Seokjin and grabbing him by the shoulders — if it weren’t for the dramatic situation, the height difference would have been truly endearing, if slightly hilarious. “Didn’t you ask for a permit, you dumbhead?”

“I swear I did, Yoongi! Remember I made you check the papers? I did everything right!” Seokjin was panicking, staring at the other woman. “I did everything right, didn’t I?” At the woman’s silence, he asked again. “Didn’t I?”

“Officer! We have a permit!” Yoongi told the woman who arrived on the beach together with two colleagues. “We delivered it at the office and had it signed. This party is authorised.”

“We signed no permit,” her coworker stated coldly. “Leave the premises now.”

“Excuse me, officer, but my friend and I handed in the request personally,” Yoongi repeated, already losing his cool. The fact that he’d been sipping bourbon between a song and another didn’t help at all. He seemed ready to start a fight. 

The officer shook his head. “We have no permit for tonight.” 

“Listen, you—” Yoongi replied, visibly irritated, taking one more step forward.

You stopped Yoongi from pressing a finger against the fine shirt of the man’s uniform, doing the first thing that crossed your mind. You pulled him away and squatted down, pressing your shoulder to his stomach and picking him up effortlessly. 

With a kind smile, you tried to flatter the guard. “Officer, please excuse me. He has been really stressed over his job—”

“Sunny, what the hell are you—” Yoongi wiggled around a little, but you held him tighter. 

“Tonight he let loose a little, and drank a bit too much. Please excuse him.” You gave your most dazzling smile, looking sheepish, trying to project all your innocence and adorableness. 

“Don’t worry, ____. Do you need us to take you home?” the female officer intervened.

You shook your head. Apparently your good girl looks were giving you one more perk. “I’ll just walk him. Don’t worry. The people here are very cooperative, I’m sure you won’t have to deal with any issues.”

“Sunny! I swear to God—” Yoongi insisted, hitting his forearms against your back. 

“Easy, tiger,” you taunted him before waving at the beach patrol staff members before you turned and left. 

“Put me down!” Yoongi growled once you were a few feet away. 

“Shut the hell up,” you replied, calm and condescending. Yoongi felt a shiver roll down his spine, completely ignoring you as you went on chastising him. “Do you wanna end up in trouble?” you said, calmly, reasonably.

Heat started to warm his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the liquor. Sure, the alcohol made him more prone to a short temper, but he could still keep himself in check. This, however, this liquid warmth making him melt for you… This was all you. “We had the permit!” He complained, whiny, pliant, but still combative. 

“If you read the room a little, apparently Seokjin’s friend hadn’t handed it in, you dumbass.” Go figure, you were the one supposed to be the dull tool in the box. “You really thought it would be a good idea to lay a finger on an officer? After drinking? They could arrest you, Yoongi. And I won’t waste my pay on bailing you out of jail.”

“But I would have paid you back!” he protested while you opened the gate in his fence and dropped him down unceremoniously. He grunted a little and stormed off to the door as you followed him suit. 

“You would have slapped yourself at the thought of paying money to the fucking police!” you reminded him. “And it would be a big waste of money.” You stood behind him as he opened the door, then tried to slam it shut, almost causing it to hit you. The action made you startle, and maybe he didn’t want you to enter, but you also wanted to calm him down, and you deserved an apology about his lack of gratitude and basic decency. “Oh, come on, I just saved you at least a few hundred bucks, don’t be such a brat to me!”

He turned around with a cocky grin. “Or what? You’re gonna spank me?” He sealed his lips shut as soon as he realised what he’d just said.

Your face went dead serious, an eyebrow raised at him as your blood cooled significantly. A little cackle came out your throat as you said, your tone serious and dark. “Is that what you want?” It came out a bit more seductive than you intended.

“Don’t get all puffed-up now. Didn’t know you liked authority so much,” Yoongi’s body language got interesting: he conveyed challenge and curiosity as moved behind the kitchen island, putting an obstacle between the two of you.

“I don’t. I just think you're being a warmongering little shit.” You felt your body act on instinct, getting ready for the chase. You didn’t know exactly what was going on between the two of you. Actually you didn’t know anything at all. 

He licked his lips, looking at you from under his lashes. “That’s a difficult word for a lifeguard.”

That almost made you lose your cool, but you still managed to hold your horses since it was so obvious he was looking for a fight. “You think I’m dumb?” You asked, taking a slow step towards him. He took a step in the opposite direction. 

“No. But that’s a booksmart, not streetsmart kind of word.”

You took one more step towards him. “I might not be a little intellectual, like you fancy yourself, but I’ve read a few books, Yoongi.”

He bit his lip, put more distance towards the two of you. 

“What game are you playing, little mouse?” you taunted him. 

He could feel his heart hammering against his chest, blood rushing everywhere. He could tell his body was reacting in ways he was not proud of, grateful for the counter currently hiding his lap. “You might say you don’t like authority, but you sure like playing cops and robbers.”

You grinned at him and he grinned right back. With two large strides, you were on him, arms wrapped around his middle, and if it hadn’t been dangerous inside the kitchen, you would have tackled him with no effort whatsoever, his tipsy form completely incapable to stand a fight against your trained, honed and ready physique. “Gotcha,” you murmured in his ear and he just folded over himself, trying to hide from you the ridiculous state he was in. “What do you have to say about streetsmart nurses and puffed-up lifeguards? Still wanna start a fight?”

“Sunny…” he whispered, turning to stare at you. 

That day under the rain and that mad dash came back to you like a punch to the face. He was again dark eyed, pouty, beautiful. So easy; so, so easy to take. There, hanging from your very lips. 

“Yoongi,” you whispered back. “This is—”

He licked his lips, his eyes as if chasing shooting stars from your eyes to your mouth. “If you run this time, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it make sense.”

“How sober are you from one to ten?” Safety first, you told yourself. If he’s not sober there’s no chance you can kiss him, no chance to go further than this.

“Enough to tell you I’m not gonna regret this in the morning.” He was still caught in your arms, and it felt divine to feel the shape of you against him, warm and soft in the chill of an early summer night. His cheeks heated as he added, “Enough to tell you I’ve been thinking about this long before I had those drinks. Long before the party even started.”

Your hand moved to cup his cheek. “I’ve been thinking about this too.” 

He wanted to turn around, but he was not entirely proud of how affected he was by the current situation. However he did not fight it when you made him face you, your belly pressing against his, your breath catching in your throat. “I’m sorry— I—”

You shook your head and smiled as you looked down. “You thought about this, that day in the rain?”

“I’ve spent the last four days asking myself where I messed up,” he admitted, purring when you tentatively shifted against him. 

Your legs bracketed his, the puzzle of them causing him to hold his breath, then breathe out very slowly. He took a step back, but his arms were looped around you, so he managed to drag you with him until his back was pressed against the wall by the kitchen. 

“I thought I was… I thought you didn’t want this. I thought I was projecting my own desire, misreading the look on your face.” You shook your head and chuckled, your exhale caressing his chin. 

He licked his lip, then bit it a little and you stared at it, your eyes incapable of ungluing themselves from the glistening of moisture on his pouty mouth, so red, so plump, like ripe cherries. You tempted him, lowering yourself so close, your breath fanning over his lower face, close enough to kiss, yet not crossing the final inch yet. 

He whined, “Can’t you tell how much I want you, want this?” He shifted his hips and you both held your breath. “Like I wanted it then?”

Your hands moved to cradle his face, holding him as if he were delicate. “Then I can—?”

He nodded. “Yes.” Then more. “Fuck yes, please.”

You dove for him without hesitation. 

Kissing Yoongi must be what scientists feel when they discover some groundbreaking molecule that could cure some half-known disease. It’s revelating. 

You’ve been waiting your entire life for this. 

The kiss managed to stay innocent for two seconds more. Two seconds too many. 

Yoongi groaned against your mouth, then pulled you closer, pressing his hips against yours, then yielded again, maybe ashamed, maybe weakened by the sensation. 

You answered his need with your own, picking up where he left off. He gasped against your face, mouth sweetly parted, sloppy against your own, jaw slack as he got lost in sensation. 

“If you want to just make out, this is the right moment to tell me,” you advised him, but he shook his head, eyelids hanging half-open.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” you asked, a smile on your lips, so amused at the idea that this intellectual, eloquent, intelligent man had turned wordless in your arms, with his body writhing against your own.

“Some words here and there,” he replied, then tilted his head back in a way that summoned every inch of instinct within you, your face nuzzling against the column of his throat as you started sucking at the side of his neck. 

“Like what?”

“Like ‘make out’, and ‘right moment’, and ‘little brat’,” he hummed, then moaned, his hips rolling so softly, so perfectly that you wondered what he would do once undressed against your naked body. 

“I didn’t say ‘little brat’,” you pointed out in between a bruise and a kiss. 

“Too bad. I must have been dreaming it all.” He hissed as his zipper pressed against him just a tad too hard. 

“I could still—” You smirked. “You want me to…” Your hand moved from his waist to his side to his thigh, then went back to his ass, cupping one cheek and pressing him against your hip. You bent to his ear. “You like being talked dirty to?”

He nodded, thankful that you were making sense of him. 

“Being told that you’ve been bad?”

He nodded again, feeling heat flush his cheeks further. 

You frowned, trying to find the right way to go about this. “That you’ve been driving me crazy? You flirty little demon…”

He smirked and threw his head back, puffing out a desperate little cackle, his brow furrowed. “Please, Sunny, God I’m hating these jeans, love.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise and you kissed him slowly this time, taking your time. Did you want to undress him? Here? In the kitchen?

You shrugged at yourself. “You want to go upstairs or?”

“Don’t care, please, just…”

You considered it for two seconds, then you stopped him, grabbing him by the face. “Okay, let’s be clear. You want me to… be a little harsh?”

He let his eyes roll close, head tipping back as if he couldn’t hold it anymore, resting it against the wall. “Yes. Please, yes.”

“You want me to manhandle you? Get rough?”

“Yes!” he confirmed, his tone definitive. 

“Okay, good.” You moved your hands to his wrists, currently at your sides, his hands frozen at your tapered waist, as if not sure where he was allowed to touch. You pinned his hands to the wall, then skillfully twisted your body so that he ended up with his back pressed to your front, his cheek against the wall. “Like this?”

“Yes. Sunny, love, this— Yes.” He was struggling to form sentences. God. He was one lucky mess. 

“Is this what you like?” Adrenaline rushed down your spine. God, he was wicked, and perfect, and so, so needy. “Answer me, my cute devil.” You pressed your lips to his ear. “Or do you want me to call you a dirty little freak?” You didn’t feel like cursing out insults at him, but this, all these pretty pet names? This you could do.

And Yoongi seemed to like them as he shivered again, whining, his hips shifting against the wall. 

You chuckled, curious, delighted. “Who would have thought pretty, dainty Yoongi wanted this… Because you want this, don’t you?” Apparently, just as much as he wanted this, as much as he was turned on by your rough treatment, your brain was turned on by the fact that he wanted you to administer it. You always thought your shape and build meant that you would always somehow be a challenge to your potential partners, usually aiming at the fit, buff type so that they could handle you. You’d never thought you’d be turned on at the idea of overpowering a smart, lithe, uncharacteristically agile little mouse such as Yoongi. And yet, here you were, soaked against his writhing body as it ricocheted between you and the wall. 

“I like this. I like this a— a lot,” he said, panting faintly as you breathed against his ear. “I like you a lot, ____. Please—”

You chuckled. “Oh, you like me? A lot?” Tentatively, you skimmed the shell of his ear with your lips, making him whimper. At the first sign of him breaking, you added the tip of your tongue, causing him to moan outright, his glutes flexing against your pelvis as he tried to find a sliver of pleasure. You wanted to touch him, and he seemed okay with the idea of doing this here and, on top of that it was vaguely turning you on too. “Would you still like me if I put my hand into your jeans and stroked you?”

“I think I’d go insane for you,” he confessed. 

“Is that your consent to me giving you a handjob, Yoongi?” You checked, your hands still on neutral ground, one pinning his wrists gently, the other helping you prop yourself up against the wall.

He nodded before speaking, “Yes, I do.”

In a second, your hand left the wall, undoing the buckle of his belt. 

“Where the hell did you learn how to undo a belt one-handed,” he mused. He hoped you would shut him up with your lips against his. Unfortunately you didn’t. 

“I’m a lowly nurse, right? A nurse needs to know how to work with buckles one-handed. Now will you… finally… stay put?” You asked, finding his cock and squeezing it in a way that made Yoongi’s knees grow weak. 

“You’d have half the fun,” he opposed, right as you started stroking him, his tip so wet it was ridiculous. He felt ridiculous.

You blushed as you put on your shameless, steel-spined persona and asked, “What got you so hard, Yoongi?” You took a break, trying to find the words, then let your curiosity out: there was no harshness in your tone, no command, no bitterness, just simple curiosity, soft amusement. “Does it make you hard for a woman to toss you around like her doll? Or do you like being fucked against the wall?” You made your way slow and gentle further down his jeans, finding his balls and squeezing them. 

“You’re not fucking me,” he objected with a weak smile. Yet, he was glad that was on the table. “Yet.” 

You shook your head, smiling softly, “Yet”. Precious, delicate, charming Yoongi truly loved being treated like an object. How surprising. “What do I need to do to shut your pretty bratty mouth? Maybe keeping it busy between my legs?”

He purred at the prospect.

“Maybe shutting it with my hand?” You felt shame creep to your cheeks, then let the thought out. “Maybe stuffing it with my panties?” You’d seen it once in a picture on an adult website and the image had never left your mind.

He threw his head back. This had to be a dream. A fantasy. You couldn’t be what he’d been dreaming of for years, and at the same time be the gentle, nurturing presence he had known in the last five weeks. “Please,” he begged again, his eyes rolling shut, his hair falling all over the place as his lips disclosed shyly. 

This time, of course, you weren’t afraid. You pressed your mouth to his, not without licking his lips first, coaxing his tongue to peak out and lick up against yours. 

