#wants him to himself and views his daughter as a rival would be boring

[captain-noir]

curious about how they're going to approach the loumand dynamic because i think the explicitiness of show loustat kind of shortchanges whatever they had in the books. louis’ naivety in love and vampirism was a major factor in their courtship - he found a worthy mentor and potential companion in armand. but show louis has already had his grand love affair (that rolin insists is the fulcrum of the show) and lestat has been exceedingly forthcoming about his past and about their nature as vampires. i wonder what will entice this louis enough to be willing to consider abandoning claudia for her murderer...

#yaz has thoughts #interview with the vampire #just reread the part in the tower when louis asks armand how vampires meet their end and just recalled show louis #saying lestat informed him of all the methods and it kinda PINGED in my head #you can buy book louis fascination with armand when he had zero answers and thought of lestat as nothing more than an annoying #roomate who turned him for his money and estate #but show lestat is older/not dependant on louis/actually married to him/ willing to answer most of his questions #i suspect the dynamic will be changed somewhat #i mean it has already considering the 70s flashback and whatevers happening in dubai #it needs to be distinct and exciting - otherwise its just loustat 2.0. watching louis fall in love with another older obsessive vampire who #wants him to himself and views his daughter as a rival would be boring #we had that #i think they know that...which is why they're weaving in devils minion into their dynamic so early on #i think they recognize it needs another dimension #while also setting up another major relationship

[marthawrites]

The Arbor and the Dragon: Chapter 1, Betrothed

Aemond Targaryen x Redwyne fem reader

word count: 6.4k+

About: A realm upon the brink of war. Alicent reaches out to your father, Lord Redwyne, to marry Aemond Targaryen to you. If the union officiates, the green Targaryens will receive the aid of Lord Redwyne’s fleet. You sail to King’s Landing to meet the young prince, to weigh if this is a marriage you truly want.

Includes: Meeting and first kiss. This is fluff. Allusions to jealousy and possessiveness.

Note: Hello lovely reader! Thanks to randomly thinking of this song I got hit with a wave of inspiration. This story is different than those I’ve shared here in the past, and honestly I’m unsure of how it’ll take with readers. So this is me going out on a limb! In this story, to avoid the use of “Y/N” you are named Emeline. You are also implied to have brown eyes and freckles. Everything else is up to you to fill in however you like! But if you want to replace your own name with Emeline, you are of course more than welcome to! I have a few ideas to continue this story, and with this I’m garnering interest to see if readers would like to have a multi chapter series. At the end, if you would like more, please let me know!

read chapter 2 here

-

As declaration from Queen Mother Alicent, her son, Aemond Targaryen, was to be betrothed. With the events of the latter weeks, it'd become of the utmost importance to come swiftly. Who would be better to receive his hand than, you. Emeline Redwyne. Daughter of the golden island and Lord Redwyne himself: Lord of the Arbor, of whom had the largest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms, and one of the richest places in all of Westeros. Your father declined many Lord's – both young and old alike – proposals, esteeming that none of them were deserving of your hand, much less your bed. When Alicent's offer arrived, however, his mind finally changed. The prince, in spite of his condition, bore the blood of old Valyria and his Targaryen name would forever protect you from any mishaps that might befall, of that he was certain.

In truth, the young prince intimated you. And, quite honestly, terrified you – at least according to the tales of him. You'd never met him, of course, but news of him spread far and wide, and the Arbor knew of them plenty.

Aemond One Eye. Kinslayer. Black hearted. Rider of Vhagar: the largest dragon in the world. How were you to marry such a man when your own demeanor rivaled that of the golden sand you were born to? The wings of a thousand butterflies lived and died in your stomach a hundred times over during your trip to King's Landing.

The trip all together extended over a fortnight by sea. From your home you sailed to Sunspear, and from there, King's Landing. Luckily you'd grown sea legs at a young age, and sea sickness rarely, if ever, plagued you. It was the idle time that bothered you the most.

"This marriage will serve both us and the Targaryen's well, my daughter. You mustn't judge the prince too quickly on tales and rumors. Open him up and see what's on the inside. I think we will all be surprised at what lays beneath his exterior," your father said, picking up on your nerves the closer you came to your destination.

"What if he doesn't like me, or think me pretty enough to wed? He turned all the Baratheon girls down and they are lovely. And what if I cannot stand him? Find him vile and repulsive?" You dared ask, brown eyes glinting with unrestricted provocation.

Your father's hand patted the top of yours. Your eyes were his own, and while you goaded, he softened. "Then I will call it off. I would never give you away unwillingly and you know that."

You did.

During the final night of sailing, you lingered out on the deck longer than normal. Behind, the sea rest inky and smooth, and before you, King's Landing finally came into view with the naked eye. It wouldn't be much longer now. By morning time the journey would end and King Aegon would be welcoming you, your father, and the entourage who traveled beneath the Redwyne banner: an azure backdrop with a ripened burgundy grape cluster. Anxiety bubbled in your stomach and for a moment you thought you might actually become sick.

A roar like thunder cracked through the nightsky and interrupted your train of thought. “Dragon!” Someone yelled, neck craned back as he pointed in the direction of the sound. The gesture was entirely useless, however, for the massive body of Vhagar was impossible to miss; even a blind person could see the shadow she cast. Somewhere on her back you knew the prince sat, scouting and estimating your arrival for the royal welcome.

An entirely new wave of tension bubbled into your throat. You'd never been this far from home, and a yearning for its familiarity weighed on your heart.

You'd be brave; you were scared, and as such it was the only time to be brave.

-

“Welcome, House Redwyne, to King's Landing. Let us extend our arms in graciousness and offer all the comforts of the Red Keep to you,” King Aegon spoke with practiced benevolence, arms open wide to gesture over all the surroundings. His sister and wife, Helaena stood by him, as well as their children. To his other side stood Alicent.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Redwyne bowed deeply, standing head of the entourage of bannermen, guards, and you. “And thank you for letting us dock here during our stay,” he added. Straightening up he extend his arm to you in silent offering for you to stand beside him. Scanning the faces in front of him, prince Aemond was absent.

“We've been preparing a feast all day for tonight. As you can see, prince Aemond has yet to join us. He's –,” the King paused to clear his throat, glancing to his mother who gave him a look before continuing, “ – getting ready. He's taking your daughter's potential betrothal very seriously and wishes to make his best first impression.” Aegon scanned over you, then, taking in your sail-worn dishevelment. “I suggest the Lady does too, my Lord. There will be time enough to fix up for the first stage of this courtship,” he added, smiling with a little too much amusement behind his eyes.

Did he truly think you ugly? For a moment you wanted nothing more than to throw your shoe at him, and the look your father gave you stopped the dagger you were about to glare at him before it flew. Instead, you curtsied, “thank you, Your Grace. It's been a long trip and I would love nothing more than to clean up properly.” The smile you gave him was well practiced and not at all sarcastic.

“Beautiful!” He said with a single clap of his hands. “The guards will show you the way to your rooms. Supper will be at 6 o'clock tonight. Please, don't be late.” He made to turn, then, before his mother shot him another look. Clearly, King Aegon was still learning these proper welcoming customs. “Ah, yes, Lady Emeline, the Lord Commander of our Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, will let you know when prince Aemond is ready. Perhaps another hour or so.”

Alicent took over from there, and things went smoother as all of you were treated as royal guests. Your handmaiden, as well as two of Alicent's joined you in your room to help you bathe, dress, and make your hair. Three sets of hands were much faster than one and you were grateful for the assistance. If the prince really meant to summon you in an hour's time, you needed all the help you could get.

Your outfit for today's first impression was carefully crafted and selected. Donning the colors of your house, and jewelry to match, Alicent's handmaiden's were more than a little impressed by the end result.

Deep purple, the hue so pigmented it could have been black in the shadows, made the majority of your attire. It was a tie style dress secured to your waist by a belt of golden threaded silk, and a well crafted cluster of grapes sat at its center in gold plated metal. Beneath the draped fabric you wore a high waist skirt that brushed your ankles, and a corset which cinched from the back: the skirts were deep purple, and the corset was black with gold thread in the pattern of dragonscales. The way it was tied left the whole center line of your body exposed, concealed because of your skirt and corset, showing off a swath of your bare upper chest and middle abdomen. On your shoulders, to keep your modesty, was a silken mantle which wholly hid your arms when held right. Thick ropes of the same gold threaded silk accented the lines of fabric. A maiden's formal dress.

Your hair was carefully brushed, and at your temples it was twisted and wrapped around to the back of your head. A clip of gold leafy grapes held it in place. Aside from the two simple twists it was left to hang free, accenting your jawline and neck.

On your wrists were thin gold bracelets, and around your neck were three tiered necklaces in the same fashion, topped with a lovely choker of gold around the slim column of your neck. Gold earrings dangled from your ears, and when you got one final look of yourself in the mirror an entirely new type of nausea filled you. Excitement. In that moment you loved everything about yourself. An image of youth and beauty.

“Prince Aemond won't know what to think, or what even to say,” beamed your handmaiden, carefully twirling a lock of your hair into a loose curl along the side of your face. “Good luck, my Lady.”

Anticipation swelled high in your chest.

The last thing to don were your shoes. Simple things. Your skirts trailed all the way down your legs which resulted in them to be less of a statement piece and more of a practicality. Prepared to walk with the prince you'd decided on a heeled black shoe. Your toes were covered and the gold buckles were engraved with delicate grapevines.

As if on queue a knock sounded from the door. “Good afternoon, lady,” Ser Criston Cole said to your handmaiden when she answered, the door half ajar. “Prince Aemond is ready and waiting outside the great hall. At your leisure,” he said with a formal bow.

“Lady Emeline Redwyne is ready now, Ser. Would you show her and her guard, Ser Louis Payton, the way?” Your handmaiden asked politely, swinging the door open wider so you might step in view. Louis was outside in the hall, too, ready and waiting for any instruction.

“Of course. If you would both follow me,” he said, eyeing you. He was handsome, you thought, tall and dark with deep brown eyes. Despite his maintained expression of neutrality you could have sworn his eyes twinkled with more as he looked you over. The King might have thought you ugly upon arrival, but this kingsguard thought well otherwise.

Criston Cole led the way, you followed, and Louis stayed a few paces behind. Small talk was exchanged during the walk, and each step brought you closer to your potential betrothed. You struggled to find something to do with your hands and ended up folding them behind your back, lest nervousness sent you fidgeting.

"My prince. Lady Emeline Redwyne," Ser Criston said in calm commentators voice.