His sex was hot, hard, and not too big, but definitely big enough to work with. He was pulsating in your hand already, smooth and needy as he thrusted into your fist. You dreamed about him moving inside you, with that fantastic bubble butt you’d eyed more than you’d like or care to admit. He kept moaning and groaning as you carefully stroked him, trying to accompany his movements with your own. You imagined what this could become if you were stroking him with a bit more lubrication, trying to invent a way to make your hand wet without having to part yourself from him. 

You pushed his jeans and underwear to his knees, then moved the hand you’d been using to pin his wrists, letting it climb beneath his shirt to massage his chest, his shoulders caving in beautifully as he pressed harder against the fingers currently pinching one of his nipples. You wished you could see the hollow you knew was now carved in between his shoulder blades, but you simply bent your head forward and kissed it from over his shirt, nuzzling your face against it. 

“I’m gonna use lube next time, so I can make it even wetter for you,” you mused. “I bet you’re a picky, fussy thing in bed.” You delivered a trail of kisses up his nape. “I’d love learning everything you like.”

He chuckled and admitted, “I’m afraid I won’t be as picky with you.”

“Then I’ll get very specific about new ways to make you come.” 

He turned his head to the side so he could see you in the corner of his eye. “I could… spit in your hand?”

You blinked once, twice. “Sure.”

He grabbed the hand in between his legs, brought it to his mouth and pressed the flat of his tongue against the centre of your palm, delivering a wide, sloppy lick. Your hand was salty with his sweat and arousal, but he was too needy to analyse the taste further as he brought your hand back on his erection. 

You stroked and his knees buckled, the both of you smirking and exhaling in unison. He held on for ten, maybe twelve commendable seconds, then crumbled adorably with a weak, soft moan.

He ended up spilling into your hand, your palm stroking even when he started shaking. You let him go only when he sobbed for you to stop; yet he turned his face to the side and kissed your chin, then your mouth, sloppily, and whispered, “Actually, keep—” you understood what he meant and resumed the—

“Sunny, love, fuck! Please, fuck!” His knees wobbled and his cock quivered just once, another shy dribble coming out. 

You supported him with an arm around his waist, his lithe physique crumbling over you, his head on your shoulder. 

“Yes,” he whispered, completely fucked out, so spent and adorably pliable. 

You turned him around and held him, letting him rest his cheek on your shoulder. “You okay, Yoongi?”

“Never been better,” he admitted, voice saccharine and exhausted, before he started to stir. “Fuck, I made a mess.”

You shrugged. “All chill, babe.” You stroked the small of his back. “What do you need, Yoongi?”

He shook his head. “Just hold me please, I’m not sure I can stand on my legs,” he admitted before cackling. “I wasn’t expecting this.” Once more he chuckled. “This is kinda embarrassing to me.”

You pressed your cheek to his hair. “I’ve never done something quite like this either.” You drew small circles on his back. “I don’t know what to do. Or what to say.” You nodded to yourself, waiting for something, some sort of signal that you hadn’t just ruined your friendship with him because you caved in to some preternatural instinct to ruin him. 

“Do you want to go upstairs?” he asked, hesitating for a second before looking into your eyes. “I want to make you feel good too.” And next, he looked to the floor, his lips flushed in red, his cheeks a deep crimson. 

How dare he act shy after challenging you and letting you torture him like that? “You’re fucking impossible.” You grabbed his chin and made him look at you. “Ask it again. Look into my eyes and ask.”

“Fuck me, please.”

As a reward, you pressed your mouth to his, his hand grabbing your wrist and trying to bring it back to his length; however, you tutted and grinned. “Go upstairs, get ready. I’ll fix the mess you made on me and the floor.”

He puckered his lips and chased your mouth, holding you by your elbow. “Are we okay?”

You kissed him again, reassuring him. “We’re okay. I just need to see you come maybe three times more. Or maybe nine.”

He snickered. “So we’re cool with the idea of this being not platonic, like… at all?”

You stopped mid-breath. “I think this stopped being platonic the day I realised I ran because I wanted to kiss you so bad.”

“I thought you ran because you didn’t like me.” He didn’t care about his softening dick being out and covered in his release. He had more pressing matters at the moment, like your confession. 

“I ran because I wanted to press you up against the wall and make out with you and cover your neck in hickeys—”

“Seems like a great idea to me. I’m into that,” he admitted, acting pragmatic. 

You smiled mischievously. “Go upstairs and we can make that happen.”

“I need convincing,” he purred, haughty. 

The hand that had taken care of him so proficiently was still covered in his slick, and how convenient that was now. Lowering his trousers efficiently, you hit his left ass cheek, a wet squelching sound echoing in the kitchen. As he moaned, you shook your head, grinning just in time as he did. “I’ll give you more if you go upstairs and get all ready for me.”

He pouted and covered himself while you went to rinse your hands and grab a cloth. You marvelled at how, after maybe three or four visits at his house, you could move around so easily. Five minutes and the kitchen was clean, you heading up the stairs, following the mellow music coming from a room barely lit. 

There were a couple candles around the room, the smell of vanilla and bourbon drifting around freely, the mild orange halos of the flames contrasting with the full moon just out of the window. 

Yoongi was laying on the sheets, as lazy as a white Persian cat, stretched like a hedonist king. His hair melted into the darkness, and his eyes glimmered, dark and luscious, like black magnets, his skin pale, diaphanous and opaque like almond milk. 

He wasn’t naked yet, his white underwear the only hint that his skin tone is not the palest. 

You stopped by the threshold of his room, and stared at him like you’d never seen him before, never seen a man before, and from the reaction of your body ou do wonder if any of your previous partners really made sense, if you really should have slept with them considering how you are now burning for Yoongi. 

You kissed him tonight for the first time, you didn’t have the time to adjust from a platonic to a romantic or outright erotic disposition, and yet this feels the most natural, to the point that you question whether it’s always been desire right from the start. 

“Why are you standing there,” he asked, a gentle smile on his face. 

“You’re pretty to look at,” you admitted, with a little shake of your head and a helpless smile. 

He laughed shyly. “As much as I like being looked at, I have more pressing necessities at the moment.” He rose to his knees, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “Come, it’s your turn.”

You took a couple steps towards him, studying him some more. His chest was fairer than fair, the pink of his nipples perfectly matching the shade of his lips. It felt poetic to say the least. The shape of his torso made you think of Greek statues, balanced, lithe, mythological. 

“You know, you seem very tempting,” you told him, suddenly deprived of thoughts, words, just pure instinct left. 

“Why are you resisting, then.” 

He lured you in, like a mermaid, like an exotic, mesmerising bird of paradise. 

He cupped his palms around your waist and pulled you closer, making you kneel on the bed in front of him. “I’m going to dream of you in this dress.” 

“I’m going to dream of you up against that wall,” you countered. 

“Lovely to feel reciprocated.” His hand grazed your thigh, lifting the hem of your breezy sundress. “This colour makes you look unreal.” He skimmed the outside of your leg, his lashes lowered, his lips agape as he breathed in through his mouth. “LIke you just came out of seafoam.” HIs index finger continued its path upwards, stopping at the frilly hem of your panties. 

You exhaled slowly, your breath trembling. Despite being trained to act even during utmost emergencies, actual life-or-death situations, you can’t operate through Yoongi’s touch flooding your system with adrenaline and arousal. 

“Are you going to taste like seafoam too?” he said, tracing the hem of your underwear, inquisitive, shifting towards the inside of your thigh, venturing where your heat grew feverish, your core melting and dripping into the fabric. “Like saltwater, here?” 

The noise rumbling out of your throat was not entirely human and absolutely, not even remotely, coherent. 

He brushed his knuckle against the apex of your labia, which made you respond with a full body shiver, your torso tipping forward before you stabilised yourself with a hand pressed to his shoulder, your palm clammy, your grip urgent at first, then more controlled. 

“You’re so immensely beautiful, Sunny,” he whispered with awe, and that is the last thing you see before you let your eyes roll shut, overwhelmed by sensation, by pleasure. 

“Can I?” he asked, waiting at your threshold, lingering where the fabric of your panties wears thin and humid. 

You nodded, almost mindlessly, your eyes still closed. 

“Look me in the eye, Sunny. Show me you want this. Tell me,” he urged you. 

When your gaze does meet his, you’re caught in it, like black holes calling you to him, any chance of escape now useless, vain. “Please.”

“Please what,” he murmurs, teasing. 

“Touch me, please,” you reply, almost immediately. 

“Where?” 

“There,” you whine, your voice thin. “Be— between my legs.” The words stammer out of you, and Yoongi rewards you with a flirty smile, tongue peaking out. 

“You mean here,” he says, saccharine and yet dark, like molasses. 

“Under,” you whisper, tortured by the fact that the barrier of your panties is still there, between his fingers and your feverish skin. 

All patience thrown out of the window, you grab his hand, place it right where you want it, beneath the fabric, and sigh once you finally get exactly what you needed. 

Yoongi smiles, licking his lips before noting, “just as wet as I’d hoped.”

But the words don’t register: you are already out of this galaxy, eyes unseeing, ears unhearing, your mouth agape in a perfectly round shape, of which Yoongi takes ample advantage. 

He traces the rim of your lips with his free hand, then debates whether to slip his fingers inside your mouth. A few shallow gasps tell him enough of what he wanted the most. 

“I want to hear you, my little star.” The pet name coerces a whine from your throat. “Won’t you moan for me?”

You do. Of course you do, and Yoongi nods, pleased with himself. “Good girl,” he rewards you, his tone calm and deep, soothing. “The moment I saw you, I thought I was having visions.”

You gasp as he becomes more liberal with his touch: you’d manoeuvred him into touching you, but now he’s doing that unprompted, all on his own will.

“And now you’re here, like dripping sunlight on my bed,” he says, reverently, rapt. 

You moan his name and nod, engorged in the shallow gasps of your throat and the silky wet warmth of your core, where his fingers slide in and out, slow, accurate, thorough. 

Your hand cups the side of his neck, your eyes desperate as you hold his gaze, imploring him to subside the fire burning down your spine, melting your core and climbing back up with electric shivers across your entire back. 

“Kiss me,” you ask, your voice fragile and hoarse. 

He stares at your lips, licks his own and observes the wet pink of your tongue as your mirror neurons respond, mimicking him wetting his lips. 

This time, he does slip the flat of his thumb in your mouth, watching and craving the way your mouth closes around him, your eyes rolling shut, then your jaw going slack as a clever twist of his other hand catches you by surprise and coerces a broken plea from you. Pleasure burst from you like a pinched balloon, startling you with the unexpectedness. 

And Yoongi watches. 

He studies you, the way your hips buckle wild over his hand, the way you grip his forearm and push him deeper, until you can feel him pushing against the rim of your cervix, hard and deep where all your nerve endings seem to meet. 

It feels like drifting on the surface of the ocean, deprived of all thought, the overwhelming completeness of the universe surrounding you, transforming you into nothing but a recipient of all the sensation the world can offer. A sentient being: the most simple definition of life. 

And right now, with Yoongi coaxing every drop of pleasure from you, you are made of pure life. You are radiant and wide-open and all-encompassing. He stares at you, at the look in your eyes, the heaving of your chest. 

He nods to himself, so many things making sense all at once. Of course, we reproduce through sex. How can you be so full of life without it eventually spilling out of you? 

He gawks your reddened lips, cheeks and chest, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We should get you out of this dress,” he said, dragging his face down the side of your neck, reaching the base of it, nibbling at your collarbone as he starts undoing the buttons. “You’re made of fucking sunshine, Sunny. Sunshine and seawater,” he says reverently. 

You’re not sure this is actually happening. You must be hallucinating, because Yoongi pushes aside the front of your dress with his teeth and mouth, then repeats the motion to the strap of your bra, nudging it with his nose, sending electric zings through your shoulder, all the way down your arm, until the thrill reaches your fingertips. And just as you’ve come to terms with him kissing your neck, your chest, your collarbones and your shoulders, his mouth reaches your now bare breast, the precious petals of his lips pillowing your nipple. 

He makes quick, wicked eye contact with you before he turns wickeder still, and starts sucking. 

You groan a very unfeminine sound, but you’re both too far gone to mock your reaction. 

He’s undone the rest of your buttons, and you shrug off your dress, his hands urgently sliding to your back, then pressing to your ribs, pulling you closer to him, to his mouth. He hums in pleasure, his hair caressing your skin like dark silk. You reposition yourself so that your thighs bracket his, and the way your hips and his immediately start a game of tug-of-war drives you insane. It’s like you’ve been training your entire life to make this work, like you’ve always known this, you just needed him to unlock this part of yourself. 

You begin to grind against his leg, the friction of his thigh against your clothed core just perfect. 

“Perfect,” he says, as if reading your mind, hissing as his sex too finds just the right stimulation against your soft navel. His movements, the slow strokes, pull you even closer to the edge of your entire world. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this before with any other man, be he fictional or real. “You feel divine, Sunny. You feel like Sunday morning.” He grabs the back of your head, nudges into your hair, inhales you, and he seems so lost in you it’s almost poetic. “You feel like sunshine, and breeze and…”

You grip his hair, pull him from the crook of your neck and stare at him, breathless and unfocused. And you just kiss him. 

He’s harmless in your arms. Entirely incapable of anything but kissing you. His arms fall at his sides, his hips halt, his mouth is the only moving part of him. He’s like a leaf drifting in your currents, and little does he know the tide has just turned. 

You unhook your own bra, take his hands in yours and place them against your breasts, that are now tender with pent-up pressure. You both gasp in the kiss as his palms, soft and silky, make contact with your skin. The way he fondles you feels like second nature. He’s made of nothing but instinct and will, he feels like an arrow, tracing the fastest, most effective way to go from where he is to where you need him to be. 

And no matter how much you’re loving your current predicament, you know you need more. You need him inside. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you pull him down with you, drag him on top of you, the kiss undisturbed, uninterrupted. “Naked, please, inside,” you whisper, the urgency in your voice leaving him stunned. 