There, standing before you, was Aemond Targaryen. Your heart fluttered so quickly you swore he could see it in your exposed pulse point. Where you wore dragonscale stitching in your corset, he donned burgundy wrist cuffs. He stood tall, still, and perfectly poised in a posture of regale. His single violet eye drank you in, nostrils uncontrollably flaring as he took you in from head to toe; a sweeping scan that made you feel as exposed as if you wore only your chemise. Somehow, his shoulders squared even tighter.

Your dark eyes lowered as you curtsied. You held it for a moment before rising back to your full height, looking up at Aemond in his Targaryen blacks beneath curled lashes. "Prince Aemond. It is a pleasure," you said in a voice that was much too breathy.

It didn't go unnoticed.

He bowed formally in return, eye never leaving yours as he did so. "My Lady Emeline Redwyne. The pleasure is mine, that I promise."

Sparks danced around your person, aura vibrating as the true reality of the situation caught up to you. This place could be your new home. Targaryen could be your new name. A dragon could replace your grape cluster. Perhaps, one day down the road, the prince could be the father of your children. It all hit you so quickly that, briefly, you forgot everything about courting. Your lids fluttered in a series of blinks, mind racing to catch up to the tall, lithe man and his studious, unnerving gaze before you. "Your dragon roar was the first I heard last night. Even in the dark I could see her shape in the clouds. She is... marvelous."

The fine muscles of his brow and cheeks moved the barest fraction, wholly changing his expression. "Indeed. Would you like to see the dragon pit? Vhagar is too large to be held there, but, you could see the rest of the brood."

The natural shape of his mouth made him difficult to read, yet you thought you could see genuine interest on him. "I-I'd like that, yes," you stammered in reply. And, entirely beyond your control, you felt heat grow beneath your cheeks.

Was this his first test? You, a young woman who'd just admitted to never experiencing a real dragon before, being asked to go into a pit of them? His eye bore into you still, and you fought with every ounce of willpower to not fidget your hands.

"There's five or so hours until supper. Plenty of time for you to see a dragon or two up close," he said, turning his body in a gesture for you to join him.

You followed, dress swaying around your legs as you strode to him, beginning the walk shoulder to shoulder. Behind, both guards trailed silently along.

"I saw you last night, my Lady. On the deck of your ship. I've heard tales of the Arbor's maidens and had to see for myself," he spoke lower, now, with your closeness. So close, in fact, he could see every freckle splashed across your face.

Your pulse quickened. How could he see you so far down with his impairment? "I'm afraid I cannot say the same, my prince. My neck couldn't crane so high, nor could my vision make anything out with clarity." Your gaze turned over to him, then, interest sparking. "You must have the sight of a dragon to see so well with only one eye."

"All Targaryens are the blood of the dragon," he replied, shoulders and lips flexing with quiet pride.

Whatever type of test Aemond presented you with, you'd passed.

-

Returning to the Red Keep with thirty minutes to spare barely gave you enough time to freshen up for the feast. You wore only the hint of makeup on your eyes and lips, and that was easy enough to touch up. Same with your hair. The dirt and other gunk that'd settled into your silken dress, however? That would take more time than currently allowed to attend to – nothing your handmaiden couldn't touch up until then, making you as presentable as a midsummer lily.

When King Aegon said they'd been preparing the feast all day, he wasn't lying. The entire meal consisted of multiple courses. Salmon, pike, and oysters were the selection from the sea, and venison, chicken, and pigeon pie was the selection from the land. Fresh breads, various fruits, cheeses, and slow cooked onions rounded the protein. And, perhaps the star of the feast? A barrel of your father's finest reds.

"If this wine continues to be in supply once my brother and your daughter are married, Lord Redwyne, I say we wed them tomorrow," Aegon declared, holding his goblet up in Lord Redwyne's direction, cheeks colored with the stuff and smiling more genuine than this afternoon.

Your father shared a laugh with Alicent at that, their eyes stealing glances to you and Aemond as you sat in quiet conversation together.

Truthfully, you hadn't stopped thinking about the prince since the moment you saw him. The adventure to the dragon pit had been just that, and infatuation had already begun to sink its claws into you. You'd talked off and on the whole way, him showing and explaining things to you from the architecture, to the history, to the people who built it. You were fascinated. That's not even including the dragons!

On the return journey, Aemond offered you his arm to hold. You accepted and dared to trace little circles into his bicep as you walked in silence. It was a tense silence, and you often caught him glancing at your ministration, body tensing as if to keep himself from pulling away. In the back of your mind you wondered how often prince Aemond experienced touches in such a manner – if ever.

“It seems my brother is already in love. He's hardly touched his food nor given any of his family his attention since arriving,” said Aegon, the wine loosening his lips and judgment.

“Not love, brother. Interest. Something you pay your dear wife little of. Our sweet Helaena would probably fall out of her chair if you gave her even half of what I'm conversing with Lady Redwyne,” Aemond replied, eye level on the King who was first his brother.

Helaena sighed, then, pretty eyes far away even as she spoke. “It's true. You're quite lucky, Emeline. I can only hope Aemond will be more fulfilling to you than Aegon to I,” her voice had a sort of etherealness to it, dreamy in the way it rolled off her tongue – haunting, even.

A few quiet laughs broke through the mealtime clatter, and Alicent blinked in a way only a mother who couldn't believe the lawlessness of her children at a feast entertaining royal guests could. “Let us eat and push aside such chatter,” she said, a well aimed glare shot to her sons. “This vintage is lovely, Lord Redwyne. A true gift for tonight.” She paused to beckon a servant over. “Anika, dear, fill Aemond's cup, please. I don't believe he's had any yet.”

At Anika's summoning she strode over on silent feet, readying to obey the Queen Mother. You put your hand over his cup, however, looking to the girl with an apologetic smile. “Allow me to, please. If my father cannot be the one to pour, then I see it only right that I do– since it's a gift from our House. Thank you,” you added the latter as a second thought, prickling at the idea of another woman filling his cup. Grabbing a nearby pitcher you tipped it into the goblet you'd just been covering. Its aromatics wafted up as you did so. “My prince,” you said softly, turning your gaze to his own to find it already on you, unseeing of anyone else around.

Truthfully, Aemond had hardly ate despite some of his favorite foods being served tonight, and hardly drank despite the wine being some of the best in the world, because nerves had been gnawing at him all day. He'd flown out to see you last night because he couldn't settle in the comfort of his own chambers. This morning he couldn't even settle on what to wear. Never in his life had he fought such an inner battle.

Prior to today all he had of you was a painted portrait of you and your father. And, judging on your current appearance, it was perhaps a couple years old. He immediately thought you beautiful. Stunning, even. The portrait didn't capture your freckles nor the shade of your skin beneath purple and gold, and it was the last thing he expected; his palms sweating all day with your closeness. When you traced circles into his arm earlier? He had to will his heart to slow.

Aemond Targaryen was smitten. Nervousness turned to longing, and in that moment he was wholly jealous of everyone else in the great hall. When he heard Aegon laugh that stupid drunken laugh, Aemond felt entirely unworthy of your time. You smiled still, softer this time, eyes searching his, and it was of that smile that a part of him melted. “Thank you,” he said, finally drinking and allowing the flavors of your home to flood his palette.

During dessert, the only reason he ate the sweet, spiced peaches was because he'd been smelling them all day on your skin and in your hair.

-

Rain patterned on your window when you woke, gray sky untelling of the hour. You rolled to your side and snuggled the blankets up beneath your chin, watching the steady fall of rain through the window. It was warm in your little cocoon and you dreaded waking up if only because it was cold.

Somewhere in your mind you wondered if prince Aemond was also cold... or if he kept and slept warm by himself. You could still feel his arm beneath your hand yesterday and he was warm there. You sighed, allowing yourself to feel the fluster of attraction at the white haired prince.

It was then something laying atop an unused pillow caught your eye; that certainly wasn't there last night. You leaned up on your elbows to look, canting your head to read the neat, unfamiliar scrawl on the page.

"Emeline,

I'd hoped to spend the day with you in the gardens, but it seems the Gods have different plans. Meet me in the library. Tea and breakfast will be waiting for your arrival.

Looking forward to seeing you.

Warmest,

Aemond"

A pang of excitement filled your stomach. And, at the same time, so did an inkling. How did he get into your room? He must have seen you sleeping. Did he watch you sleep? Your heart hammered in your chest at the idea, butterflies whispering to life in your core.

Maybe the letter was left outside and either Louis or your handmaiden placed it atop your pillow. That seemed more likely. The cold didn't seem too bad now.

Dressing and braiding your hair, you applied a similar amount of accenting makeup to your eyes and lips. Today your attire was less flashy than yesterday's and consisted of a burgundy casual dress with sheer billowing sleeves. Gold jewelry decorated your ears, fingers, and wrists. You wore the same shoes as yesterday, too. Your belly growled. You hoped breakfast truly was waiting.

The walk to the library wasn't far, and upon arrival Louis stood watch outside. Once inside you carefully latched the door closed behind you, turning your head and allowing your curiosity to pan over the library. Shelves upon shelves lined the walls, as well as throughout the room to create aisles. Parchment, ink, and leather filled your nose, and the subtle musk of dust accentuated it all. Motes danced quietly in the air, the gray sky outside casting pale ambient light to fall through the high windows. Not a single sound could be heard, and for a moment you thought the letter had been a rude jest.

"Prince Aemond?" You asked to nowhere in particular, voice seeming too loud for the quiet space even though it was barely above your normal speaking voice.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd show up. It's a crime to keep your prince waiting. Surely, you knew?" His voice drawled from somewhere behind you, and you weren't acquainted with him well enough to know if that was the ghost of amusement behind his tone or genuine severity.

He sat in a bench along the wall, one arm draped across the back of it, book in the other, legs outstretched with crossed ankles. How did he get there? You swore you'd just looked over that spot and it was positively empty! "Either you're a master at camouflage or a wraith. There's no way you've been sitting there this whole time," you stammered, jolted and half amused at his appearance.

He smirked. He had dimples at the corners of his mouth. Dimples. How did you not notice those yesterday? "Couldn't see me the night of your arrival, nor here this morning. Are you sure it's not you who needs glasses, my Lady?" he mused aloud, not answering your question.

You rolled your eyes. A playful gesture. "Oh please. My eyes are fine, thank you very much," you crossed your arms beneath your chest, willing yourself to look at anything but Aemond. You'd been staring. He knew it too. "You mentioned breakfast. Where is it exactly? I'm quite hungry this morning."

The prince stood, then, a graceful motion that somehow looked ethereal despite its normalness. "I thought you might be. You barely ate last night." He tucked the book he'd been reading into the crook of his arm, and used his free hand to gently guide you down a nearby aisle. It led to an opened area, study table topped with a breakfast tray.