He’s just so pliant. You’re pretty sure that if you asked him to throw himself off a cliff he would, as long as you’d kiss him at the bottom of it. 

Yoongi rocks his hips against you, and you both moan, a little lost. That’s when you realise his underwear feels a little bit damp where his tip rests, and that renews your motivation. You roll him over, rising above him, and he’s stunned, staring at your hair. 

“Lift it up for me, love,” you tell him, and you’re not sure where all this agency is coming from, but you know you have a list of things you’re going to regret not doing to him — another surprising aspect of what you feel for him. 

He arches his hips off the bed, obeying your request, and you slip his boxers off him. And he’s so perfect. Crouching down and tasting him is the first thing that comes to your mind and you don’t even question it. You bend down and you do. 

He moans, and you regret not getting the sound recorded. 

“Come up here… You’re gonna make a sorry mess of me, Sunny,” he says, and it comes out so embarrassed, and so entertained too. “Let me please you, ____. I’m begging, sweetheart.”

You keep working him lightly, with little touches and small licks, and gentle nudges, your lips drawing his length, your teeth brushing against his flesh as softly as a lover’s whisper. But as you do all that, you slip your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and drag the fabric off your hips, down your thighs, till it reaches your knees, then you readjust yourself so that you can remove the garment entirely. 

“Is this the right moment to tell you I’ve done this just once?” He asks. 

You freeze. “What?” 

“I know, I was very poorly adapted to society. I’m not… I’m not entirely sure I know how this works.”

You frown, but nod anyway. “Okay. This is definitely not going to last, but I’ll make it good. I promise.”

Yoongi bites his lip, again, an embarrassed and amused expression on his fine face. “I’ll do my best.” 

“I know you will,” you reassure him, taking his hand in yours and kissing his palm. And then you place yourself astride him. “But I’m staying on top just to keep you rooted.” 

“Thanks,” he says with a chuckle. He looks entirely adorable. You want to eat him, just for a quick second, like a cotton candy bunny. 

You’re also sure you don’t want to stretch. You just want to grind and take him inch by inch, using him to ready yourself, feeling your body adapt to him. 

When you grip him, he hisses, but refuses to stop watching. The first three inches feel like the most brilliant decision you’ve ever taken, and you move on them for a bunch of seconds, then nod to yourself. 

All the way. That’s what you want, and the realisation dawns on you like the first day of summer. 

You let yourself slide on him until your butt rests on his hips. 

You both exhale with the wonder of those who finally discover the world was built in Technicolor after a life in black-and-white. 

“Fuck. Condom. Forgot,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“If you’re clean then—” 

“Used it that one time,” he reassures you.

“Fuck, good,” you swear, and it is uncharacteristic of you, but he’s making you see stars. He’s thick and blunt inside you, so hot and smooth and his flesh has the perfect give. When you squish him, your inner muscles responding to the divine feel of him inside you, the poor boy hums a long, restrained sound that culminates in a tender gasp. His mouth is wide, his eyes squeezed shut instead. “This… this is what it must feel like,” he whispers. 

“Yes, when you’re lucky,” you confess before rolling your hips, making him drag along the most sensitive spot of your inner walls. 

“I know I’m lucky. I feel very fucking lucky, Sunny.” His hips jolt and you squeak at the sudden bump, the thrust making you tighten around him. “Dammit, that’s what you do when I push inside you?”

You nod, a roguish smirk on your lips. 

He cradles your hips and then holds you still, pushing once again inside you. This time it’s deliberate and thorough, as if he’s searching the right angle, friction, direction. And when he sees your jaw fall, your lips agape, he nods to himself, and repeats the movement, intentful. 

You squeeze him, not entirely coherent, and this time the both of you lose reason a little. 

It becomes mechanic, natural, a push and pull that requires no thinking and all moving. 

“I think I’m close,” he says. “Are you?”

You frown, because you are actually close, but quite surely not as close as he is. “Close, but it’s okay if—

He slips all the way out this time and moves his hand so that his thumb can dip between your folds, tracing the cleft that runs from your entrance to the turgid bud of nerves at the top of your sex. 

You moan his name in warning. “This you’ve done more than once, though.” The devil’s in the details and there are only so many details you can know before you’re entirely damned: from the way he’s touching you, you’re probably both destined for a very hot circle in hell. There’s no way you can do this just once, no way you’re going to do this in the quiet. You just let yourself moan, and he chuckles, but the sound is filled with awe. 

“If I could bottle the sound, I’d get drunk on it,” he murmurs, and that seems to justify the way he looks barely sober now — nothing to do with the drinks he had at the beach earlier. This one is entirely your own doing. 

You lower your hips so that you can grind against his shaft, while his fingers keep working you leisurely. 

“I thought I’d done enough of it, but that was before you,” he says. “You feel like warm butter, Sunny. Like damn velvet.” 

“I need—” 

“Inside. Yes, I know,” he whispers. His tone is knowing, and it clashes with his admitted inexperience. 

“How do you know?”

“Because I fucking need inside you too,” is his only explanation. “Or you can make me come this way,” he suggests, “Watch me ruin myself. Bet you’d get high from my utter humiliation.”

You shake your head a little, and bite your lip. The picture he’s painted in your head has nothing to do with humiliation. “It wouldn’t be that. It would be the hottest, sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Then bring it home, love,” he tells you with the flirtiest smile on his face.

So you pick up your pace, focus a little bit more on his tip and reach behind you to cup the rest of him. You slide the head of his dick inside you, work it with shallow, slow strokes, which makes him hiss. 

He doesn’t know how he finds the strength, but he manages to pull out just half a second before he reaches his orgasm. Just half a second of rationality before he loses himself entirely. 

And you know he’s let go: you can tell by the way his head tips back and he grunts in a way that doesn’t sound like him at all. It makes you shed your skin a little, and you allow yourself out of your shell. You ride him, hips swivelling like never before. You feel like water, and it seems absurd that no matter how much swimming, how much surfing, or how much sailing you’ve done in your life: you’ve never felt this fluid, this liquid before. You’re pure movement, and Yoongi can’t help but stare as you dance on top of him, like rain, like waves, like waterfalls. 

You grab at your chest, squeeze your breasts and pinch your nipples as you ride him, your hair like a halo, dancing with your movements. His own hands join yours and you bend forward, pressing yourself against his palm. 

He’s still spilling himself under you, his orgasm reaching his stomach and his chest. It’s messy, and yet you’re entirely fascinated by it. You can feel his sex twitch and release itself against your folds, and you marvel at how sensitive your bodies can grow. 

It’s with his final thrusts that you finally reach the apex of your pleasure, and you part from him just quick enough to slide him inside you, his hiss going unnoticed as you finally, finally squeeze around him and there you go, tumbling down into pleasure, your downfall glorious and ruinous at the same time. 

You want him as close as you can and you just throw your body onto his, taking him to the hilt, gasping at how marvellous it is to be so full, to be this close, this uniquely twined with someone. It is not a tidy or poetic moment, your perspiration and his release mixing together on your and his chest as you embrace. You stare at each other, stupefied by the animalistic nature of your joining, both wide-eyed and desperate. And then you kiss him, like it’s the most obvious answer to this all.

“Are you alright,” you ask him once the kiss fades out, and he nods, his hands caressing the sides of your face, cradling it. 

“I’m sure that thing you did when you pulled me back in killed me once or twice,” he confesses. “But overall, I’ve never been better.”

His humour steals a chuckle from you. “I’m sorry about the mess,” you say, apologetic. 

He shakes his head with a mischievous smile on his face. “Sit up, Sunny. I have plans.”

You frown, not sure about his intentions. Does he mean ‘plans’ as in the sense that he needs you to leave?

You try to roll off him, a little upset, but he holds you still as soon as he realises you weren’t moving in the right direction. “No. Stay on top, just sit up, love.”

Your frown is still all out, but you do as he asks you. And right then you notice his eyes drifting down your torso, from your sticky, messy chest to your sticky, messy sex. 

He brings his hands to the side of your breasts, pushing them together, looks deep into your eyes as he sits up himself, the shift in the angle of him inside you making you gasp. He holds your gaze until he can’t anymore, then dives with his face for your chest, the mess transferring from your boobs to his cheeks. And once he starts licking and sucking, once you feel him twitch inside you, you know the night has just begun. 

“Guess this means you’re ready for your third time?” you say, teasing and gleeful. 

“After all, they do say ‘third time’s the charm’,” he quips. 

And boy, oh boy, aren’t they just right. 

September is no longer terrifying. Not as you and Yoongi glide across the linoleum floor of Juniper Hall, his friends — maybe yours too, at this point — stare at you from the refreshment table. The Winery Ball is splendid, as usual, the true event of the end of the season, the closing of another cycle. The Orchard organises it each year, giving a chance for the members of the retirement home to celebrate one evening with their families, but also a way to keep them occupied through the final days of summer, and a kind initiative to include them in the social life of their community. Socially, but also creatively, is one of the best examples of Honeycomb Cove. 

Somewhere around the room, Hoseok was also dancing with his now-girlfriend, and you could hear Seokjin’s shrill laughter as he listened to his partner’s winded and absurd stories, her sarcastic — though wildly entertaining — rants. 

In another corner of the room, the brightest one, with an arm lamp, Laura was working at a new cardigan in Yoongi’s favourite shade of lavender. She’d become entirely smitten with the guy, and he often visited to keep her company; however, you also suspected he came around to hang out with you, and just maybe to hear some of your childhood stories. Marvin had yet to come to terms with the fact that you were now very happily taken, but his nephew was very glad the matchmaking shenanigans had to come to a much-needed halt. After all, Marvin liked Yoongi very much, and he liked live music even more than that. He was secretly glad you’d found such a perfect match for yourself, though he would never admit that publicly.

Still, the person who enjoyed the music the most was Orla: she and Yoongi had bonded almost immediately, and he did love spending time with her the most. They spoke a little Portuguese together every now and then, and she was becoming rather committed to the idea of reaching a little more fluency before ‘laying to rest for good’, as she said. Yoongi’s eyes would always glow glossy at the way Orla would talk about her declining health and what was left of her lifespan, but the cloud of melancholy would always drift by quickly, and his eyes would light up in determination as he fought to keep her entertained for just one more day. 

Like so, your life had changed forever, and in the span of one summer, you had entered a new season in your life, one that would one day lead probably to marriage, and a family. A dog. Kids too, if you were so blessed. Or maybe you would just adopt — both you and Yoongi were rather open to the idea of that. 

But first, marriage: you had both been on the same page about that, and he hadn’t made it a secret he had every intention of keeping the engagement rather short. 

You stared at your hand, resting on his shoulder as you swayed to the music, his gentle samba playing from the speakers, the sound so familiar as the first time he’d played it for you in his home studio, the melody reminding you of every walk by the rising sun, of every wave crashing at your feet on the shore, of music by the fireplace, of stars making his hair glitter like the ocean at midnight, of making love in the deep quiet of the night, when you knew each other not by sight, but by touch and taste alone. 

He’d given you Beatrice’s ring earlier tonight: a bright yellow crystal surrounded by exquisite smaller stones, forming a star. He’d put it on your middle finger, then kissed your palm before he said, “We’ll move it on the right finger when you’re ready.” He’d been confident, and calm and trusting, and you’d felt like the time was right, then and there, but you decided to be considerate, and see how winter would play out. You would return to the Orchard full time in just ten days, but you felt excited, with your truck in Yoongi’s driveway and your scrubs and your knitting supplies waiting for you at his place, in a wardrobe he’d fixed for you. 

He’d made you move in with him a month after that first night, with the excuse of making you save on rent, and the promise of letting you split the bills, since you would have felt too much of a freeloader otherwise. 

Truth is, he paid the bills in full, and kept your money on the side, just in case you would need it someday — but that’s not something you needed to know yet, and he kept his little secret with a little smugness. 

“Have I touched on the subject of how much I love you in this dress tonight?” Yoongi said as his fingers lowered into the low scoop of the back of your dress, chastely caressing the naked skin at the small of your back. 

“I know for sure you have elaborated on how much you love me with no clothes on, but the part with my dress on no, you actually haven’t mentioned,” you replied, fond, but also quippish.

You’re rather fond of all the ways your inside jokes have lined up, with the way you’ve found a common sense of humour, and with how sensitive, how aligned you’ve become with each other. 

“I guess I have some shortcomings to make up for,” he conceded. 

“You can start by saying how much you love him.”

“Oh, an easy one, thank you,” he said before caressing your face, his palm cupping your chin before his lips landed on yours, light and loving. “I love you as wide as the sky, and as deep as the ocean,” he declared, with that little lull in his voice. He’d told you Antonio would always tell Beatrice so before resting his lips on her forehead, holding her. And a few weeks later, he’d barged in the kitchen as you were cooking, excited like a little kid on Christmas morning. 

“Found it! I found it!” he’d cheered. He’d dragged you to the living room, where a pile of VHS towered dangerously on top of the coffee table. He grabbed the remote, and rewinded the tape just a little. “Here,” he’d said, his voice elated. He’d held you tight, like you were his teddy bear, his comfort blanket, his lifeline. And with his chin resting over your shoulder, his arms wrapped snugly around you, you’d both faced the screen and he’d pressed play. 

The voice that came on was soft, like the sound of wind gushing through the branches of osmanthus trees in the garden. And there was the lull of that declaration, by now so familiar to your ears. With the same pattern of stresses, the same intonation, Antonio proclaimed his love to Beatrice on the occasion of their tenth anniversary, both dressed in white, both crowned in flowers, both barefoot in the garden. Right there, the declaration, like an oath and like a children's rhyme. 

“And I will love you true, always. As wide as the sky. As deep as the ocean.” 

Your and Yoongi’s eyes had sparkled with unshed tears that night, as you stood there, years after that video had been shot on a cheap camera. It felt powerful, being testimony to a love like that, long gone from the world, but still alive in the memory, and in Yoongi’s very existence. 