"If I remember correctly you didn't eat much either," you retorted, angling your jaw just slight at his call out. Why did his guiding touch make your head so dizzy? No other person ever made you feel such a way with so little effort.

He nodded, moving to pull the nearest chair out for you to sit. "I admit I was having conflicting emotions," he replied, body closer now, voice lower so you had to lean in a little to hear him better.

"Does the prince wish to elaborate? I'm afraid I'm not quite following. And, I'd hate to assume the worst," you said, looking at him beneath your lashes. You sat and he helped push you back in.

He smiled again, slight as it was. "If I had it my way last night, my Lady, I'd have dismissed everyone as soon as I saw you make to disobey my mother and pour my wine. I was jealous of every single person in the great hall for being in your presence."

Thank the gods you didn't have anything in your mouth because if you did you'd have choked. "You don't need to flatter me in such ways, my prince, it's unnecessary and quite honestly, shocking," you said, unable to meet his gaze.

"You'll soon learn I mean everything I say."

You blushed, unknowing how to respond to that. To say he was intense was an understatement. You found yourself subtly squirming beneath it through your shared breakfast of boiled eggs, bacon, and fruits, all washed down with a smooth, lively tea.

"Do you believe in merlings, my prince?" You asked once you had your fill, curling your hands beneath your chin as you looked across to Aemond.

He didn't answer for a moment, drinking thoughtfully from his cup. "Well, I can't say I don't believe in them. Merely, I've never seen one with my own eye," he replied, silently drumming his fingers on the tabletop in continued thought; gaze wandering musingly.

Your eyes lit up, smile reaching them as you stood. "Walk with me around the library? There's an island outside the Arbor named Mermaid's Palace. I'd like to tell you the tale of its origin, if you'll hear me."

"I'd love to hear it," he said, standing, holding his arm out to you in a perfect picture of gentlemanliness.

You flashed him a wide, pretty smile; one that had his heart instantly melting. Taking his offered arm, you stood and held to it, rubbing slow, soft circles into his bicep. And, this time, you closed all the distance between your bodies so your soft bosom pressed against his lean form; entirely intentional. You pretended not to notice the catch in his throat at the sensation. "Do you want the long version, or the short?" You asked with an arched brow as you both began an unhurried saunter of the large library.

"Long. I want every detail while you hold onto me like this."

Tension sparked around you both as you pressed a little further into him. "Then you shall have it, my prince."

And so you told him of the legend of the merlings. The merfolk's tale webbed far and wide from the Iron Islands, to Braavos, even into legends of House Velayron, and Blackwater Bay. Humans married, slayed, and chased them off alike. And it's said that the merlings from the Shivering Sea, with their pale skin and black scaled tails, were of the most dangerous kind, moreso than those of the Southern Seas.

-

Much to Aegon and Alicent's annoyance, prince Aemond slacked on his princely duties the following three days. He didn't care, though, all he cared about was you.

Those three days were full of rain and thunderstorms, and you two often snuck off into the library to share tales of childhood; even divulging in a few secrets. What mostly happened, however, was him reading to you from his favorite books – those of historians, philosophers, battles, and dragons – all while you rested your head on his shoulder, traced your fingertips over his hands and wrists, and let him lay his head upon your lap.

Each night you wanted it to last forever. And each night you fell asleep with him in the forefront of your mind, wanting nothing more than to see him again in the morning.

-

"Emeline,

Meet me in the gardens after you finish breakfast. The sun is finally out and I wish to see your eyes in the summerlight.

Don't fret if you cannot find me. I will find you.

Affectionately,

Aemond"

You were more excited to see his letter than you were to see golden light streaming into your room through parted curtains. Or, perhaps it was because of the sun you were so excited. Either way, you got ready as quickly and efficiently as you could.

The sky was already warm, hinting that it would be a beautiful day. You donned a long strapless dress of your usual color, and a sheer silken mantle clasped at the front of your chest by a golden plated brooch of your House's sigil. The shoes you picked for today still had a small heel, though unlike your others these were open. You accessorized with gold as was your favorite, and your hair was in the same twist style of yours and Aemond's first meeting. Carefully applied makeup accentuated the charm of your face.

For your morning meal you chose porridge, fruit, and sausage, and ate it as quickly as could be deemed polite before nearly skipping off to the gardens.

It was lovely this time of the year. Flowers bloomed in every corner, the heady scents of their mixed fragrances created a much different aroma than what you were used to at home. You slowly scanned over the place and took in all that you could see from these parts of the grounds. A few other residents of the Red Keep were out too, and you felt little shame at your curious people watching. Despite the expanse of the garden, there didn't seem to be many people out.

You began to daydream, steps slowing as you lost a bit of yourself to the wandering paths of your mind.

"Have I yet told you how lovely this color is on your skin?" Aemond asked from behind you, tracing the back of his hand along the length of your arm.

Goosebumps erupted on your skin. "Why do you always do that?" You asked, fingertips touching over the center of your chest where he successfully startled you. "Is it so hard to come up from the front?"

He puckered his mouth in an amused grin. "I could, but that takes the fun out of it. Your eyes grow big when you're startled. The pupil opens and gives you this delightful doe look," he replied, brushing so close to you that his breath shuddered the flyaway hairs in front of your ear.

Instead of waiting for him to offer his arm, you took it first and held onto it, using him to steady your already trembling fingers. "I don't think you've told me how you like this color, no. Do you truly? It makes me happy to hear."

"Very much so. I find myself thinking of you the moment you leave, and rarely of anything else while I'm trying to settle down for sleep," he answered in a tone you hadn't experienced from him yet, lacing his fingers in with your own.

Your eyes widened, heart going into overdrive in combination of his words, tone, and touch. "My prince," is all you managed to say, glittering with unsaid words.

He took advantage of the moment and the sun's angle on your features. He studied your eyes, the wholeness of your face, the way your pulse point thumped inside the shallow vein in your neck. You weren't even doing anything, merely looking up at him, and you were driving him wild. "Like pools of honey," he whispered, leaning in closer to you. "Your eyes in the sun." He dared to look down at your mouth, then, willing himself to meet your gaze once more. Slowly, he leaned back from your intoxicating nearness. "There's a wisteria arbor I've been wanting to show you. Come." He tilted his head in gesture to where it was, lingering on you before he turned to lead you both away.

When did the beat of one's pulse become dangerous? Because you were positively sure you were there. You dared not let go of Aemond's hand as he led the way, lacing your fingers between his more securely.

Tension lingered around you like a bubble ready to pop. All you could think about was the handsome prince showing you off to the lovely flowers; mind somehow racing and frozen alike at the memory of his mouth so close to yours.

"Here it is, my Lady. What do you think?"

If you'd been present instead of daydreaming, you'd have noticed it long before now. Wisteria hung down between the overhead lattice in variegated shades of purple and cream. Bees buzzed around, the workers busy collecting and spreading pollen in the morning sun; the sound a gentle low vibration, mirroring how your senses sung for the prince. Privacy surrounded you, the lush vine flowers creating a wall of perfumed seclusion: a secret in the sprawling garden. "This- this is the loveliest thing I've seen since being here," you exhaled, bright with a combination of excitement and wonder.

You instinctively moved half a step into him, and he mimicked the action, bodies magnetic. Lifting your hand up to his mouth, he gently brushed the top of it to his lips. "I thought you might say that, princess," he replied, eye hooded and sly.

It was in that exact moment you realized his eye was the same color of the wisteria. During all your time spent together during the last week, he never called you that. "Princess?"

"Of course. Once we wed that will be your title. My princess," he said, expression a mixture of intensity and mirth. "You're blushing."

"A-am I?" Blood roared behind your ears and up and down your spine.

"You are. Is that still what you desire?" He momentarily held your hand a breath away from his lips before kissing it again. Slower, this time.

You thought you'd actually combust. "Yes, my prince. Very much so." Your hand trembled in his. He noticed.

"Do I make you nervous, my Lady?" He carefully dropped your hand, faces now immeasurably closer without your hand as barrier between.

"Only in good ways. I think," you admitted after a moment, lids fluttering closed.

"Hmm," he hummed beneath his breath, long fingers gently touching your jaw. "You're doing very good for being so nervous," he whispered, breath tickling your lips before he pressed his mouth to them in a delicately needful kiss.

You soared.

Even though you already had him, you desperately wanted him. Blood prickled from your scalp, to your toes, to your fingers, and every single place between.

He still held your jaw with one hand, and the other rose to the side of your neck – scared that you might fade away into dreamdust.

You broke away and looked up at him, pupils wide amidst the affection. "We should have done this a long time ago," you said, breathless, standing up on your tippy toes to meet him again.

Aemond met you, matching your excitement.

The kiss deepened tentatively at first for you were shy in your movements, but once it did he tasted of sweet, tart raspberries, an echo of his last meal. And soon he didn't taste of anything at all, except of you and himself.

After that, time became lost in the gardens. Upon returning to the Red Keep you were both blushed with swollen lips. You searched for your father, eager to find him as the natural high of yours and Aemond's kiss willed your legs to move with extra purpose. Once you did, you grabbed both of his hands in your own. "Father! I will marry prince Aemond," you declared, beaming.

At first he seemed a little surprised by your excitement, gauging you with careful eyes. Then, he too beamed, squeezing your hands with a smile that shone up to his brow. "Wonderful news! Where is he?"

"He went to find the Queen Mother to tell her too! We split up just inside. So we could share the announcement quicker!"

"Let's go wait for them then, shall we?" He asked as he extended his arm to you. You felt like a little girl holding onto your father, practically buzzing with joy. "It's been a grand week all around then, ey?" He asked with a knowingly arched brow.

You only grinned back at him, also knowingly.

"Lord Redwyne! Princess!" Alicent called as soon as the four of you saw each other. "It appears we have a wedding to plan."

Aemond stood by his mother, proud and wistful at seeing her genuinely happy for the first time in... some time.

You and Aemond moved to stand by each other, and you were overcome with a wave of shyness standing before your father and Alicent as your betrothed snaked his arm around your waist, holding you to him.

"Let us join our Houses in the presence of all our Gods. With us dominating the sky, and Lord Redwyne's fleet dominating the sea, we will not fall." Aemond spoke to the trio in turns. "And the sweetest thing of it all? I get to marry the fairest maiden in all the Arbor," he added roguishly, kissing the top of your hand like the finest prince in any tale. "Thank you, my Lord Redwyne, for your daughter's hand."

-

That night Aemond insisted you two eat alone. After dessert he escorted you to your room, and left you with a kiss that warmed you all throughout the night.

"You will be the realm's princess, yes. More importantly, you will be my princess. Good night, my Lady."

-

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider a follow and reblog as I have plans to create and share more writings. 

as said above, I have a few ideas to continue their tale. if you would like to see more of this story, please let me know! this is my first time doing something like this and I’m feeling a little nervous (the good kind) about it.

here is my masterlist if you’d like to see what else I’ve created!

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fluff #aemond x reader #aemond fic

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

First things first, I hope you recover and that your health issues go away! <3 <3 xx

I've asked you how Daemon would react if one of his daughters had an Electra complex and was obsessed with him. Now, let's flip it: How would Daemon react to one of his many sons having an Oedipus complex for Babey? Would he be disturbed? Amused? Concerned?See that son as a rival? Or would he commiserate and be like, 'I also think your mum is totally hot'? Conversely how would Babey react?

Thanks again, Em!

Hey, nonnie, thank you so much!

I reckon that Daemon would be amused at first by the idea, because of course his son thinks Babey is attractive, she's his perfect little niece, who wouldn't want to fuck her? He's just a lad of good taste. However, should the obsession begin to spiral - should the son begin to press his interest in subtle ways (lingering touches, butting heads with Daemon, making gestures traditionally viewed as courting gestures but it's to his mother so is he just being kind or is there something there) - he would immediately be threatened. In that moment, the boy becomes a rival, some upstart young thing trying to take what is his. His son is his and his niece-wife is his, and they can't be each other's because that's not the way it works in his mind and Babey is not allowed to let another man in her cunt, even if that man is of his blood, of their shared line. He'll do what he has to, should it come to that.

I definitely think Babey would have more cause to be concerned once she finally realises what's going on. She wouldn't interpret her son's loving actions as inherently non-platonic until it's either pointed out to her by Daemon or the son himself makes some kind of overt statement ("I am in love with you, mother"), and I think then she'd be greatly disconcerted. On one hand, this is a man who is trying to press himself on her, and she is happily married and she is a woman in this great big man's world so how can she say no? But on the other, this is her baby, the child she bore from her body, a person she built in her womb from the very beginning, and how can she deny her blood his heart's desire, even if it's at the expense of her very self? She wouldn't know what to do. I don't think she'd actually act for all the conflict she's experiencing. Daemon would end up solving the problem (I assume by forcibly exiling him, but honestly it could devolve to murder).

I hope this answers that question! It's definitely an interesting thought. Thanks, nonnie!

#fanfiction asks

[skippers-stuff]

Once in a lifetime

Pairing: Mafia Bucky x fem reader

Story summary: Your life with mafia leader Bucky from how you met til death did you apart

Warnings: mention of sex, mention of death, drunk driver, mentuon of pregnancy (reader)

I couldn't name the exact moment i fell in love with him. Maybe it was the very first time i saw him. He was so firm, so self absorbed. Like a role model from a magazine. He looked like a god in his black suit with his short hair and ocean blue eyes. When he first looked into my eyes, i thought my legs would give up on me. Even if it wasn't love, it was something. Need. I needed him. I needed to feel him, touch him. I needed to get him. He was looking for an old music vinyl. I helped him out, and he didn't left. We started talking about music, asked me for some modern music recommandation. I hoped that maybe he felt what i felt too. He did. He bought 5 CDs, and promised me to come back the next day, to show me one of his oldest vinyls. He kept his promise. And he kept coming. Every day for a week. And then he asked me on a date. I kept smiling to myself. When i first saw him, he looked like the guy who would just fuck a girl and leave. But the date he planned for us was something else. Like he was from an other age. And he was. Or maybe i fell for him on our fifth date. He was walking me home, like he always did, and we saw a lost kitten. He picked up the kitty with so much care, he was so gentle, so caring with it, my heart melted. We took him to a shelter, but a few days later he came to the disc shop with Alpine, the lost kitty we found together, who now was adopted by him.

The first night we spent together was also magical, i could feel how deeply he feels for me with every kiss, every trust, every groan.

Sex with him, was never boring. He could be so dominant, rough and demanding, whispering dirty little things in my ears, pulling my hair just how he wanted, just how i liked it. No matter how rough he was during our bed activities, the aftercare was never missing. The moment we both reached the bliss, he turned back into the most gentle human on the planet. Other nights, we were making love. Truly. Deep, gentle, loving. He made me fall for him, slowly, day by day, moment by moment. When he proposed, i was the happiest girl on the planet. We got married, and I thought we would live happily ever after. Only if i knew what was coming for us.

The day he told me about his job, i hated him. Hated him for lying to me, for putting himself in danger, for not telling me an as important detail as he is the biggest mafia leader in town. Hated him for putting our relationship and our future in danger. He slept in the guestroom for so long. "Slept". Neither of us could sleep witout the other one. We were depending on each other more than we ever should have. Both of us were suffering. It took me long to finally understood his point of view. But I did. He came back to our bed, and showed me his empire. I married a buisnessman and he made me a queen. He treated me like one, his people had to treat me like one, only I didn't want to be one. I didn't want to be protected. I wanted to protect myself. So he taught me self defense. I learned to defend myself while the only thing i didn't learn was how to protect him.

The day he died, I died too. I loved him with everything I had in me, and he took the biggest part of me with him to the grave. Life is ironic. You could be the biggest mob boss of all time, you can have a thousand rivals who are all after you, wanting to kill you, and the next moment a drunk driver who has no idea who you are will hit you with his car. The doctors would fight for your life, but their effort are worthless. Your time here is gone.  A man born im 1917 who died in 2022. A long-long life, full of suffering and love. That is how i feel sitting here, next to your tombstone, your name on it feels like a strangers name. James Buchanan Barnes. The name that your daughter will hear, and never know the meaning of, because she will never be able to miss you. She will miss you as a father but not as a person. Because there's noone like you, my dear. And there's no way to show our daughter the love you had for her. Show her your laugh, your caring, loving personality, your smile, your eyes and the way you looked at me, and her when she was in my belly. She will never truly know who her father was and how much she meant to him. Maybe we all will be together again... someday... somehow.

#bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes #marvel #marvel smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #mafia bucky

[madsdefencesquad]

Okay I got boooored so here’s a Kevison magazine fic I wrote for Kevison nation coz I love yous and we deserve to see Kevin talk about his fam magazine-stylez coz you know he’ll be gushing all the time about them, like you just KNOW IT.

Kevin Pearson on life, fatherhood and what’s next for him by x March 2028, Spring edition

It’s been twelve years since the impassioned The Manny star Kevin Pearson announced to the world that he will be quitting the role that had started it all for him. Pearson’s public meltdown was excruciating, to say the least, but it was this very act of defiance that led the actor towards the path of the actor-crusader that he is now known for—a revolutionary who defied the odds and ultimately defined him as one of the greatest actors of his generation.

After a slew of tabloid-worthy dalliances with famous co-stars including the soap operatic love triangle with Tony award-winner Olivia Maine and his Back of an Egg co-producer and playwright Sloane Sandburg, to the court-ordered rehab stint after a DUI arrest, Kevin Pearson has done nothing but illicit the kind of stories that tabloids are desperate to display and monetise from in full view. All of these seemed the perfect pivot points for the actor, basking in the affordances of all this fame and fortune albeit in a trajectory of a complete career-destruction, but the actor was by no means deterred in proving that he can and should be taken seriously in his acting craft.

Pearson came through with striking, emboldened performances: a soldier with an inability to confront his demons in the Ron Howard-helmed World War II flick opposite Sylvester Stallone, and an embittered cop in the M Night Shyamalan action flick Stairs to Nowhere. But it wasn’t until his role as a disingenuous trial lawyer in the 2020 Jordan Martin Foster film Glass Eye that earned him his first ever Academy Award nomination and eventual win that proved to the world that when he puts his mind to it, Kevin Pearson can truly achieve the kind of acting greatness worth the lauded applause.

Pearson, who was born and raised in Pittsburgh before moving to New York and eventually Los Angeles, has spent a good amount of his life in the public eye. Though his sunny, easy-going persona and physicality have been compared to the likes of Chris Hemsworth and (supposed rival) Chris Evans, the Pittsburgh-bred Pearson doesn’t feel the need now to prove that he is anything but a conscientious actor and a dedicated family man.

It’s a warm, spring afternoon when I ring the buzzer of a sprawling floor-to-ceiling glass residence tucked away in a town in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The little lady of the house, barefoot in a floral-print dress, greets me with an encouraged wave from her father, who is cradling her against him upon opening the front door. “She’s not normally this shy,” Kevin says with an affectionate grin as he leads the way to the sitting room, his little girl curiously taking peeks at me with what I garner is her mother’s soft blue eyes given Kevin’s famous warm browns.

The newly built residence is a remarkably private house perched on a dramatic hillside overlooking a panoramic view of the verdant surrounds, which Kevin says, “keeps the family very safe from prying eyes.” This feature, of course, was at the forefront of his mind prior to laying its foundations there.

“There’s one main reason as to why I chose to build here specifically,” he says. “But I’m not gonna bore you with the details. Let’s just say, I’m honoring a memory. Makes me sound real poetic, doesn’t it?”

Throughout Kevin’s career, he’s been known to talk quite candidly about his love and appreciation for his mother, Rebecca Pearson, with his Oscars acceptance speech having heavily featured his immense gratitude to her as would a loving son. But, as we move along the elegantly furnished corridors with him pointing and elaborating at the various artworks decorating the walls and the spaces, it is obvious that Kevin has an unrivalled affection for his wife that is quite notably special.

We make our way to a sitting area outside where we are entreated to the sounds and sights of a naturally filtered swimming billabong with cascading falls—a modern feature incorporated with the Japanese Zen garden landscaping that is just breathtaking to behold in person. “I wanted to make it feel as authentic as the ones you find in Japan,” he says, sitting on one of the cushioned recliners. He pours me a glass of red wine while he settles for chilled tonic, his little girl now helping herself to some olives and crackers.

There is an air of rare contentment around Kevin as he laughingly recalls his twins’ daily shenanigans. “Nothing really compares to coming home to them,” he says. “And I’m not trying to sound ungrateful or anything, but I’ve been [working my whole life] and I’ve only had my wife and kids just short of a decade, and that’s nothing! So, I do what I can to be home in as most days of the year as I can.”

When asked whether he’s perhaps heading into the territory of acting retirement in favour of other pursuits like directing or producing, Kevin thinks it can go either way.

“The other night in bed my wife suggested I do voice acting,” he says, to which his little girl unintentionally responds to in glee as she, her feet now strapped in light-up sandals, runs the width of the garden (within sight of her dad, of course) with her Jessie and Bullseye dolls held high. “She knows me too well,” he says fondly of Madison, his wife of eight years now. “I’d love to have my kids watch a movie that dad’s in without having to wait till they’re teenagers. And I hate thinking of my babies as teenagers! God, it’s just the worst age!”