And now swaying in an improvised ballroom, not barefoot yet — but sometimes soon, with a priest and matching rings and emotional friends — you looked at Yoongi and replied, just as Beatrice had, “As bright as the sun, as soft as the moon.”

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! If you want to know more about this collab, you can head over here!!!

[eisforeidolon]

Question: What was your favorite episode of Supernatural to film?

Jensen: To film?

Jared: In hindsight, or at the time? I mean, 'cause I look back and, like, French Mistake? Looking back now I love it, but I was so anxious the entire time, I was so nervous that I didn't have a great time filming it? But in hindsight, I loooove the memory of having filmed it. Does that make any sense? It kinda sounds weird, like, it was nerve wracking, I was like, I have to be funny and there's a lock and a key and a [gestures vaguely like in the episode]. Nutcracker where they were fitting me for jock straps and stuff. I was like, this sucks. Like, who thinks this is funny?

Jensen: That was - Changing Channels?

Jared: [grabs Jensen's thigh] Changing Channels! I had, like, herpes commercials and shit, I was like, this, I don't like this very much. Riding the motorcycles around and falling around. Like in hindsight, it was amazing, but during the filming of it I was like this might be the worst thing that's ever happened to me in my life. And then strange, like Sacrifice, the end of season eight, was awful to film but I loved that I got to experience it, you know? It was three days in an abandoned church with Mark Sheppard - who we're all sending love to, and I love him and you all love him [crowd cheers]. But it wasn't, it wasn't enjoyable during it - it's always enjoyable, not mean to bitch, but it was stressful during it, but those are the two episodes that just came to my head. Or like The End, you know, like that - like episode twenty three of five? What was that [slaps Jensen's arm] Swan Song! The End was him, um Samifer - Swan Song, the finale of season five, was amazing in my head now, but during it, I hated it. It was like, I'm killing my brother, I'm killing myself, like what's going on -

Jensen: I was gonna say that one of them would be The End, and it's, I think it's a similar thing [rests hand on Jared's knee] it's because it was such a challenge to shoot those particular episodes that it was very taxing during shooting those, that particular episode for me that I was playing two versions of Dean. But it's one that I look back on with great pride because of how challenging it was. I'll say that - you guys might not like this - that one of my favorite episodes to film was the very last episode. I'll tell you why, it's because we had gotten to a point where he and I could truly reflect and appreciate the magnitude of the moment that was happening in front of us. I - when I got in to that car and I drove it, Dean was driving in heaven, I knew that that was gonna be the final drive for this run of the show. And you know, I think I have video, I set my little phone up in the seat and recorded me doing that final drive. And then he and I on the bridge, like we, there were moments that he and I took, multiple moments that he and I took to ourselves without the cameras rolling. And so I think that was precious for me.

Jared: Yeah.

Jensen: And that meant so much because of the journey we had gone on and where we had ended up together, so. That's, that's - but if you're just like, what was fun? Yellow Fever was fun.

Jared: Yeah, that was fun. That was fun. You know what? I agree a hundred percent. It occurred to me while you were talking about it, I think the only episode that I really feel like I just had fun during? Was Baby. [Jensen points his mic at Jared] Because we weren't - it wasn't the Sam and Dean show, it was the Baby show. And so it was like we got to go have some fun on somebody else's set.

Jensen: It was also kind of the most unique -

Jared: So wild.

Jensen: process of filming an episode because they just mounted cameras to the car and then just sent us out into the wild. And just fingers crossed, I hope these two knuckleheads can get the scene. It was up to us.

Jared: Yeah. And it was also the first time in a decade and a half where we weren't going onto set of a show about Sam and Dean Winchester, like, this episode was about Baby. So we got to go and like just help be cogs in the wheel, you know, it wasn't like - it felt like less pressure - even though we were in the entire episode, obviously.

Jensen: Yeah, that's a great answer. Baby. And one of my favorite episodes, too. That was a Robbie Thompson special.

Jared: Yeah, that's right.

[greenerteacups]

Hi there! Just wanted to ask something fun: what’s your favourite moment from each of the books you’ve written so far?

lovely lovely question. so much fun. let me see:

book one: i mean, the train station scene was the image that kicked off the whole series, so i have to pick that one. it resonated with me on so many levels — it introduces the running element of muggle music, which becomes a sort of leitmotif for draco and hermione's relationship, as well as draco's own character growth; it's a fun character moment, in that hermione gets to steal the show from draco's gift of an owl, leaving him speechless, when he'd surely have liked it a bit more the other way 'round, and that's going to be a precedent, too; i also just like the moment itself, as a piece of atmosphere and symbolism. it's his first year of being a gryffindor, and he's survived it, and it's sunny outside, and there's music playing.

there's also a fun nubbin of symbolism in that the song playing is supposed to be "white wedding," which is the epigraph from book 1 (and, in a sense, the whole fic), a song about redemption and starting over and yet also taking your past with you, as well as... well, a song about a wedding. so. take that as you will.

book two: narrowly, it's the moment at Theo's Yule Hunt party where narcissa has just collapsed, and the slytherins have all seen it. there's a beat where draco thinks they're going to turn on him, and use this vulnerability they've discovered to knife him in the back — only they don't. theo sizes him up and makes a call, and they help him get her out. daphne even breaks a school rule to do it. and pansy grouches and gripes about it — she gets in one jab about "hall-pass Slytherins," which still makes me giggle, to be honest — but she helps, too. it's a humanizing moment for them, and (hopefully) one of the first times we begin to see the slytherin kids as possible allies — utter brats, still, but nonetheless people with deeply cherished friendships, loyalties, and the capacity to show empathy and kindness for people they don't yet owe anything. it's maybe the most important moment of book 2, both in terms of theme and plotting.

book three: in terms of writing? i loved doing "The Last Marauder." god, what a fun chapter to write. sirius black's interactions with the golden quartet are some of the most entertaining exchanges in the series for me, bar none, because he's the furthest thing from a parental/supervisory figure that the kids have met (at least, that doesn't want to kill them). he's just unapologetically out of pocket in a way that's glorious for dialogue. (honorable mention here goes to daphne's moment at the League party, because when i finished the scene i sort of felt like daphne herself had burst into my room, held me at wandpoint, and demanded a larger role in the story. it was the moment she transformed in my mind from a tertiary character into a secondary one, and it was as glorious as you'd expect.)

as a moment per se, however, i think it has to be draco's patronus.

book four: "Padfoot Returns," by several orders of magnitude. no question. it's the scene that the whole series has really been building to, and writing it felt every ounce as cathartic as that sentence implies. i also got to do a lot of really fun imagery with smoke and rain and fog, and vamp a little about the ancient undying earth and the ghosts of Hogwarts castle, it was all just an uninterrupted pleasure, start to finish. took me about three weeks to get right, but it was three incredible weeks, let me tell you.

book five: so far, it's a scene in Myrtle's bathroom (which may or may not be cut for pacing reasons). after that, it's a duel in the Room of Requirement, because writing draco in fight scenes gets more and more fun every year.

[ectogeo-rebubbles]

wip ask game

all I’m in is just skin

(WIP ask game)

Yessss, thank you, I'm literally so excited about this one!! <3 The file name is the tentative title (taken from the song Skin by Rihanna), and it's about Sisko, Garak, and Ross playing strip poker on Starbase 375 while they wait anxiously for the Defiant and the rest of the fleet to complete some kind of strategic maneuver or secret mission that the three of them masterminded together. Anyway, this obvs devolves into a steamy siskarak hookup and then a tense threesome. It's so insane, but the set up is all so clear to me. XD What's less clear to me is how it all eventually plays out... though I do have certain moments/tableaus in mind that I def want to happen. Also, the premise is mostly @wanderingwriter87's fault I think? Or at least she heavily encouraged my own terrible and cursed ideas in the initial stages of development, hahahaha. <3

The very hardest part of this WIP is that I suck at writing people drunk, lol. I'm aiming for an absolute lightweight Ross (based on his reaction to Romulan ale), and a Garak and Sisko who can hold their alcohol much better but they do still def drink enough to be affected by it.

Anyway, just in looking over the draft to find a good snippet and then getting caught up in filling in gaps, I've increased the wordcount of this WIP from 2.5k to 3k. I am now juuust about ready to get into the cursed smut part of the fic, mwahahaha. >:]

First ~600 words of the fic below the cut:

“How much longer until the first check-in?” Admiral Ross asked. 

Ross was behind the desk in his office on Starbase 375, and Garak and Sisko sat side-by-side on the other side of it. PADDs showing decoded Dominion messages and maps of the quadrant were scattered across the surface of the desk.

But none of them were looking at the PADDs. The plans were in motion and couldn’t be stopped. The three of them were all much more interested in sipping at the drinks in their hands, each wishing the next mouthful would bring peace of mind.

“It’s still another few hours,” Sisko said. He swirled his glass idly and took a bracing swig of the clear alcohol.

“That’s only if something minor goes wrong immediately and they have to abort,” Garak reminded them, topping up his own glass with kanar that was as blue as his eyes. “If all goes well, then they won’t be breaking subspace silence until much later than that. And if all goes horribly awry, well… then we’ll likely never hear from them.”

“How optimistic,” Sisko said, rolling his eyes at Garak.

“I do try.”

“So,” Ross said, “we won’t even know for another few hours whether the mission was a success or whether we’ve just lost a large fraction of our fleet in one fell swoop.” 

“That’s correct.”

“You know,” Ross said, slumping forward slightly, pushing a few PADDs out of the way to make room to rest his forearms on the desk, “I never thought I’d be running a mission of this magnitude alongside a Cardassian. Certainly not an ex-member of the Obsidian Order.”

“It’s never too late to try new things, nor to betray your principles in exciting new ways,” Garak said, equal amounts placating and venomous.  “If it makes you feel any better, I never thought I’d be showing the Federation exactly where to stick the knife in order to damage Cardassia most effectively.” He looked disgusted with both himself and his two unlikely allies. He threw back the rest of the kanar he’d poured, the viscous liquid slithering down his throat.

“We’re all just doing what we have to do to win the war,” Sisko said, diplomatically.

So many people they cared about might be dead soon, if they’d somehow overlooked the slightest detail in their planning. This was a battle they couldn’t afford to lose; they’d never have the right circumstances for it again. (Wasn’t it funny how the current battle always felt like the most important battle they’d ever fight?)

Sisko could almost see Garak going over it all again as he stared through the porthole blankly into space. Garak hadn’t put his own people at risk, like he and Ross had, and superficially he might seem to have less at stake, but his own concern wasn’t surprising to Sisko. This victory could bring them one step closer to winning the war and driving the Dominion back to the Gamma Quadrant and off of Cardassia. Besides, Dr. Bashir was on one of those ships and Sisko was sure that Garak cared about his safety, at least.

What they all needed was a distraction, a way to kill the time. The alcohol certainly wasn’t working fast enough to drown out his thoughts, and the silences they kept slipping into only seemed to highlight the anxiety they were all feeling during the fleet’s planned communication blackout. It seemed to induce a kind of tinnitus, a maddening ringing in their ears defined only by the absence of sound.

Sisko sighed. “Do either of you know any card games?”

[titanicfreija]

Showing off

"Hey."

Freija turned to her ghost, lowering her gun and tilting her head. "Yeah?"

This shell was new. Or was one of Freija's favorites and had been on a shelf since they got Sunny's discs. A classic angular one with pretty curls on it.

Sunny bounced along to the solid beat underlying the music she played, getting her time right for the first couple of bars before the bouncing melody started. The unknown instruments and language didn't hide the mirth from Freija, and it set the mood for Sunny's dance successfully.

~

The graceful motions following could only be dancing-- the bobbing got bigger, on a four count around nine points, and the shell petal flaps flew in measured distances away from her core body and spun around one another, whirling on different axes at varying speed.

The eight shell flaps turned into whole other shapes as she manipulated them individually and together- wheeling in countering directions, pulling all to the front and twisting them in their field, sending them flying out singly in time with the music, resulting in a twinkling star; she paired top and side sets to wheel two linked points together, spinning each on their own axes as she spun her core body.

For the two minutes of song, Sunny whirled around her dance field and put forth a dazzling display, finally showing Freija what Rex meant by 'good dancer'. The Titan tried to learn what she could, but she would need the petals to slow down a lot to follow those.

The song drew to a close and Sunny pulled her shell close and hovered still in the air, watching her Titan silently.

Freija struggled for several long moments. Sunny slowly sank in the air, and Freija knew she took it as a bad thing but she still didn't know what to say. Her helmet hid her face so Sunny couldn't see the slack-jawed awe.

"Hang on, I liked it, I'm just speechless," the Titan stammered weakly. "I can't even swear."

Sunny shot six feet over Freija's head with a shrill electronic noise, spiraling back down. "You can't even swear?"

"None of 'em are good enough. Not enough magnitude. Gonna have to look up new ones or something, I can only swear about how much I can't say anything, like. Uh. I can't do that and not even because I'm not a ghost. I couldn't do that if I was a ghost. Most ghosts can't do that, can they?"

Sunny's eye fuzzed around the edge and she swayed as if on a pendulum. "Ah. No. The ways I can manipulate my shell are pretty special. I practiced a lot. I got lucky and found music early on during my search, being... Nosy, like you call me, I would look through old databases and the like. And dancing itself came natural. You'll never relate, but it's like music makes me want to move, so in suitably empty places, I'd play the music and dance."

Freija nodded slowly, knowing her helmet only barely reflected the motion. "Okay, well, nine hundred years of practice pays off. Good to know."

Sunny bounced merrily. "You can be speechless, I don't want you to force it."

The ghost hovered past Freija and tried to lead her on, but the Titan stumbled over her feet as she turned. "Can you do that again? Is that a whole routine? Freestyle?"

"Steps are prearranged, arrangement of steps are, too, for this song, but I have other arrangements and I have other music I don't do that with." The ghost kept hovering ahead without looking back at her guardian, deliberately playing it cool.

"... Good job." The Titan shambled after her. "That was great. Did you change shells in my backpack?"

"Yep!" Sunny sent the shell into storage and 'matted her Hareball shell on. "You got me the disc shaped ones, I'll need to practice with those. They won't link in the same ways."

"Maybe get you a special Dancing Shell?"

@annieruok94

[autisticbokutoenthusiast]

playboyy ep 13 stray thoughts!!!

- zouey fr gonnna kill captain

- nont saying he didn’t mean to beat them up... be so fr baby boy

- not zouey invoking nant HOLY FUCK DID NONT GET SHOT

- CHEKHOVS FUCKING GUN FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

- crying these boys have no clue what they walked into

- NONT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? scream he’s never as turned on as when he’s held at gunpoint ig?!,!?!?!?!?!!??!? he’s lost the plot i love him so much he’s everything

- baddie bunch in the back like 🧍🏽‍♂️happy you're making out with your mans but when are we gonna be safe from the mafia tho🧍🏽‍♂️

- IS PUEN DEAD IM GONNA SCREAM NO HES NOT BABY WAKE UO WAIE UPOOOOO WAKE UP IH FUCK HES OK OH SHIT O MY GOD

- is nont still shot????

- i’m confused but imma let this slide until i read someone else’s explaination of the the dialogue

- first is so funny im sorry but that’s my boy

- zouey is gonna snap snap soon im calling it like i need a level 7 magnitude granny scarf moment from him

- teena is THE man like i want him so bad he’s been nothing but understanding and sweet and affectionate and goofy he want me

- KEEN IS BACK WAIT WAS HIM GETTING EXPELED A SET UP

- the shattered mirror in his locker… someone with more brainpower needs to dissect this

- AOBPUEN LIGHTING FOR THE WIN

- this scene is scarily quiet nvm they’re playing incomplete by gavin luke which if i am remembering correctly is another nuthphop ballad!!

- aob crawling on top of puen like that makes me want to go so feral like fuckkkkk

- nuthphop enthusiasts it’s been two fucking episode BUT WERE SO BACK

- lighting this ep goes crazy

- cry by johannes bornlöf in nuthphop scenes enthusiasts WERE SO BACK

- IS THAT PORSCHE FIRING A BLANK PLEASE BE A BLAMK PLEASE I CANT DO THIS PORSCHE NO RUN WHAT WHAT WJAY WJAY WJAY EJ WHY IS HIS FACE HIDDEN MAYBE ITS NOT PORSCHE BUT THEN WHO

- jason’s fuckass joy over this i need his head in plate i need nont to light him on fire NEOW

- jason get your hands off of him GET A DJOB STAH AWAY FROM HER!!!!!

- oh nont is he talking to nant through reflection again… well nont breakdown enthusiasts yall eating good ig

- nont always surrounded by candles when he’s losing it…. this feels thematic

- is proms hair diff….

- oh god nont is gonna die they’re both gonna die…… i can’t take it if they do

- why is nuthphop sleeping like that… whatever neither of them are crying oh god GET A JOB STAY AWAY FROM HER

- not commenting on that bit fucking yucks me out

- @jeffsatyr i’m not gonna say anything but… yeah…

- captain having the most romantic framing he’s ever had and its between him and teena’s dick…. good for him ig

- captains been living with four other men the whole time what is he talking about

- captainpuen enthusiasts we still have a chance !!!!!

- did we ever get a close up of puens nevklace

- jason lee count your fuckass days im not playing i need this man to endure heinous things

- WERE GETTING THIS SONG AGAIN?!?!? cry enthusiasts were really winning today

- is that a lion and tiger being projected on them??

- incomplete again too??? interesting

- their gonna kill my boys aren’t they welp nuthphop enthusiasts it’s been on honor serving with yall

- SCARED OF WATER BY KIKORU oh they bringing out the nuthphop deep cuts today

- nuth is my baby boy

- not them playing ambivalent thoughts when nuth gets on one knee im getting hit with shrimp emotions

- JUMP MY BOY

- porschejumptutor truthers….

- wait it’s over?!?!?!!??

feeling very secure and sure whats coming in the finale haha...

[openheartforeverinmyheart]

bestie which midnights song do you associate with ethan & adelina i need to know for research purposes 🔬

BESTIEEE I literally went back and listened to the whole album and wrote down notes and everything skkjdsks.

Because I feel like every song could fit them in some way or a certain situation (Miss Taylor is a fucking genius istg) I'm going to focus on the ones where most of the lyrics describe them. Also, this is my interpretation of the lyrics so it might not be a 100% accurate to the original meaning.

Snow On The Beach

It's all about them falling in love with each other at the same time.

One night, a few moons ago I saw flecks of what could've been lights But it might just have been you Passing by unbeknownst to me

That night is Miami. Before it, they were both harboring feelings for each other, both oblivious to the other's feelings. But the moment they kissed, they caught a glimpse of how deep their emotions run. They both know it would be very difficult to start a relationship (Adelina agreed with him that it would hurt her reputation if they got together so early in her career), so they can't help but feel like two people crossing paths in the middle of one fateful night, sharing a moment so precious, but fleeting.

And time can't stop me quite like you did

That moment was pivotal to their relationship, realizing the magnitude of their feelings was eye-opening to them both. It felt like time had stopped, everything in the universe ceased to exist except them, knowing that it's only the other that can have the power of making them feel like this.

You wanting me Tonight feels impossible But it's coming down No sound, it's all around

This screams chapter 15 (aka the climax both figuratively and literally). When they're together, it's only them, nothing else matters, everything around them fades away. They're playing with fire, and they know it, but it didn't matter that night.

I've never seen someone lit from within Blurring out my periphery My smile is like I won a contest And to hide that would be so dishonest And it's fine to fake it 'til you make it 'Til you do, 'til it's true

This is basically their dynamic before getting together. Adelina always have a smile reserved for Ethan, which he finds breath-taking and utterly distracting. They spent a long time pretending there's nothing between them, desperately trying to convince themselves they're better off apart, but ultimately they fail miserably.

I can't speak, afraid to jinx it I don't even dare to wish it But your eyes are flying saucers from another planet Now I'm all for you like Janet Can this be a real thing? Can it?

Peak pining energy right here, the stolen glances in the hospital, being hypnotized by each other's eyes. It encapsulates the tension between them, both debating the fate of their future. They're in a grey area, both of them know about the other's feelings but are hesitant to act upon them, worried about the consequences.

Are we falling like snow at the beach? Weird, but fuckin' beautiful Flying in a dream Stars by the pocketful

Neither of them felt this type of love before. It's foreign and scary and exhilarating, a little too good to be true, but they're willing to take the risk.

Sweet Nothing

It describes their relationship after they officially get together (finally).

They said the end is comin' Everyone’s up to somethin' I find myself runnin' home to your sweet nothings Outside, they’re push and shovin' You're in the kitchen hummin' All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothin'

Although most people were supportive of their relationship, there were a few who made vicious assumptions about them. What they failed to notice is that Adelina and Ethan had already been through a lot, so baseless rumors mean nothing to them, only something to laugh about. They created a protective bubble for themselves, never expecting anything from the other. They accepted each other as who they are, flaws and all.

On the way home I wrote a poem You say, "What a mind" This happens all the time

This reflects how supportive they are to each other. Adelina always have new ideas for the diagnostics team or theories about something she read, Ethan would listen to her with a smile and they'd spend hours discussing them.

Industry disruptors and soul deconstructors And smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more" To you, I can admit that I’m just too soft for all of it

Adelina becomes a thorn in the side of many big pharma companies, much like Ethan, and sometimes it gets difficult dealing with vultures like them, so she'd turn to Ethan for comfort and he's always there for her.

Honorable Mentions:

Mastermind

The Great War (noone could explain it as brilliantly as you did)

Paris

[motivateandinspiretoday]

Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death! #history #youtube #America #love #mo...

Patrick Henry's "Give Me Liberty, or Give Me Death!" speech was delivered on March 23, 1775, at St. John's Church in Richmond, Virginia, during the Second Virginia Convention. It is one of the most famous speeches in American history and played a crucial role in inspiring the American colonies to fight for their independence from British rule. Here is an excerpt from the speech:

---

**Patrick Henry's Speech (excerpt):**

"No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well as abilities, of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed the House. But different men often see the same subject in different lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought disrespectful to those gentlemen if, entertaining as I do opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I shall speak forth my sentiments freely and without reserve. This is no time for ceremony. The question before the House is one of awful moment to this country. For my own part, I consider it as nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery; and in proportion to the magnitude of the subject ought to be the freedom of the debate. It is only in this way that we can hope to arrive at truth, and fulfill the great responsibility which we hold to God and our country. Should I keep back my opinions at such a time, through fear of giving offense, I should consider myself as guilty of treason towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward the majesty of heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.

Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation; the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free—if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending—if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained—we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable—and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace—but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"

---

This powerful call to action was instrumental in convincing the Virginia Convention to pass a resolution delivering Virginia troops for the Revolutionary War.

[theghostpinesmusic]

Seeing as how I haven't done a music-related write-up for a bit and how it's currently 4:30pm and therefore too late in the day to start on another work-related project of actual substance...I'm going to tell you about this version of "Bathtub Gin" that I like!

As I said (threatened?) in my last Goose post, I'm consciously branching out a little between now and whenever the hell the next Goose show will be. In my own personal listening, "branching out" means I've been listening to a lot of stuff I've never heard before, both stuff that's totally new to me and stuff that's been sitting ignored on my "Try this!" list for a long time. In my blog writing, "branching out" apparently means "writing about the band I've listened to the most by an entire order of magnitude for the last twenty-five years."

Hey, if I can't be perfect I'm sure as hell going to stop trying.

I am not going to start this post with a primer on Phish because a) if you're reading this you either already know them or you don't know them and don't care, and b) there are literal books about this out there because these guys have been playing for forty years and every little thing they do is steeped in weird mythology and inside jokes and as much as I love all of it, I don't love it enough to write a hundred thousand words about it.

If you're somehow entirely new to the band and also feel an obsessive need to learn/dive in, my super idiosyncratic recommendation is to listen to their album A Live One a few times, and then buy and read through this very short book by Walter Holland, who in my humble opinion is sort of like the Hunter S. Thompson of writing about Phish jams.

I will henceforth only be writing in the micro- and macro-cosms about this particular version of Phish's "Bathtub Gin" and my reactions to it, despite not being the Hunter S. Thompson of writing about Phish jams.

Biologically speaking, I almost certainly, technically have THC in my bloodstream right now if that somehow makes you feel better.

So, Phish was one of the first places I turned at the beginning of this little Goose hiatus. For a lot of reasons, despite being the band that most immediately jumps to my mind when the phrase "favorite ever" is used in a variety of contexts, I haven't listened to Phish much over the last few years. I wrote a little bit about why in this previous post, and to keep my promise of staying focused and save myself some time typing, I won't say any more for the moment: suffice to say that I overdid it a little bit with The Phish and The Phish's Internet Fandom, which soured me on the band's music and left me sitting on the sidelines for years, wondering if it was the band that had come, over time, to suck ass, or whether it was just me.

Well, I'm relieved to report that it was, in fact, me who was doing the ass-sucking.

I learned this, in large part, by diving into the band's recent New Year's Eve (NYE) run at Madison Square Garden (MSG). I actually started my Goose Interregnum concert-viewing here only because the run had just ended and I'd seen online that the band had played all the way through its storied, elusive, and utterly dorky "Gamehendge" saga on 12/31, for the first time since 1994 (or maybe 1995, kill me in the comments Phish fans, I'm ready to die).

I wanted to see this, even if after the fact and from my couch, because back in my early Phish fan-Hood (see what I did there?) Gamehendge had been a big part of what drew me to the band, and I was excited by the prospect of being a grown-ass, middle-aged man bawling his eyes out on his basement couch because in a video another old man was on a stage singing a song about a bulldog and a cat fighting to the death while a comet crashed into Earth, bringing about the end times.

When you're a straight, white kid growing up in suburbia, you either become an absolute monster or your brain finds really fucking weird things to care a lot about. I like to think I fit into the second category.

Anyway, with a more-than-usual amount of spare time on my hands, I decided to try watching the entire MSG NYE run, starting with 12/28 instead of jumping straight to 12/31. I thought, maybe, I'd have a decently fun time and get a good sense of where Phish was at musically (an important thing to know when all the band members are sixty-ish years in age and you haven't heard or seen them play since 2021). Then I watched 12/28 and it destroyed me. Like, this band of aging dork-rockers literally lit the entire arena on fire with their instruments and it burned down around them while they just kept jamming. I'm not sure how anyone escaped MSG alive, let alone how there were concerts there for the next three nights.

12/29 was just as good, if not better, and 12/30 was an incredible show that only paled in comparison to the previous two. My reaction surprised me, and so that's why I cranked up the ol' typing machine, shoveled some fresh coal into the boiler, and sat down to write about...wait, what was I actually writing about, again?

Oh, yeah. "Bathtub Gin."

I'm not gonna give you a lengthy history of this song, for all the same reasons I cited above for not giving you a long history of Phish as a band. I will tell you it's a "classic" Phish song in that it was played live for the first time in 1989 and has been played three hundred and four more times in the one thousand, seven-hundred and fifty-one shows the band has played since. There also a studio recording of it on Lawn Boy, which I always forget because who the fuck listens to Lawn Boy?! The song is used frequently, but not always, as a jam vehicle, and I tend to enjoy hearing it live due to its quintessentially Phish-y sound: Phish writes and plays songs that sound a lot like many of their influences, but they also have songs that sound only like Phish, and this is one of them. Well, it sounds like Phish and Gerswhin, I suppose. "Bathtub Gin" is also my wife's favorite Phish song, but I'm not entirely sure if that's because she likes it or because she knows that liking "Waste" or "Shade" or "Farmhouse" more would put her firmly in the "Stereotypical Phish Wife" realm.