Kevin recalls his teenage years with the kind of accepted embarrassment fit for a 48-year-old, but he laughs saying, “But I see a little more of their mom in them than me so that gives me hope. I’d hate to think I passed on angsty teen Kevin to either one of them. Just serious kudos to my parents for putting up with me all those years. I must’ve been a nightmare.”

From endorsing the des Resistance popular eau de parfum for men to his Armani-clad behind splashed on every billboard in the country (much to his chagrin and to his wife’s entertainment), Kevin Pearson has always been quite the go-getter, and though his “yes man” days in the industry are over, he’s always open to other ways in which he can challenge himself in his craft without compromising the time spent with his family.

“They’re my first priority, no questions asked,” he says. For a kid, who grew up in a middle-class family with parents whom had high hopes for their future, Kevin says that now, as a father himself, his perspective has shifted as to what’s really important and what’s not.

“I think a lot of the time there’s an expectation for your kids to meet the standard their parents have set or even go beyond it,” he says. “But that’s just toxic, you know? And it puts a lot of pressure on them to be someone that they’re not and not meant to be.”

Kevin is candid about his insecurities as an actor and as a father and as a husband, but there is a masterful acceptance there that he gives full credit to his wife. “We’re not perfect people, perfect parents,” he says. “And we’ll never be. That’s just a fact of life. But getting to do this with your person, the love of your life makes the biggest difference. I used to think that my parents had the greatest love story ever, and I used to really idolise it, you know, but honestly I think Madison and I can probably rival that.” And he thinks that if he’ll ever write, direct or produce a script, it’ll be about him and his wife’s sweeping and unconventional love story that will be the “tear-jerker of the century. Like, A Walk to Remember or The Notebook level but like better!”

I ask him what Madison would think of his plans to unleash their love story to the world, and as if on cue, he fishes his phone from his pocket and utters a “just a sec” before leaving to grab his daughter and take the call.

Following his game-changing Academy Award win in 2021, Kevin had let himself free fall in the industry as a kind of versatile actor in roles where he sweeps you away with gut-punching monologue deliveries coupled with an intensity that comes in through the eyes. He hasn’t delved into comedy since his Manny days though, but there is a certain cajoling ease in his demeanour that could easily challenge his funny bone.

“It’s Madison,” he returns not long after and settles himself down again, his daughter handing me a pizza-shaped play-dough I pretend to munch on. “She’ll be home soon. You should meet her. You’d love her! Everyone does not that it’s surprising.”

And who could deny that offer?

Kevin shows me a photograph of the twins on his phone at their cousin’s birthday whom they celebrated with in California last week and qualms that they’re growing up way too fast—yet another reiteration that he is as doting of a father as he is a consummate actor. He thinks that though Hollywood is a lot less ageist in terms of film and TV roles, there is still that pressure not to succumb to filling a role just because you’re the right age for it.

“Ever since my kids were born, I’ve been approached to do a lot of dad roles. Like my agent would send me about five scripts a week where my character is supposed to be this stereotypical dad.  I’ve rarely taken any of them because I feel like it’s like they’re just trying to fit me in to a role just because I can say, ‘Oh hey, yeah I’m a dad now, I know what that means or what that looks like’, and not that that isn’t a good thing per se, but there’s a difference between the director wanting me to put my own spin to it as Kevin Pearson the actor versus them just wanting Kevin Pearson the dad. The way I approach parenting my kids, the way my wife and I do it, would be different to the way my character in this film would parent his kids. Sure, there may be certain overlaps, but it’s not going to be full Kevin Pearson the dad, you know? So, it’s hard with that kind of expectation.”

As the sun dips a little lower and it gets a little cooler, Kevin takes us back to the house just in time to finally meet Madison and their little boy, who looks strikingly like his father though, upon closer inspection, actually looks a little more like his mother. But there is one undeniable feature of the twins that definitely comes from both parents: the adorable identical dimples adorning their little chins.

Madison Pearson is as beautiful in person as she looks in photographs standing beside her husband in premieres and events. With her light-blue eyes and warm, soothing voice that sounds both delicate and excited at the same time, Madison is nothing but the embodiment of all things lovely.

“She grounds me,” he says adoringly, watching Madison and their kids flit about in the kitchen arranging dinner. “There isn’t much I can say that’s good about me if it hadn’t been for her. I can be ambitious and sometimes there’s always that pull towards something bigger but not necessarily better and she tells me honestly. She calls me out. And everyone needs that, you know? A frank person who won’t sugar coat anything, but they do it because they love you.”

It’s easy to imagine Kevin in gritty noir films playing bad cop, good cop or even as an intimidating trial lawyer, but Kevin as a family man is the role that is perfectly suited for him, almost like it’s created especially for him. As a father, he thrives on the affections of his kids, and as an actor, he finds pleasure in what’s he’s good at. And as a husband, his smile is the widest. “Not gonna lie, her not even being slightly jealous of that one time I did a love scene still gets to me,” he jokes. But it’s obvious that it bothers him not one bit. He enjoys being Madison Pearson’s more than anything.

“It’s crazy to think that people are inspired by what I do and who I am when for most of my life, it was 100% the other way around. It’s a huge responsibility, really, but I take it as it goes. I have my kids on the back of my mind now every time I make any decision, and I have a wife to love and support too, so it’s easier to not feel trapped by people’s opinions and expectations of you when you’re too focused on them and being the best person you can be for you and for them. So, it’s about growing every day, and enjoying all that life has to offer, and making every moment count.” x

Particular shoutout to my GC gals coz like ILY 5EVS @wallofweird @betweensunflowersanddaffodils @thisiskevison @thesocietalmisfit @tryalittlejoytomorrow @lullabiesandgoodbyes @flythesail @ourfinehouse @elephantsneedwater @holding-up-the-universe @smoakingpinklipstick @purpleinthesky

#kevison #kadison #seriously let's get rid of this tag @ sterling better not be annoying af next ep aye!! #hope you enjoyed kevin gushing about his family lol #i'll probs make another one but less formal and more kevison-centric #but I just love love loveeeee imagining dad! and husband!kevin sah much #so don't mind meee #anywhooo #kevin and madison #kevin pearson #this is us madison #kevison fanfic #kevison fic #i have not written in 5eva but boyyyyyy this was sah much fun #Kevin Pearson #TIU #tiu spoilers

[mostlycompetentwriter]

You Can STAY - Part 5

F/M Main Pairing: Y/N x Lee Felix (Side Pairing: Y/N x Stray Kids)

Genre: Fantasy AU; Scarlet Heart AU; OT8 SKZ

Word Count: 6K

Warnings: Language

Summary: Seungmin’s wedding and the consequential aftermath...

Tag List: @angelphantomlove​​​ @moonlightracha​​​ @jjabbur​​​ @pinkchcn​​​ @straykidbaby​​​ @moonnstars90​​​ @dru-shadow​​​ @skzooyeet​ @xiaojunssmile​

The problem with arranged marriages, in my limited experience, was often the lack of interest from one or more of the involved parties, and it was quite unfortunate when you had to witness an unrequited love.

Seungmin’s bride, who happened to be the General’s fiercest and eldest daughter, was infatuated with Seungmin - that much was apparent. During the days leading up to their marriage ceremony, I relegated myself to the honor of watching over the bride and groom, especially whenever they interacted with one another. It was blatantly obvious in those moments that Seungmin was not interested in his bride, but I just wished that he would leave my name out of their conversations.

“I’m saving myself for Y/N,” Seungmin had declared during an afternoon of tea, glancing over in my direction while I pretended to be looking anywhere else.

It was embarrassing to be announced like that, and Hyunjin and Jisung liked to tease me about it all the time, and I had spent far too many afternoons in the company of the younger Princes only to hear them cooing over Seungmin’s undying love for the Castle Mage. “That’s enough,” I had tried to intervene, but they weren’t so easily deterred, even in the face of the magical parlor tricks that I used to try and dissuade their attacks.

But Seungmin’s arranged marriage wasn’t the only problem in the Castle, and I was troubled by the negative reaction of my heart when I heard the King talk about Prince Felix’s eventual return to the Northern Kingdom where he would wed one of the daughters. “It’s the least he can do,” the King offered as explanation. “For all the trouble he’s caused throughout the years.”

“He brought back the rain, your grace,” I said without thinking, realizing too late that the response might be considered aggressive.

Yet, the King simply laughed in response. “Yes, but it’s made him far more appealing as a suitor.”

I nodded my head because I wouldn’t speak out of term more than once. Especially since everyone was in agreement that the arrangement would bring peace to our rival Kingdoms. Even at the great sacrifice of Felix’s youth.

However, Queen Lyra was ecstatic when she learned that Felix would be marrying a Northern Princess, and Chan told me in private that his mother wanted nothing more than to send Felix back to that dreadful place. “He doesn’t want to leave,” I said in an unexpected defense of the rebel Prince.

“He has no choice,” Chan replied, and we both dismissed the conversation when Ella had called for my name.

Tragically, in the weeks leading up to Seungmin’s ceremony in the Throne Room, Ella had rapidly declined in health, to the point where even I lost my enthusiasm for the treatments. “When I’m gone,” she told me one afternoon. “Please watch over Chan for me.”

I remembered looking up in surprise when she said that, and there was a knowing look in her eyes that I hated to see. 

But there wasn’t any time to weigh the consequences of her words, and I was far too preoccupied with Prince Minho’s return to entertain the possibility of what keeping an eye on Chan might entail.

Because the King’s chosen successor was doing his best to corner me alone, but I was just as adept at staying away from him, especially in lieu of our last conversation together where he had subtly declared his intentions to marry me. It wasn’t something that I wanted, and it was easier to ignore Minho rather than face him head-on and decline his affections. After all, the Prince had every obligation to choose his bride, and I was nobody to turn him down.

But even Minho knew when to back off, and he too seemed swept away by the planning of Seungmin’s wedding, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief for the time being. Because I had no doubt that a confrontation between me and the chosen Prince was inevitable, but I was determined to delay it for as long as I could. And Seungmin offered the perfect distraction, which is a big part of the reason why I chose to shadow the couple, even if it meant putting up with his constant flirtations.

“You know, Y/N,” Hyunjin said one day while he walked next to me through the gardens. “Seungmin really does like you.”

I glanced up ahead at the younger Prince who was trying his absolute best to ignore his bride while she pointed out the flower arrangement. “It’s no good for him to resist his father’s wishes,” I said. “He should start opening up to the General’s daughter.”