This 12/28 version of the tune is a great one for jamming, but as usual I'll (mostly) refrain from commenting until the point in the video where the composed portion of the song leaves off and the improvisation begins.

I do want to start by saying I love the retro feel of this year's "Live Phish" intro/logo sequence. Also, yes, Page's opening keyboard banging is supposed to sound like that. It's how he lets you know he's having fun! Gershwin tease at 2:26 if you're keeping track. Otherwise, this is a pretty straightforward reading of the composed part of the song. I absolutely love the sound mix here, as you can hear all four members' contributions to the song more or less equally. It blows the old days of tapes essentially mixed to make Trey's guitar 80% of the band's sound out of the water. It also leads to me basically just listening to Mike Gordon play bass for the entire show because if you can, why wouldn't you?!

It often sounds like the band might be singing actual, English lyrics during the outro portion of the song, but I don't think they ever are.

The jam starts at 4:50, and basically immediately Fishman is playing stuff on the drums that my simple brain can barely comprehend. This is perhaps one significant difference between Phish and the Goose jams I've been covering previously: the rhythm section of Phish is much more directly involved in the direction of the band's improvisation, whereas it often feels like the drums and bass of Goose are just laying a foundation for the melody players to improvise over. One is not inherently better than the other, but I do often feel like there's a lot more to listen to with Phish, despite them having fewer members.

Anyway, this first chunk of the jam feels a lot to me like being lost in a fuzzy, pleasant labyrinth: the tempo is slow and the playing is soft, but there's an undercurrent of tension there. By 5:30, things have started to straighten out a little, though the lights have gotten absolutely weird. Fishman starts playing a more straightforward beat, and the rest of the band falls into a rock-sounding jam that makes me think of what Goose might sound like if their fingers were thirty years older.

Trey starts to sit back a little bit at 6:45, and the jam mellows out in response. It feels a little bit like he can't figure out where he wants to go next here, but Mike and Page take some turns adding ideas to the mix in the meantime. Eventually, Trey joins back in the fun, but still in a restrained way. For awhile here, everyone's just sort of playing together, with no particular standout or soloist, which is great.

Whatever keyboard tone Page switches to at 8:58 is fantastic. He follows it up pretty quickly with some weirder synthesizer stuff, and at 9:40 this pushes the jam in a more sinister direction. At 10:20, Trey switches over to a very Portal To Robot Hell guitar effect, and now we're in full-on latter-day Evil Phish jamming territory. Fishman is, of course, keeping a beat here, but it's odd and off-kilter (not a drummer, sorry to be imprecise) and makes the whole thing feel like it's just barely hanging together in the best way.

This kind of "almost-falling-apart" sound is, paradoxically, when Phish often hits their stride in jamming. I think it's what makes them sort of a love/hate proposition even among people who listen to a lot of improvisatory rock music. It's not particularly fun or comfortable, but I've never come across another group of musicians that can improvise with each other consistently in this way.

Trey's playing finally comes a bit to the fore starting at 13:00, but even here this doesn't feel like a rote jam "peak": instead, the backbeat that Fishman is playing keeps things feeling a little out of sorts and not entirely resolved. Trey and Page playing off of each other at 14:15 is nice. I'm not sure what's going on with the lights at 14:30, but I do know these guys consistently have my favorite light show in show business. There's some almost Allman Bros-sounding playing from Trey at 15:15 as we reaching peak craziness...

...then some initial teasing of the "Bathtub Gin" theme at 16:30 or so, teasing a return to the song proper to wrap things up!

The video fades out on a segue into what would turn out to be an excellent version of "Ghost," for those keeping score at home.

Anyway, thanks for reading my first (at least lately) Phish write-up. I'm going to try to do a few more of these from the run, including (I think) two new songs: "Oblivion" from 12/29 and "Life Saving Gun" from 12/30. Should have those up soon!

[leafynoir]

Haunting Them > Ghosting Them

While yes the act of ghosting can be an effective measure to end communication without confrontation without confrontation, it feels so much more gratifying to think that the one who you were playing ghosts in the dms with is now haunted by you.

Not in a “I hope they think of me” type of way, or even a fucking with them in the afterlife type of way.But in an associative way where you made enough of an imprint on them that they can’t completely erase you due to various triggers relating to moments you’ve had together or facts they know about you.

Like him hearing that one Phoebe Bridgers song & and my face popping up in a brief subconscious way. Or him passing the places we went together & not being able to help but run through the memories we had there. Like my name coming up in conversations with mutual friends because someone heard I was up to something new.

Because while we like to think ghosting would have a mutual Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind effect on the ones they abandon, it doesn’t. And even though they chose to leave, the energy you exchanged will always have happened even if it feels like it has ran cold.

Granted, I’m not talking about brief flings (although there is some haunting involved there too). The impression you leave on someone will definitely depend on the magnitude of the energy exchanged. The most haunting will happen to the ones that hurt the worst or had the most potential. The ones that were nurtured to blossom only to be left to parish.

So even though being the one left questioning with no regard can be painful, at least there’s some comfort in knowing that your energy passes through their brainwaves like a phantom every once in a while.

[olokosomolo]

Ricky & the Goonies. Dependency and cost syndrome

I’m probably correct in seeing their relationship from the side so that I manage to see things that are clear from my side that are not so clear from there, their side.

First of all, I understood from Ricky that the connection was made at the end of 2017, so if you do the math, five years of connection. Basically Ricky cut my part and paid the gangsters who actually looked more like looking after him, his bodyguards. He probably knew what and why he hired their service. Now it’s also important to know that all this kind of service is highly expensive. In which the gangster company find Ricky as one of the most important accounts that they have. After all 5 years that almost non stop service brought to their account  over million dollars. Just to understand the magnitude of the scammbeg how he handles his affairs.  Instead of paying me what I suppose to get he find himself a group of gangster ( very professional though) that benefit  from my share, which it fare to say that perhaps  they do not give a damn who the money belong too. It comes from their main man Ricky and that what they know. Today I have created  few scenario of what going to happen if. So let’s play.

● First, I wish to give the statuesque or the default, which will take us to the situations that we are in at the current moment. This is an idol for the gangs since they get the "check solid there" for it's a no end of contract on the horizon.

● seconds scenario: let say they managed to eliminate me. Then Ricky  and the group  automatically disengage, which it’s one heck of dream time for Ricky. That by eliminating me, he also eliminates the connection to the group. Here can be a future problem, in which the gang gonna return to Ricky as the boomerang and begin to extort him. I also know Ricky that no matter how close he is to the gangsters, he will never host them in his home. nor should show them where he lives. Friends until they say babye say babye say baby ( love this song)

● The last scenario is when Ricky ex-wife and Yossi will realize that they need to be accountable to their deeds and pay the price then the gangs will see it as job done and all will cease I already lost what ever I’ll get is basically won’t make my as I was before. But it’s sure gonna teach them a lesson by paying a high penalty. Of all the horrible plots that still have no ends on the deemed horizon.

[doodlebug-aboo]

Steve doesn’t like to admit it, but he likes to snoop. He’s a nosy guy. Anytime he’s in someone’s house for the first time, he snoops through their bathroom when he’s in there. He lies to himself and says it’s to be prepared for anything. Figure out where they keep the painkillers, the first aid kit, the extra toilet paper, the towels, but really he’s just curious. He always has been. He never snoops around when the person is there, but he can never decide if that’s better or worse.

The first time Steve is allowed into Eddie’s room, when he isn’t fighting for his life against creatures from the Upside Down that is, Eddie’s words catch him off guard.

“Get your snooping done now, man. There’s a lot of shit to sift through.”

He doesn’t ask how Eddie knows he likes to snoop, but he takes the opportunity after getting express permission while Eddie leaves to grab them some drinks from the kitchen. There is a lot of stuff, like Eddie said, but not in a way that’s messy. Steve wouldn’t call his room messy, just maybe a little crowded. In the best way possible, though. It looks lived in. Like a lot of love went into creating this space just the way Eddie likes it. It’s comforting.

The one place Steve pays the closest attention to is the small desk, littered with crumpled papers, notebooks, maps of fantasy worlds Steve has never heard of, pens and pencils, dice, you name it. Looking through the papers, Steve sees most of them are notes about a new campaign he knows Eddie has been working on for the kids. Steve knows Eddie’s been pouring over it endlessly because Will is visiting for the whole summer and the kids begged Eddie to write a campaign and play with them, and Eddie wants to make it the best possible game for the kid.

When Eddie comes back into the room, Steve stops his snooping and sits on the edge of the bed.

Steve takes a look at Eddie’s desk every time he’s in his room, now. He likes to see what Eddie is working on, likes to be able to ask him about it and watch his face light up as he starts to talk about something he’s passionate about.

One day, Steve walks into Eddie’s room and sees the amount of crumpled notebook paper seems to have multiplied drastically. He normally wouldn’t un-crumple any of the thrown away ideas and stick to the ones currently being worked on, but the magnitude of papers littering the floor nags at his curiosity too much to leave them be. So he picks up a few of the balls of paper and smooths them out best he could to read what they say.

Most of the papers are filled with a litany of crossed-out words and phrases, sometimes whole paragraphs of text. After looking at each paper, Steve realizes they’re song lyrics. He knew Eddie wrote music for his band, but he still hadn’t heard any of their music. Not for lack of wanting to, simply because Eddie told him he’ll invite Steve to one of their shows when he’s comfortable. It hurt Steve a bit to know Eddie still wasn’t comfortable enough to show him his original music, but he also knows that music is much more sacred to Eddie than it’s ever been to himself.

The lyrics really stand out to Steve, though, and he tries to wrap his head around them. It looks like Eddie is struggling with one song in particular he wants to write, because the lyrics are similar but different on every page. It’s a song about someone, it looks like, and it almost sounds like a love song, but not the kind of pop-style love song Steve is accustomed to, of course.

Steve knows not every love song has to be about one person in particular, but he feels like he knows who Eddie is writing about. It’s on the tip of his tongue. He knows Eddie is writing about one specific person. Too many times are the lyrics hyper-specific, but those are always the ones that are crossed out. Many mentions of brown eyes, the way they style their hair, their lips. Comments about hands, necks. There’s even a long paragraph entirely crossed out detailing moments they’ve shared, and it sounds eerily familiar.

It’s a lyric on the last paper Steve grabbed from the floor that makes the realization hit him like a truck.

Matching scars across our skin

Can’t believe you let me in

There’s something crossed out so intensely Steve can’t read it, but he can read the lines right below it.

If you’re the king, I’ll let you reign

But loving you’s a losing game

Steve knows, immediately, who the song is about, and before he even has time to react to this new knowledge, Eddie is walking through the door to his room again.

As soon as his eyes land on Steve, he freezes. “You weren’t supposed to see those, Harrington.”

But Steve is looking at him with awe in his eyes. “Are you writing a song about me, Munson?” He means for it to come out more teasing, but his voice is soft. Almost shy.

Eddie pulls a chunk of his hair forward to cover his face, looking down and anywhere other than Steve. “Don’t be ridiculous. Me? Writing a song about King Steve?”

Steve smirks a little and walks closer to Eddie. Not too close, he doesn’t want to scare him away. There’s also a small seed of worry sitting in the back of his brain waiting to sprout that maybe, just maybe, he’s wrong about this. But he really hopes he’s right. “You know, you only bring out the King Steve shit when you’re too afraid to say what you’re really thinking.”

Eddie’s eyes widen and he looks at Steve in shock. “You… noticed something that specific?”

Steve just shrugs, closing the distance between them a little more, only about a foot and a half separating them now. “I notice a lot of things about you, Munson.”

Steve sees Eddie’s shoulders relax slightly from where they raised up closer to his ears. “If you’re just saying all this to pull a prank on me or something, that’s really fucked up, Steve.”

Steve quickly shakes his head. “I’m not. I promise I’m not, Eds. I would never.”

Eddie seems to be thinking really hard for a long moment, once again looking away from Steve. He fidgets with his rings a bit, spinning one slowly on one of his fingers. Steve’s eyes track the movement. Finally, Eddie looks at him again. “Fuck it.”

Eddie closes the distance between them, grabs Steve’s cheeks in both of his hands, and slams their lips together. It’s not a graceful kiss by any means, and not exactly what Steve had imagined their first kiss would be like. If he had imagined it before, which he definitely didn’t do, especially not every day. But regardless, it’s still one of the best kisses Steve’s ever had, and he’s had a lot. Everything about it is just so Eddie, he can’t even describe it. The gentle, almost shy hesitation he can feel mixed with the desperation of a man on his death bed. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist before they pull back, smiling at each other.

Eddie’s grin is almost blinding as his eyes scan over Steve’s face. “I’m almost finished with the final version of the song… you should come see us when we’re ready to play it.”

Steve’s eyes light up. “You mean I get to finally go see Corroded Coffin perform live?”

Eddie laughs. “Yes, that’s what I mean. I’ll let you know when we’ll play it for the first time. I’m not the singer, so you’ll have to hear Gareth singing about you, but at least you’ll know the lyrics are mine.”

Steve smiles, pressing a much softer and gentler kiss to his lips. “You’re more of a sap than I thought you’d be.”

“Oh, shut it, big boy.”

[lokis-little-fawn]

It Was Enchanting To Meet You

My requests are open!

Paring: Loki x Princess!Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Summary: After attending a celebration as princess of Alfheim you collide with Loki, will your families accept your new love?

Warnings: SMUT (ONLY READ IF YOU ARE 18+) fingering, unprotected sex, talk of arranged marriage, hella fluff, virginity taking/loosing

Original request by @cheshirekittyinwonderland :

so starting off love your work ok so I know everyone is obsessed with that one line in Taylor Swifts song enchanted "please don't be inlove with someone else" but I really wanna see a smutty angsty fic with loki with the rest of the song you know "it was enchanting to meet you"/"I was enchanted to meet you" I just feel loki would fit best but It'll also be really good with any of them 😉😏😏

Reply: Thank you so much for your request! I absolutly loved writing it and I really hope you like it! its not quite as angsty as I hoped but I really like this one and it turned out really cute!

You’d been talking all night, you were used to the balls and celebrations, growing up as a princess had its perks but it also meant that you had to go to a lot of functions.

This was your second time visiting Asgard, the first time you were 15 and you only vaguely remembered it. What stuck in your mind the most was the beautiful architecture, you had fallen in love with the golden ball room and the beautiful palace, you’d dreamed of it for years.

Now ten years on you were seeing the palace with almost fresh eyes.

After the banquet you mingle with some of the other guests, as your catching up with some old friends from your last visit you’re interrupted.

‘Excuse me’ the deep voice interrupts from behind you as the rest or your group bows and breaks away into separate groups.

‘Have we met? You seem familiar’ the voice continues. His voice is smooth and delicious, even before you’ve seen his face you know that he has to be beautiful.

‘I don’t believe we have, I’m sure if we had met before yours is a face i’d never forget’ you say in a flirty tone.

‘My name is Loki Odinson, god of mischief’ he says his hand outstretched waiting for you to take it. Even being a princess, now knowing that he was a god you now felt like a rock flirting with a mountain. The magnitude of his power in not only Asgard but all the other kingdoms now hitting you straight in the face.

‘I’m Y/N, princess of Alfheim’ you say trying to play it as cool as you can considering the fire that was immediately lit within you the moment you first saw him. Stretching your hand out to meet his he takes it into his palm, bows lightly before you and kisses the back of your hand.

‘May I have this dance princess?’ He asks. Hand in hand you make your way to the ballroom floor, it’s an Asgardian waltz. As you dance you talk, little giggles slip through your lips as the beautiful god towers above you. Through the song you feel Loki’s hand on your back slipping lower, earning him a discerning look from your father which makes his hand immediately retreat.

As the song comes to an end some of the royal guards come to tell Loki something.

‘My lady, I’m afraid I must leave. My father has called me away on urgent business’ he says as he places one last kiss on the back of your hand before turning to walk away.

Looking down into your hand you feel something in your palm, a note. You realise that Loki must have slipped it into your hand when he kissed you.

It read ‘Lady Y/N, please meet me by the grand staircase as the clock strikes midnight ~ Prince Loki’.

Quickly concealing the note in a pocket in your red evening gown, blushing, you made your way back to the rest of your party. You spent the rest of the evening talking with your parents and friends as you continuously checked the clock.

As time moves on you make your excuses to leave just in time to meet Loki. You reach the stairs just as he does.

‘Lady y/n, I remember .. I remember you’ he says, stumbling over his words as if they won’t leave his mouth fast enough.

‘On a night much like tonight, we kissed, you were my first kiss’ he stills for a second, reaching for your hand.

‘You’ve changed but your eyes never left my mind’ reaching down to brush the hair from your face, he places his hand softly onto your cheek. Gazing around at the empty hall way, after a long silence his takes his hand from yours and wraps it around your waist.

‘Loki, I..’ as you go to speak his lips collide with yours. Your soft kiss growing more heated, the innocence from your first touch slipping away as your arms wrap around his waist. Your all consuming kiss alienating the outside world.

As your kiss breaks one of your maids cautiously approaches you.

‘Princess Y/N, uhm your family are leaving..’ she trails off. Her eyes stuck to the floor so not to invade your privacy, the urgency in her voice clear.

‘I have to go Loki, I’m sorry’ you say as you go to rush through the doors back into the main hall to meet your family.

He follows swiftly behind you, grabbing your hand just before you step through the door.

‘It was enchanting to meet you, princess Y/N’ he says as he leans to kiss your hand. Your immediately pulled away through the doors. Your family swiftly make their way home.

During the journey home you gazed hopefully out of the window of your carriage, blushing all the way home. Your thoughts will echo his name, until you see him again, the words you held back, as you were leaving too soon.

Arriving in Alfheim you sink into your bed, your head filled with thoughts of Loki, you toss and turn all night trying to sleep unsuccessfully. Your mind travels to the first time you’d met Loki, you were younger than you were now and you’d spend the evening clumsily dancing together. At the end of the night he whispered you a fond adieu, placing a single soft kiss on your lips. Of course you remembered him the second you saw his face, how could you forget, but knowing something that Loki didn’t you tried to push the past feelings aside. You achieved this fairly successfully until you danced and kissed again, your facade immediately falling as soon as your hands touched. You thought to yourself that you’d spend forever wondering if he knew, you were enchanted to meet him.

Little did you know back in Asgard, Loki was thinking of you too, although in a slightly different context. You both knew that your maid had witnessed your kiss, but while swept up in the moment you had missed another witness in the room, a guard.

‘Loki, what were you thinking?’ His father demanding an answer furiously.

‘The relationship between our realms is delicate enough without my son encroaching on the innocence of Alfheims only princess!’ His tone growing ever more irritated as Loki stands brooding before him.

‘I meant no harm father, we were acquainted at a precious engagement and I was hoping to reconnect with an old friend, that’s all’ he says convincingly. After a couple of seconds of tense silence Odin begins to speak.

‘If that is truly the case, you’ll be happy to know that the princess and her family will be attending another celebration here in a few weeks’ he stills as Loki’s face lights up.

‘With that said, if I see anything inappropriate, even an overly lengthy handshake between the both of you, I will have you escorted from the celebration instantaneously. Do you understand Loki?’ His voice booms down to his son who’s gleeful smile has now cracked to a slight frown.

‘Yes father, of course’ he says in a tone that to an outside eye would have been seen as innocent, but anyone that had experienced Loki’s mischievous ways knew better.

‘Your dismissed’ Odin says as Loki turns in his heel walking back to his chambers.

Over the next few weeks leading up to the next Asgardian celebration Loki paces the halls, anticipating every possible outcome of your next meeting. He had sent you letters through his maids to yours. All of them proclaiming your love for each other and the wishes that you had not been torn apart in such a rapid fashion as you were. Through your letters you got to know him better, you found out that he was adopted and you told him of how your parents were planning an arranged marriage for you. You bonded over your lack of enthusiasm of your parents decisions as well as your mutual loves of music and literature.

At home in Alfheim you prepare for the trip, you have a new gown made for the festivities, gold silk with green satin embroidery embellished with emeralds. On your shoulder hangs a golden flowing silk cape with green flowers working their way from the bottom of the hem to the apex of your back.

Since arriving home you had hunted through the musical archives to find the song you danced to, once you had found it you snuck the record back to your room. Every night you’d play it and imagine what you’d do and say when you met Loki again, sometimes you’d dance to the music as if he was still with you, dancing around all alone.

After weeks of anticipation you arrived in Asgard, your gown flowing behind you as you enter the grand hall. Entering the hall Loki greets you with a simple nod from a distance, knowing that if he rushed to you his father would tear you apart. During dinner you sit at opposing tables, Loki with his family and you with yours. After the banquet, with the ballroom cleared of tables, Odin requests you join him along with Thor at the centre of the room as a sign of your realms unity.

As Odin begins addressing his guests you and Thor stand either side of Odin.

‘My honoured guests, we commence this celebration with an announcement’ he begins, you smile politely at Thor before your eyes scan over the room at the other attendees who are now looking directly at you.

‘After much discussion of how to best further unite our realms, it has been decided that my son Thor, first in line to the throne of Asgard and Y/N, princess and first in line to the throne of Alfheim, will be joined in marriage!’ He proclaims enthusiastically. The rest of the room breaks into applause as your eyes frantically look for Loki as your parents join with Odin and Frigga.

‘The future king and queen of our realms will now be united in a dance’ Odin continues as Thor confidently takes your hand, your eyes still searching for Loki.

As Thor begins to spin you around the room you feel your face heat and your eyes fill with tears. You see Loki sulking in a corner, his face flushed pink in anger with his fist placed clenched against his lips. The sight of you dancing with his brother, now your betrothed enraging him with every second.

A few spins of the dance floor later you see Loki talking with his father, from the brief body language you caught from the corner of your eye you could tell they were arguing.

‘But father you knew of my attachment to her’ he says in a hushed but tempered tone.

‘I am aware, but her parents were persistent that she must marry the heir to the throne of Asgard’ he says, his words only angering Loki further.

‘But I..’ Loki says immediately cut off by his father.

‘Loki! This is my final decision, she will marry Thor’ he bellows as the music comes to a close and you regroup with your family, leaving Thor with a bow.

For the rest of the evening you are required to stand by Thor’s side, your family held close by, keeping an eye on you. Loki standing brooding with his family, more leaning off to the side than standing with the rest of his party. Occasionally stealing glances from each other, you and Loki look sympathetically at each other longing to be together again.

After a long evening of congratulations being wished to the unhappy couple you retire to your chambers. With the news now announced it was decided that you would stay in Asgard to acclimatise yourself to your future home.

Stepping into your room as you close the door behind you, you feel warm salty tears pool in your eyes before streaming down your face, holding in your cried whimpers.

You hear a soft knock on the door before it opens without a word.

‘My love’ Loki’s voice soft as he quietly closes the door behind him.

‘Loki!’ You proclaim, throwing yourself into his arms, your tears running down his armour.

‘This can’t be where our story ends, this was just the very first page’ you say, your hands placed on his chest playing with the fabric as you look up at him.

‘But Loki, if anyone witnessed you coming here we could both be banished!’ You say in a more hushed tone.

‘I know my love, no one saw me’ his words filled with hope as silence fills the air.

Standing on your tip toes you reach up to kiss him.

Leaning down to you his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in closely as your tears subside being replaced with a light breathy moan.

As your kisses become more heated you feel yourself clawing at his armour trying to remove it.

‘Y/N.. we can’t, your innocence it’s required for you to marry my brother’ he says in a regretful tone as he takes a small step back.

‘I don’t care, i just need you’ you say. As soon as the words slip through your mouth Loki has once again closed the distance between you.

Wrapped in his arms you continue your work on his armour as he unlaces the back of your dress, slipping the golden fabric from your shoulders leaving you standing almost naked before him.

As his armour slips to the floor you pull his shirt over his shoulders, even in the candle lit room you can make out his impeccable form. His strong shoulders moving as his hands work to undo the clasps holding up his trousers. You run your hands down his chest, over his toned stomach taking him in before your hand reaches the top of his waist band.

His muscles tense under your touch as you place a soft kiss against his chest as his trousers pool on the floor. Stepping out of them he picks you up, your legs wrapped around his waist. He places you down with your head against the soft pillows, his hands placed either side of your head. With your legs still wrapped around him you can feel his length harden against you, he lets out a hiss as his bare cock grazes over your covered heat.

‘Are you sure princess? .. have you ever?..’ he questions apprehensively, knowing the danger he risks putting you both in if you go through with this, no matter how much you may want to.

‘I’m sure, I’ve been waiting for someone special, I’ve been waiting for you all this time’ you reply, you’d been waiting for him since your first kiss over ten years ago, you couldn’t imagine anyone but him.

You pull him down by his neck to kiss you again, with a flick of his hand your lingerie vanishes from your body.

His hand working it’s way down your body as your kisses deepen.

His fingers slide between your glistening folds as he gathers your wetness, spreading it over your clit before rubbing in soft circles.

You let out a lustful breathy moan into your kiss, encouraging his own.

‘Tell me if it hurts princess’ he says softly, breaking your kiss for a second as his fingers slip inside you, curling within your velvet walls.

You moan loudly, your head falling back against the pillows as you feel your eyes rolling back. Taking in your expressions below him Loki let’s out a growled moan at the sight below him.

Lifting your head you look down, seeing his fingers moving within you for the first time. He kisses you deeply, you feel his length against the top of the inside of your thigh, his pre cum already building on his tip lightly coating your thigh.

‘Loki, I.. I want you’ you whisper shyly. Kissing you again he gently removes his hand from your heat.

‘It may hurt for a moment princess, are you sure your ready?’ He asks again, constantly confirming your wish for him to continue.

‘Mhm’ you nod, wishing that the gap between you would close forever.

As he slips gently inside of you, he holds still inside you for a while. You feel a sharp pain only lasting a few seconds before immersing you in complete pleasure as his length begins to work deeper inside of your heat.

Your hands gripping onto his shoulders for stability, your nails gently dig into his back as bliss washes over you.

His thrusts increasing in speed as he moans into your broken kisses, at the vibration of his sounds you feel yourself tighten around him, your climax already building.

Breaking your kiss he looks into your eyes as he lifts your right leg over to join your left, your body turned slightly to the side as his hand grips around your ass.

His pace becomes more frenzied as his thrusts grow increasingly uneven by the second.

His hand moved from your ass to rub circles over your clit, your orgasm building with every movement.

‘Loki, I’m going to…’ you say as your words trail off, unable to hold your climax back any longer.

‘I know princess, cum for me, cum for your god’ he moans out with one final kiss before you clench around his length.

Your orgasm washes over you, your moans coming out louder than you expected as Loki watched your face contort with pleasure. His moans becoming more urgent, desperate for release as you ride out your high.

With a deep grunt Loki cums inside you, his hand on the pillow beside you clenching around the soft fabric. The feeling of his hot seed spilling within your velvet walls is indescribable, feeling him empty himself within you.

As you both come down from your mutual high Loki wraps the both of you in blankets, curling up with your love. Your legs intwined you place playful kisses on each others faces. After a short while you fall asleep in his arms, it had been a long day and with all of the excitement you were absolutely exhausted.

You are awoken at the break of dawn by Loki, kissing you awake lightly.

‘Darling I have to leave, they’ll find out otherwise’ he says as he sits on the edge of the bed, kissing you good bye.

‘I know’ you say with a longing tone, wishing for more time with him. With a final kiss and a whispered confession of your love for each other, he slips quietly out of the room into the large corridor.

Once he’s left you can’t seem to sleep, you toss and turn adamant that you can’t marry Thor, not after Loki.