“He’s stubborn,” Hyunjin replied with a fond smile. “When he sets his mind to something, nobody can stand in his way.”

“It won’t change his fate,” I said, looking at Hyunjin with a frown. “You aren’t planning to entertain his whims? After all, his feelings towards me are likely nothing more than a passing crush.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Hyunjin agreed. “But Seungmin will still resist until the very end.”

“Yeah? Well, he has no choice in the matter,” I said, and we both stopped when Seungmin muttered something at his bride before marching away in the direction of the Castle.

The wedding was to be held in the Throne Room, and the Castle’s servants had been working non-stop to prepare everything on time. Because of the hectic nature of the King’s demands, even I found myself helping out with the other servants as we decorated and prepared enough food for the impressive guest list consisting of names that I hadn’t the faintest recognition. But I’m sure the King had plans to invite monarchs from distant kingdoms, especially since a marriage was always celebrated as it symbolized the growth of a lineage and Seungmin would be expected to present an heir of his own.

Tragically, in this case, it was still heartbreaking to watch a Prince meant to look his strongest walk down the red-carpeted aisle with a despondent look and slouched-over posture on the night of his wedding. I could tell that Seungmin’s mother wasn’t pleased by her son’s behavior, but she had no right to call him out for it when the music began to play from the organ.

Seungmin didn’t even bother to look up when the doors opened and his young bride stepped onto the carpet, arm tucked between her father’s as she wore a huge smile. Her grown was long and beautiful, sweeping across the floor as she walked down the aisle with her gaze trained on Seungmin. I observed them both from the side of the room where I had taken my post to keep an eye on things and provide extra security, but it was still enough of a vantage point that I could see her disappointment when she realized that Seungmin wasn’t paying her any attention.

But regardless of Seungmin’s indifference, the priest conducted the ceremony with embellished motions, and he spoke about the positive direction of the Kingdom and the miracle of the Prince's union. “Now, let’s proceed with the presentation of the rings. We can start with Miss. Rose.”

The General’s daughter giggled in response, and she reached out for Seungmin’s hand before sliding the ring into place with a gentle touch. Meanwhile, Seungmin snatched the ring intended for Rose away from Jisung before roughly jamming it on her finger with a bored expression. “Then, it is done,” the priest concluded, and his final statement was met with applause from the other guests.

“There will be a reception in the other room,” a guard whispered to me. “Will you continue to watch with us? There doesn’t appear to be any signs of trouble.”

“Of course,” I agreed, studying the way Seungmin refused to hold Rose’s hand as they left the Throne Room.

“If it’s alright with you, then perhaps you can keep an eye on the main floor?” the guard suggested. “Your magic will be far more useful.”

“And I’ll have a better view of the Prince,” I said while nodding. 

It was tradition to end a wedding ceremony with a reception where the bride and groom could speak with guests while celebrating their nuptials. However, on this occasion in particular, I took great care to observe Seungmin from afar, studying him as he dismissed most of the guests with a curt nod or bored response. The gestures were far from the expectations that our nation had of their Prince, and I was disappointed that he insisted on throwing a tantrum regarding his royal duties.

“There you are,” Hyunjin said, breaking my intense concentration as he came to stand next to me. “I brought you something.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the wine glass from him even though I had no plans to drink.

“That poor girl,” Hyunjin said. “She adores my brother, but he still has eyes for someone else.”

“He’ll get over it,” I insisted. 

“It might help if you took a husband of your own,” Hyunjin remarked, and I looked at him in surprise.

“Why?”

“Well, Seungmin won’t have any hopes left for a union between himself and the Castle’s Mage if she’s engaged,” Hyunjin said. “And I know that my older brother has also taken an interest in you.”

I found myself seeking out Prince Minho on instinct, locating him on the opposite side of the room talking with his father. “I suppose I have no right to refuse him.”

“Since you’re all about duty,” Hyunjin said, and I frowned because he had turned my own words against me. “Minho will be thrilled. I know he plans to confront you tonight. Do try not to make a scene.”

“Have you come over here just to taunt me?” I asked.

“No, but it is rather easy these days,” Hyunjin said with a teasing smile, and I watched the young Prince vanish into the crowd with a heavy feeling of dread settling in the pit of my stomach.

I could hardly take anymore of the drama from the evening, and I briefly entertained the possibility of leaving the Banquet Hall without being noticed by the others. Of course, the opportunity passed quicker than my mind could process a plan of escape, and I stood my ground when Prince Minho took over Hyunjin’s previous spot, looking down at me with a kind smile.

“Prince Minho,” I greeted him with a gentle curtsy. “I’m glad to see your safe return.”

“Really?” Minho grinned. “I never noticed because you tried so hard to avoid me.”

I took a deep breath at the accusation. “I’ve been busy shadowing Seungmin and his bride.”

“Yes, but you could’ve found time to speak with me,” Minho countered. “Nevertheless, I have your attention now if you’ll do me the honor of the next dance?”

“How can I refuse?” I returned, although the question was meant to be rhetorical because I understood the situation all too well - taking Minho’s outstretched hand as he pulled me onto the dance floor.

“We can talk without raising suspicion,” Minho said, and one of his hands dropped low around my waist as he led us around in gentle circles. “But I think you already know what I plan to ask.”

“I could take a few guesses,” I replied.

“I’m sure you might feel compelled,” Minho said. “However, I simply wish to make a suggestion: a union between us that I can bring to my father for his blessing.”

I inhaled sharply at the idea, but there wasn’t an ounce of resistance left in the Mage who had decided to accept the inevitable. “What benefit could I bring to you?” I asked. “If you don’t me asking.”

“Of course not,” Minho said, and we continued to glide together across the floor. “I know you saved my life that day during the tea ceremony, and I won’t lie and say that my position as King would be far less objected if I had someone with your power next to my side.”

“Then you think of me as a political pawn?”

“Y/N, you’re so much more than that,” Minho said. “I can’t believe you still are incapable of seeing it.”

“Seeing what?”

Minho smiled, and even I had to admit that it was a sight for sore eyes. “How special you are,” he said, and there was a moment when time stood-still as his gaze fell to my lips.

But just as quickly, that moment was interrupted by the presence of a man who had also been asking for more and more of my attention. “Can I cut in?” Chan suddenly inserted, and Minho looked two seconds away from cursing his brother as he reluctantly offered him my hand.

“Your highness,” I greeted him, shivering when his hand replaced Minho’s around my waist.

“Y/N,” Chan said with a teasing smile - clearly, he did not consider the use of our formal titles to be appropriate. “Would you believe me if I told you that I felt the highest of necessities to intervene between you and my brother?”

“Why is that?”

Chan laughed, and it was a sound that I hadn’t heard from him before. “I was insanely jealous.”

“Jealous?” I repeated with wavering hesitance, wondering what the eldest Prince meant by that.

“Well, I suppose those feelings are ill-suited for this moment,” Chan said, and he was far more serious when he switched topics. “I want to thank you everything that you’ve done for Ella.”

“I wouldn’t stand aside and allow her to die,” I insisted, but Chan was already shaking his head with a morose expression.

“Ella won’t make it past this month,” Chan whispered, and I swallowed hard as I felt his body fall against mine as if he had already given up. “She weakens as we speak.

“Then, we should try something else-”

“No,” Chan said with a sigh. “I think we’re all tried of pretending there’s hope.”

I felt my heart break in two at his dejection, and I wasn’t nearly as stubborn as Seungmin, reading the defeated look written across Chan’s expression as a sign that not even Magic could stop Death in its tracks. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

“There’s no need for apologies,” Chan said. “Not when you’ve done so much to change her fate.”

“It still breaks my heart,” I said.

“Yes, but don’t misread your grief as guilt,” Chan insisted. “We can mourn the loss of a good soul, but your kindness can never be repaid.”

“I would do it all again,” I said with determination. “I can’t let anyone suffer.”

“I know,” Chan agreed, and there was a faint glimmer of something warm reflected in his eyes. “You’ve shown me true spirit, Y/N, and I will remember your undying support for the rest of my days.”

“You flatter me too much,” I said, but Chan shook his head.

“I can’t do enough for you,” he replied. “But I’m sure someone of your character can remember my wife’s final request of you?”

“Oh?” I asked, closing my eyes as I held tighter to Chan. 

“She asked you to watch over me,” Chan said, and his gaze was intense as he pulled back from me. “I guess I’ll just have to keep you close.”

I trembled at his words, stepping out of his arms when the song playing overhead concluded. “Excuse me,” I murmured, bowing once before stumbling into the surrounding crowd of couples.

I guess I’ll just have to keep you close?

It was a difficult verse that continued to play itself over and over again inside my confused head, blinding me to the people I was bumping into as I sought an escape from the rest of the guests. My heart was palpitating at a rapid pace, and there was an ugly haze lingering at the edges of my vision - the beginnings of a panic attack as I tried to keep myself from drowning in the vicious expectations following me like a persistent touch.

I had almost made it to the door when a rough hand grabbed my shoulder, pulling me backward to meet the haggard gaze of Prince Jisung. “Seungmin is looking for you,” Jisung said with a pained expression. “He refuses to dance with anyone else until he has you first.”

Not him too! My mind screamed with impatience, and I reacted without thinking about the consequences.

“Tell him I started to feel ill,” I said, ignoring Jisung’s repeated attempts to stop me as I quietly snuck away into the darkness outside.

Immediately, I was relieved by the crisp cold of the night, taking in several deep breaths to ground myself as I paused at the edge of the coy pond near the Castle gardens.

“What just happened?” I whispered to myself, wondering what I could’ve done to earn the attention of the Castle’s Princes.

It seemed difficult to fathom, especially for someone of my position, but it was becoming harder to resist their obvious advances. But what could I do? For a Mage like myself, this was beyond the expectations that had been laid out by my ancestors.

I took a deep breath as I curled my arms around my torso, keeping my gaze focused on the calmer waters, especially when I heard rustling from the trees behind me. And I had gotten awfully good at detecting the presence of a Prince who continued to confound me.

“Did you follow me out here?” I asked, holding myself even tighter as I chanced a look over shoulder.

“You were a popular guest tonight,” Felix replied, and I watched him come closer - studying the intensity of his gaze.

“I noticed,” I said. “But I’m not one to seek their attention.”

“Oh, I know that very well, Y/N,” Felix said, and he chuckled as he came to stand next to me. “But I’m not here to question you.”

“Is that so?” I wondered, peering at him from the corner of my eye. “Then what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”

“I think there are many reasons,” Felix said, and I took a moment to admire the fierce color of his red-hair because it was glowing under the moonlight. “But one of them stands out from the rest.”