In the morning you dress for breakfast and make your way to the grand hall. Your family and Loki’s are already in the hall eating breakfast together. You sit across from loki on the long table, steeling glances with your feet touching underneath the table.

You hear your parents planning out your wedding and your life with Thor next to you.

‘What do you think Y/N? You’d look lovely in red matching Thor’ your mother says, holding a book of Asgardian wedding attire In front of you.

‘I I don’t know’ you stutter out’

‘Oh sweetie are you okay? You look a little flushed’ your mother says pressing her hand against your forehead checking for a temperature.

‘Yes, no… I don’t know..’ you trail off again before falling into silence.

‘I’m sorry, Thor I’m sure your a wonderful person, and you’ve been nothing but kind to me since I arrived, but I can’t.. I can’t marry you’ you look at your mother desperately for help.

‘Whatever do you mean sweetie?’ She asks you perplexed.

‘I just can’t.. okay?’ You say.

As the rest of the table argues back and forth Loki remains silent but with his eyes fixed on you. As the conversations grow more argumentative between your two family’s your forced to speak up.

‘Mother! I can’t marry him because I’m in love with Loki!’ You shout.

‘But darling, he’s not the future king. You have to marry Thor’ your mother continues becoming more concerned by the second.

‘I know, but I also can’t marry Thor because me and Loki already consummated our union, last night’ you say shyly, your face flushes red as Loki takes your hand on top of the table for everyone to see. Odin’s face filled with rage as he slams a fist down against the table. As Odin goes to speak your mother cuts him off.

‘Well, with that I believe you will both get your wish. If your family will still have our daughter, I would accept Y/N and Loki’s union’ your mother says, looking up the table to Odin for confirmation.

With his anger slowly subsiding Odin nods, confirming that you can marry your love.

‘A green wedding dress it is then’ your mother continues almost as if nothing ever happened.

‘Thank you mother’ you say as she wraps her arm around you, your eyes filling with tears as Loki also thanks her for accepting him.

‘I will do everything in my power to honour your daughter your majesty, she is my first and only love’ sincerity laced in his voice as he stands to sit next to you. You move away from your mother and Loki pulls you into his arms, placing a soft kiss onto your head.

‘Now, now children. We still have a wedding to get through before any public displays of your commitment to each other’ your mother jokes.

The next few hours are filled with wedding planning, you choose the first song you danced to as your wedding song.

You spend the rest of your day in a blissful haze, reminiscing about Loki and your enchanting first meeting, excited for your future together.

[robininthelabyrinth]

I'm pretty sure this is prompt four. Jiang Cheng/Qin Su - Jin Rusong as heir to Lotus Pier

ao3

Jiang Cheng heard the news in pieces, scraps of wild rumor and gossip repeated a hundred times over, but he still refused to believe it until he actually saw the official announcement.

Jin Guangyao had divorced his wife and sent her back to her father’s house, along with their son.

“Is he insane?” Jiang Cheng asked his second in command, who only shrugged helplessly. “Putting aside the fact that I’m certain that he loves her madly, putting everything else aside, Sect Leader Qin is influential and powerful, and a strong supporter of his father – no matter what happened between them, surely someone as pleasant and compromising as Jin Guangyao could find a way to work it out?”

Jiang Cheng had only met Qin Su a few times, always at Jin Guangyao’s side. He’d heard about how she’d fallen for the dashing young man that turned out to be Jin Guangyao and sworn to marry him, no matter the obstacles; he’d heard how they’d managed to overcome every storm, fight the wind and rain, and eventually made it to their marriage bed.

They’d even had a son together, little Jin Rusong; he was Jin Ling’s best playmate.

And Jin Guangyao was kicking him out? Kicking her out?

Absurd!

Who did he think he was?

And yet, contrary to Jiang Cheng’s expectations, Sect Leader Qin did not immediately explode, or, rather, within a few days, he did, but not in the way anyone had expected. Everyone had joked that he would find Jin Guangyao and strangle him, and he really did physically attack someone – but not Jin Guangyao.

He attacked Jin Guangshan instead.

It was as if he’d gone mad, red-eyed like Nie Mingjue in the throes of his qi deviation; he’d charged at Jin Guangshan, his old friend of thirty years or more, right in the middle of Jinlin Tower, and swiped at him viciously with his sword, cutting a gash in his chest as the surprised Jin sect leader darted back too slowly to wholly dodge.

What could be done? The Lanling Jin sect guards could not stand silently by with such provocation – they counter-attacked at once, and Sect Leader Qin did not survive. A little later, and it was discovered that he had never intended on it: his sword was laced with poison.

Sect Leader Qin died, but he took Jin Guangshan down with him the underworld.

The rumor mill exploded.

Everyone was talking about Sect Leader Qin’s motivations – the suspicious timing of the divorce – Jin Guangyao’s now inevitable ascension to the seat of Sect Leader Jin –

Only Jiang Cheng thought about Qin Su, who should have been ascending right beside him. It had been her father that had died, after all.

Laoling Qin was far enough away from Lanling Jin that they were still mostly independent, and they were close enough to the Qinghe Nie that Jiang Cheng could pretend that he’d only made a short detour on a visit directed towards Nie Huaisang, that notorious purveyor of gossip; luckily enough, Nie Huaisang remembered their old friendship and was more than happy to help cover his tracks.

When Jiang Cheng arrived, the house was already decked out in mourning. Qin Su greeted him, eyes red and swollen from tears.

“I’m sorry,” Jiang Cheng said awkwardly, then flinched when he realized he probably should have said something in greeting first – they really didn’t know each other well enough to skip over all that.

Nevertheless, Qin Su nodded, forgiving him the slip-up before he could even retract it. She was gracious and gentle, kind and quiet, economical and thoughtful – a consummate hostess. The wife of Jin Guangyao could not afford to be anything less.

Former wife.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze danced around the room, searching for something to say, and then abruptly he noticed – “There are two deaths in your household?”

“My mother took her own life,” Qin Su said, her voice dull. She tried to suppress it, but tears gathered in her eyes again. “Shortly before…”

Whatever it was that Jin Guangshan had done that had driven Sect Leader Qin mad, it had involved his wife, Jiang Cheng thought, and then abruptly he turned pale as he put two and two together. He’d never doubted that Jin Guangyao had adored Qin Su, so why would he divorce her?

Unless…

Jin Guangshan had a reputation.

Qin Su laughed a little, a bitter sound. “Everyone will know, soon enough,” she said wisely, seeing that Jiang Cheng had figured it out. “I don’t blame my former husband at all; he acted as he ought to in every respect. It’s only my poor A-Song…I can’t imagine what his life will be like from now on.”

Jiang Cheng looked helplessly at her. To lose not only your parents, one right after the other, but your husband, your reputation, and next even your son…

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, and Qin Su stared at him. “If Sect Leader Jin’s assault were recent rather than ancient, it would have provoked the same result. The only reason anyone might suspect the truth is because of the timing of your divorce – if there’s a reason given for that, people won’t think twice about it.”

His words had come out all in a rush, smashing together like stones tossed around by a waterfall; he hadn’t thought of the idea until right this moment.

“Are you suggesting I admit to adultery?” she asked. Her eyes were as round as the full moon.

Jiang Cheng shrugged, a little helpless. “Your reputation is gone,” he pointed out, wishing he knew how to be kind or tactful. “Adultery or incest – it’s the same either way for you. But for A-Song…”

To be the son of an adulterous woman was disgraceful, but such things happened and people generally looked the other way, as long as the real father was powerful enough.

It was better than being a child of incest.

“But what of your reputation?” she asked. “Sect Leader Jiang, you can’t. I won’t let you injure yourself for my sake.”

“Not for you,” he said, though maybe it was, just a little bit. The loss of your parents, the loss of your whole life, everything you’d ever believed – who could understand that better than him? “For A-Song. He’s Jin Ling’s best friend.”

Qin Su had always been kind to Jin Ling, he thought. She didn’t need to be, could just tolerate him the way most people in Jinlin Tower did, but she really seemed to like him…

It occurred to him suddenly that Qin Su met all of his requirements for a bride: a beauty from a good family, obedient, economical, with a mild personality who wasn’t too loud and wasn’t too talkative, who was good to Jin Ling…

“How’s your cultivation?” he asked abruptly. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Mediocre,” she said, blinking at him. “And I’m better at baking, I think. I like making sweets.”

“Good,” Jiang Cheng said, relieved. “That’s – good. I’m glad. Will you marry me?”

Qin Su bit her lip. “Let me think about it?”

Thoughtful, he added to the list. Cautious, not reckless.

“Take all the time you need,” he said.

She came back to him two shichen later. “What happens to A-Song?” she asked.

“I’ll adopt him as my own,” Jiang Cheng said. “Or he can keep the surname Jin, if you prefer. And if Lianfeng-zun agrees, which I think he will – it’s his birthright, after all.” Too many times over. “Jin Ling lives with me sometimes; they can grow up as cousins, the way they should.”

Qin Su nodded, lips trembling a little. “You won’t regret this?”

“I might,” Jiang Cheng admitted. “But I’m probably not going to marry anyone else, and I’m willing. Are you?”

“I am,” she said, and smiled at him. Her eyes were still red, and the smile shaky, but it was something. “Thank you. I…no, never mind.”

“If we’re going to be married, you’re going to need to learn to ask things of me,” he reminded her.

Qin Su wiped her eyes. “Yes, but there’s asking reasonable things, and then there’s asking to alert my former husband before we announce our engagement.”

“Oh, no, that’s a great idea,” Jiang Cheng said, immediately relieved. “If there’s one thing Lianfeng-zun knows, it’s how to manage an announcement of that sort of magnitude. We should definitely tell him.”

Qin Su’s smile this time was stronger.

Nie Huaisang pulled a few strings and got Jin Guangyao to come over to the Unclean Realm, and when he walked in and saw Qin Su, he flinched. Jiang Cheng could see on his face that he still loved her, and he felt bad for him – not enough to stop, but still.

“I see,” Jin Guangyao said, hearing the plan. His expression was surprisingly neutral – thoughtful, but not as upset as Jiang Cheng would have expected. “It’s not a bad idea. And you don’t even need to admit to adultery, either.”

“We don’t?” Jiang Cheng asked, surprised.

“We can say that my marriage with A-Su broke down after my father’s actions - painting them as recent, rather than ancient,” Jin Guangyao explained. “I didn’t feel I could oppose him, she had no choice but to do so – it was an irrevocable breach. You came to comfort her, having met her during your visits with Jin Ling, and her sect is in need of support…you can say it developed naturally from there. It might not work to quell the rumors, of course, but it would at least provide a way to save face in public…Leave it to me.”

“Thank you, A-Yao,” Qin Su said quietly, and he smiled at her, pained.

“Just be happy,” he said to her, then looked at Jiang Cheng. “Treat her well.”

“I will,” Jiang Cheng promised, and took her by the hand. “I swear.”

-

It was a few years later. Nie Huaisang sat beside Jiang Cheng.

“I think he killed my brother,” he said, playing with his fan. “I’m going to destroy him.”

Jiang Cheng stared at the newest memorial tablet in the Lotus Pier, his hands clenched into fists with knuckles turned white.

“Good,” he said, voice savage. “I’ll help.”

[comrade-cabbage]

the lovely @vidibit tagged me to fill out this fun questionnaire! thank ya so much for the tag <3

Name: y'all can call me Cab, short for Cabbage! 💖🥬

Sign: Libra

Height: 6'2"

Time: as of answering this question specifically 11:52am

Birthday: October 16th

Favorite bands/artists: Florence and the Machine is my all time favorite and magnitudes above everyone else, but other favs include: Mitski, Carly Rae Jepsen, Rina Sawayama (SO excited for the new album, truly this year is the best year for my music tastes), and Stevie Nicks!

Last movie: Sailor Moon Eternal, the sailor moon crystal movie!

Last show: I honestly cannot remember anything after I watched the first two seasons of the chilling adventures of sabrina (the second season had just came out)

When I created this blog: Late 2014, I got it in junior year of high school!

What I post: normally i just reblog joke posts but I've increasingly upped my art content on here i noticed the other day

Last thing I googled: "questionaire" so google would correct me so I knew how to spell it 100% correctly (see top of post for why i needed that word)

Other blogs: none really, I have a dead aesthetic blog i made in like 2015 and stopped posting to in 2016 and a blog that's just my old url in case i wanted to switch back after becoming comrade-cabbage

Do I get asks?: not a ton, but not zero! in these last few months i've gotten more than i ever did, but very few anons (that are actually a mystery to me who sent em) and most asks are responding to "submit X to me to tell me whatcha feel or to ask a question!" prompts

Following: 688, but I regularly go unfollow inactive blogs so it's only really people who are around!

Followers: 2,232 (which is funny cause i vividly remember in 2016 one of my friends describing her friend's blog as "about to reach their next thousand!" in response to them having like, 1,900 and my mind was BLOWN about how many followers that was and now im completely ambivalent towards that number now that i have it lmao)

Average hours of sleep: tom im blocking you for this questions >:(, but averaging 4-5 hours lately! very much an issue ive almost had for a year now....

Instruments: I played trumpet in high school and i very much hated every moment of it. it was loud and i was anxious and truly did not fit in at all with the section, i very much made a mistake lmao

What I’m wearing: my dark grey n64 tshirt, dark blue pajama pants, and my lil hand brace :3, very much not doing much today and did not dress up lmao

Dream job: i'm hoping to one day work at a library as a librarian!

Dream trip: absolutely going to visit all my best friend's cities and then showing them the pics i took while i was there and delighting them being confused why i didnt tell them i was in town!

Nationality: american.

Favorite songs: currently: "Hold The Girl" by Rina Sawayama, "Daffodil" by Forence and the Machine (song of the year and maybe my life), and "Alien Superstar" by Beyonce :3

Last book I read: i reread my favorite book, "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin!

as for who i'd love to tag: @forxstboyfriend, @skiingcows, @penismage, @toxic-kombucha, @themissingaddams, @dizzolving, and @antacidsnakethe2nd!