“Felix-” I started, but the young Prince was an effective interruption, reaching out for my arms to turn me around to look at him and no-one else.

“I think actions speak louder than words,” Felix whispered, and he was leaning in closer before I had a chance to react. Instead, I gasped against Felix’s lips as they descended over mine, shivering at the touch of his tongue against the seam of my own. Unlike before, there was no resistance against him, and the kiss was both unexpected and familiar - like coming home from a year-long journey to receive the ones who loved you the most.

I could feel Felix’s heart in his breath-stealing kiss, the affection of his gentle caress as his lips dominated our elegant exchange - precious oxygen passed between us as the wind started moving even faster in the background. There wasn’t a soul around us to interrupt, but there also wasn’t a single part of me that desired such an interruption, and I was a prisoner to the mysterious Prince Felix. The son who was scorned by the King and Queen, and outcasted by his own blood. 

It was both right and wrong, and I hesitated when he pulled back to look into my eyes with a smoldering gaze. “At this point, Miss Y/N,” Felix said, voice deep and raspy. “You’ve made a habit of stealing my heart.”

“Felix, I can’t,” I insisted, attempting to move away from him, but that only made his hold even tighter. “Your father will never allow it.”

“Do you think I care?” Felix growled. “The same man who sent me away when I was only a boy, crying and screaming for his mother?”

“You're positioned to marry a princess from the North,” I said. “To secure an alliance for Cle.”

“I do not serve my father’s whims,” Felix said, winding an arm around my waist. “I will never marry that girl, with or without your consent.”

“But I won’t allow it!” I cried, detecting the unruliness of my magic in reaction to my uncontrollable emotions. “I won’t be responsible.”

“You must,” Felix said and I froze when I saw a single tear slide down his cheek. “Y/N, you have complete possession of my heart. To have you turn away from me because of my father or my reputation would destroy me.”

I shivered at his words, implying that I could hold so much power over a boy who single-handedly fought an entire battalion of invaders in the North. “What do you want?” I asked him - a loaded question that gave him far too much advantage.

“I want you,” he answered, lips finding mine once again in the narrow space separating our bodies. But this time, I didn’t allow myself to get carried away by the sweet sensations of warmth and love, and I retreated even further back as I glared at him.

“Don’t do this,” I warned him, but before he could say another word, we both startled at the rustling of the grass from the direction of the party, revealing Prince Changbin as he gave us both a knowing look. 

“This is hardly the time for these interactions,” Changbin said, and I could feel my heart skyrocket because he might ruin everything.

“What are doing here?” Felix asked, attempting to stand taller as he narrowed his eyes as his older brother.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Changbin said, tsking as he brought himself closer to us. “And I’m disappointed in you, Felix. Because I thought you already knew that I planned to ask for Y/N’s hand in marriage.”

“What?” Felix exhaled, and even I could hardly believe the nonsense coming out of Changbin.

“You didn’t know?” Changbin gasped, and it was obviously meant to be mocking. “My poor little brother, he’s hardly allowed to know anything around here.”

“Stop!” Felix growled, taking an intimidating step towards Changbin. “Tell me what you intend to do.”

“Perhaps I want to take the Mage for myself,” Changbin threatened, circling around Felix and I with calculating eyes. “Father will be pleased if I ask for her hand.”

“She’s mine,” Felix snarled, and there was a vicious anger sharpening his features. “You will never lay a hand on her.”

“Is that so?” Changbin asked, and he seemed unusually pleased with himself when his eyes found the place where Felix’s hand was holding mine. “We’ll see about that.”

The remainder of the evening passed like a shadow, and I hardly remember anything else after returning to my room. I was shaken by all of my encounters with the Princes, and I fell asleep much faster than usual in an effort to escape those problems in my dreams. But much too soon, I was woken up again by a gentle hand shaking my shoulder.

I blinked open my eyes, finding Anna standing over me. “What is it?” I asked, noting her troubled expression.

“The King demands your presence in the throne room,” Anna said, greeting me with a sheepish look. “He sounded...tense?”

I shivered at the description, wondering if I had done something wrong. Or, even worse, if Changbin had told his father about my rendevous with Felix at the edge of the pond? How we kissed under the moon while Felix declared his affections for me.

I shook my head at the thought, thanking Anna before getting dressed because it was never a good idea to keep the King waiting. 

Under any circumstances... 

But I could hardly stop my feet from dragging across the floor as I walked in the direction of the Throne Room, stumbling in my steps as I thought about all the potential things the King could tell me. Especially when I paused outside the door and could hear so many voices speaking from the other side. “Calm down,” I whispered to myself, pushing open the doors and immediately attracting every eye in the room to my person.

“Ah!” the King announced, and I was somewhat relieved when I realized that he was smiling. “There you are! Come up front for me. I have a very important announcement.”

“Of course, your grace,” I said, and I tried to ignore Felix watching me with that intense look as I knelt down on the floor in front of the King.

In actuality, most of the King’s sons were standing in the room, along with so many unfamiliar faces who were watching the drama unfold. It was somewhat humiliating, even if the King’s announcement worked in my favor. But I was cautious as I stood there, trying to appear more put-together than I felt.

“Stand for me,” the King said.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, and I returned to my full height to meet the King’s curious gaze.

“Well, I suppose I can understand,” the King said, and I was confused as he turned to address the rest of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, my son Changbin, at his own discretion, has chosen to wed our dearest Castle Mage,” the King announced. “And he has my blessing in full support.”

I faltered in my confident stance, feeling the entire room sway around me. “Sir?” I whispered, but it wasn’t loud enough to be overheard over the ensuring chaos. 

Instead, there were immediate murmurs and whispers filling the Throne Room upon the announcement, and I watched from the corner of my eye as Felix stormed past the guards in a dramatic exit. Meanwhile, multiple pairs of eyes were looking in my direction, and I was trying not to sink under the weight of their judgement. They were probably wondering why someone with my status had been given such an exclusive honor, but there was no answer to give them in return to satiate their curiosities.

Or, they were like Chan and Minho, standing with their other siblings while wearing two completely different expressions, but they both conveyed their mutual dislike for the King’s announcement. For example, Minho’s scowl was enough evidence for his underlying anger, and there was a slight hint of betrayal somewhere in his eyes, wondering why his younger brother beat him to requesting my hand. And then there was Chan, the picture of someone who was entirely conflicted, staring at the King with an tense gaze like he wasn’t quite sure how to react, but his first instinct was to presume the worst.

“We shall try to conduct the ceremony as soon as possible,” the King concluded, and he remained opposed to the rumors running rampant through his court as he joined his guards at the door.

And I was left standing at the front of the room, surrounded by hostile voices, meeting Changbin’s gaze as he offered me a sinister smile.

For the remainder of the day, I kept to myself and avoided everyone else who lived inside the Castle. The decision was for my own sanity because I knew that anyone who might choose to confront me would only create even more unnecessary stress. And that was the last thing I needed.

Thus, when the moon rose in the sky, I made my way back to my quarters after an entire afternoon of wandering the gardens and attending to my regular duties. I was feeling better after spending time away from the others, and my mind was pleasantly refreshed in that moment, listening to the sounds of my footsteps against the cobblestones.

It also seemed like most of the Castle occupants were also giving me space, and I figured there would be no further disturbances. Which explained my surprise and confusion when I stumbled upon Seungmin’s bride sitting alone in the empty corridors.

“Princess,” I said with a nod in her direction. “Might I ask why you’re wandering the halls so late at night?”

“It’s Seungmin,” she whispered, refusing to meet my gaze. “I can’t find him.”

“Really?” I asked, eliminating the remaining space between us. “When did you see him last?”

She sighed, shaking her head with a disappointed look. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he doesn’t love me,” she replied with fresh tears. “He can do whatever he likes.”

“Nonsense,” I declared. “Seungmin has an obligation to you as your husband.”

“No he doesn’t,” she said with a shaky tone. “I thought I could convince him to love me, but he’s resisted every step of the way.”

“Then that is his fault,” I said. “Because, as far as I can tell, you’re perfect for Seungmin.”

“I wish he felt the same,” she said. “It would make things easier.”

“Perhaps he can after a while,” I said. “Give him time.”

“But it’s so hard,” she whined. “There isn’t any reassurance that he’ll change his mind, and I can’t keep pretending that I’m happy.”

I sighed at that, realizing she was right. “You should never feign your happiness,” I agreed. “However, there’s no chance you can give up at this point, so please allow me to find him for you.”

Rose looked at me with a curious expression, but she simply nodded in response to my request. “Okay.”

“Return to your room,” I said. “Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

And I waited until Rose had complied with my orders before turning my sights to the gardens once again. Because Seungmin had a preferences for the orchards, and I figured that I might find him amongst the hedge mazes seeking reprieve of his own.

But at least the gardens were peaceful at this time of night, and I enjoyed the cooler air as I tried to locate Seungmin. How stubborn could someone really be considering all that had happened? I could understand resistance at first, but would it make a difference in the long term? 

“There you are,” I grumbled, stepping deeper inside the complicated maze because I had spotted Seungmin’s familiar dark hair against the endless green of the vegetation. “Seungmin!” I yelled, and the young Prince immediately paused when he heard my voice. “What are you doing?”

I could see his shoulders lift up and down around a sigh. “I’m just walking.”

“I can see that,” I said, placing one hand on his shoulder. “But shouldn’t you be inside with your bride?”

“Why?” Seungmin scoffed. “So I can pretend to be her husband.”

“Seungmin,” I said. “You are her husband, and there’s no leaving the arrangement.”

“It’s bullshit,” Seungmin growled. “I don’t even love her, and she only thinks that she loves me.”

“Really?” I questioned him. “Then why is she wandering the Castle looking for you?”

He hesitated at that, searching for an explanation. “What?”

“She loves you a lot,” I insisted, looking at Seungmin with a severe expression. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Seungmin replied. “I can’t return her affections. I wasn’t the one who demanded our union.”

“But you’re the one who can make the most of it,” I said. “Seungmin, like it or not, you’re married. You can’t escape that responsibility, but you can learn to accept it sooner rather than later. You can lead a good life, and have lots of children to continue your lineage.”

“Is that all that matters?” Seungmin said. “Having heirs to rule the Kingdom?”

“No,” I said. “However, the road you’re on is up to you to decide, and the one you’re treading right now is very dangerous.”

Thunder rumble in the background at my bold claim, and even Seungmin was shaken from his despondency. “Y/N-”

“Stop,” I interrupted him. “This won’t help change your future, and I refuse to let you ruin something that could be so good.”

“It’s not what I wanted,” Seungmin repeated, and I remembered Hyunjin’s cautious warning that his little brother was stubborn to a fault.

“At least stay with her at night,” I said. “She doesn’t deserve to be left alone searching the Castle for you.”

“I guess so,” Seungmin begrudged, and I rolled my eyes because the young Prince would be difficult to break.

After ensuring that Seungmin was safe in his quarters, I thought that I could return to my room. However, that idea was quickly abandoned when I spotted Felix and Changbin walking in my direction. But before they could notice me, I darted back around the corner, peering around the wall to watch them enter Changbin’s quarters.

The situation was suspicious, and I couldn’t resist the temptation of following them to stand outside the doors, holding my breath as I listened in on their conversation. “You want the girl?” I heard Changbin begin. “That can be arranged.”

I shivered when I realized that they were talking about me, and I waited for Felix’s response with bated breath. “You’re despicable,” Felix growled. “You planned this from the beginning to manipulate me.”

“It took you long enough to catch-on,” Changbin said. “How else was I supposed to secure my little brother’s alliance?”

“I am allied to nobody,” Felix declared, but Changbin laughed in response.

“Well, you might change your mind when you learn that the girl of your dreams is contingent on helping me,” Changbin replied.

“What do you want?” Felix asked.

“I’m glad you asked because I’ve been planning this since Minho’s ceremony,” Changbin said, and I could practically hear his arrogance. “I’m planning a coupe to take the throne.”

Felix was silent in response, and I resisted the urge to intervene because there was a threat against the one I was meant to serve. “What are you going to do?” Felix eventually asked.

"First, we’ll have to wait for that old fool to die. Anyone with eyes can see that his health is failing. Then, we get rid of Minho, and I take my rightful place on the throne.”

“You?” Felix chuckled. “What makes you qualified?”

“You doubt me? Over yourself?” Changbin snorted. “Do you really think the people will sit aside and let a misfit like you lead their nation?”

Felix was rendered silent once again, and even I recognized the truth in Changbin’s statement. “You’re seriously planning to overthrow Minho?”

“Of course,” Changbin said. “I deserve it more than him. It’s been my destiny since I was born.”

“Who told you that? Your mother?” 

“Does it matter?” Changbin returned. “It’s my birthright, and I need the support of my brothers if I want to succeed.”

“Changbin,” Felix said. “This is very serious, and the King already doesn’t trust me. Why should I risk everything for you?”

“Because, when I’m King, I’ll give you and the Mage my blessing to be wed,” Changbin replied. “I have no interest in the Castle’s Mage. Our current arrangement is only a formality - a placeholder for you.”

“Fine, but I want your word,” Felix growled. “She’s mine, and I won’t stand for anything to hold us back.”

“Of course not,” Changbin purred. “I swear on my life, Felix. You and the Mage get your happily ever after, and I will fulfill my destiny.”

I swallowed hard at the proposition, holding my breath and waiting for Felix’s response. “I will help you then,” Felix agreed, and my entire being was crushed at the admittance of his betrayal.

Thereafter, I was running through the Castle’s corridors, eyes blurred with tears as I tried to escape from the wickedness surrounding me. 

I should’ve known better when it came to Changbin, and I had severely underestimated Felix’s interest for me. The two brothers were planning the downfall of their own father and brother, and I was feeling torn apart because I couldn’t possibly see myself hurting Felix, but the idea of betraying my duties to the Castle?

I shook my head at the thought because the entire foundation of my purpose at the Castle was falling apart beneath my feet, and I almost felt weightless without that purpose grounding me. But what was I supposed to do about Changbin and Felix? Could I forgive myself if I stood aside and allowed the plot to unfold? Where did my loyalties exist if the entire royal family was split in half?

The questions were numerous, and I almost ran into Jeongin in my haste to escape to my quarters. But the younger was only startled for a second before his eyes lit with recognition. “Y/N,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His eyes were full of sadness, and I wiped away the final reminders of my tears because I wasn’t sure if he needed comfort. “Is something wrong?”

“Y/N,” Jeongin said with glistening eyes. “Ella is dead.”

#stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #felix fanfic #lee felix fanfic #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids series #skz series #stray kids scenarios #felix imagines #felix scenarios #mostlycompetent

[ve1vetyoongi]

Mic Drop | myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff

au: rapper!yoongi, photographer!oc

summary: when underground rapper min yoongi uncovers the dirty secret behind his biggest rival, your brother and hip hop champion kim namjoon’s success, he is determined to take home this year’s mic drop contest trophy no matter who he hurts along the way. you’re behind the camera, content with capturing namjoon’s picture perfect persona from the sidelines but when his hard-faced enemy Gloss, makes you realise you could be more than just the point and shoot, you start to feel your loyalties shifting.

warnings: multiple smut scenes, dirty talk, dry humping, penetrative sex, fingering, oral sex (both m and f receiving), lots of orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, cum play, cum eating, but also tender fucking lol, very brief mention of death.

word count: 29k (rip)

rating: definitely explicit

playlist: visit my playlist page and select “mic drop.” (all links to be added later)

a/n: ahhh you don’t understand how happy i am to finally put this out into the world!!! i started writing this fic back in july and after a few rewrites (more on this at the end of the post if anyone sticks around until then) she’s finally finished eee <3 also!!! this fic is brought to you courtesy of the love yourself collab! this project has been super fun to be a part of n i wanna say thank you to everyone involved who made it such a welcoming experience! you can check out the masterlist here (link will be added later f u tumblr) to read all the other amazing fics from the incredibly talented authors in this project (literally so talented??? it’s sickening???) (im so excited to finally read them all now im done w this monster lol). all the love as always <3

Introducing Runch Randa!

The host is barely audible over the chants of your brother's name as the lights dim and the arena is sent into a haze of strobe lights.

The air is already heady with body heat and fragrant with sweat from the thousands of bodies smushed together in the pit and beyond that thousands more seated in the stands, phone lights twinkling in the darkened arena like stars. A girl in your peripheral clutches a sign with MARRY ME RUNCH RANDA scrawled in sharpie, torso clad in one of the cheap merch hoodies with your brother's face printed on the front, just like hundreds of others around her.

It's a full house. No one's surprised. The Mic Drop semi-final always creates a buzz of anticipation within the hip hop scene. But this year, with your brother Namjoon returning to compete for the trophy again, there isn't an empty seat in sight.

A buzz pulses through the crowd when the bass kicks in. It makes hearts beat faster, blood run hotter, a crescendo of screams crashing violently through room, the sheer volume enough to make the walls shake in time with the stamp of impatient feet.

It's infectious. Almost. If you hadn't been here a hundred times before, countless nights the same as this one that all started to blur into one somewhere along the line. Different crowds but the same energy, the same hum of anticipation that used to get your bones rattling, your skin hot with suspense. Now it's just routine. Now you feel nothing.

Besides, you're just here to do your job. The photographer. To take pictures, not to enjoy the show. Just like always.

Five seconds. You know Namjoon's set list like the back of your hand by now. Five seconds until he takes the stage and the crowd goes wild.

One, two, three, four...

Like clockwork, the stage lights up and there he is, face blown up in painful detail across every screen. Runch Randa. His stage name pulses through the room, a mantra, chanted until throats turn sore and mouths run dry.

Dark framed glasses cover his eyes but his stance is enough to tell you that he came here to win, his presence immediately filling the empty stage with an energy that makes it impossible to look anywhere else, even for a moment.

He is already damp with sweat, neck glistening beneath the white lights. Like routine you snap a few shots when he taunts the camera with a smirk, brushing a hand through his immaculately gelled hair teasingly, mouth turning up into a grin when the audience roars.

Runch Randa walks across the stage with the ease of someone who lives and breathes for moments like these. Grabs the microphone with two hands, shiny silver rings glinting on his fingers beneath the harsh strobe lights.

You can see his opponents in the front row, nothing but rookies, the intimidation etched into their features visible even from where you stand side stage as they swallow the bitter pill that they stand no chance against him.

Once upon a time you were the same as the wide eyed fans in the pit, filled with an admiration for your brother. He was everything you wanted to be; a whirlwind of fearless, brazen passion when he got up on stage. But things changed once Namjoon won Mic Drop, claiming the trophy at the tender age of seventeen. After that he started filling arenas. Then stadiums. And you were left behind in the ruins of his whirlwind, feeling the Namjoon you once knew slip further away as Runch Randa took center stage, viewing his perfect persona through the lens of your camera with the same sour resentment as the rookies.

Because when a familiar beat permeates the arena, you can't help but close your eyes and imagine the name the crowd screams is yours. That it's you out there instead of him. It's you pouring your heart into the lyrics that you find yourself whispering unconsciously in time with your brother.

Your lyrics.

The lyrics you wrote especially for this performance. The same lyrics that would be streamed by millions, top charts and win Namjoon another stupid trophy to add to his already elaborate collection.

The only reason Namjoon still kept you around was because he couldn't write them himself.

The track ends and the Mic Drop host crosses the stage with a grin. Namjoon's arm is thrust into the air triumphantly.

"And our first finalist is...Runch Randa!"

You snap a picture of your brother smiling victoriously.

"He's gonna win. I know it."

Namjoon's manager Jimin sidles up beside you, grin plastered to his face. It's nauseating.

"Does he ever lose?" You murmur

Runch Randa! Runch Randa! Runch Randa!

--

Mic Drop. The most highly anticipated event in the music industry for its ability to make hip hop artists stars; as well as its tendency to break them just as easily.

Fame. Money. Glory. Just a few of the reasons why rap rookies from across the globe are desperate to compete in the ruthless battle of blood, sweat and rap that is Mic Drop.

They all think they have what it takes. That they have that special something the judges are looking for. Unfortunately, most don't even make it past the auditions phase.

When your brother, Mic Drop legend Runch Randa, announced he would be ditching his celebrity status and stadium concerts to return to his underground roots and compete for the trophy again, it raised a series of questions

Why now? What did he have to prove?

Once the press got wind of the fact that your parent's, CEO'S of the most prestigious record label in the industry Big Hit Entertainment, had run into a spot of financial trouble, everyone assumed your brother's re-entry was a master plan to win the lavish cash prize afforded to competition winners. Sure, you couldn't deny that it was partly true --- Big Hit's stocks were plummeting and a lot was at stake.

Truthfully, though, you knew your brother well enough to see that Namjoon's motives were far more selfish; to put it simply, he was greedy. Fame was his drug. Once he got a taste he could never get enough.

Of course, a cheque signed and delivered by your father's hand shut any rumors down very quickly. Your parent's were good at silencing people if it meant protecting Namjoon's reputation.

Even you, their own daughter.

The name tag labelled OFFICIAL PHOTOGRAPHER was nothing but a cover up for the true reason you spent so much time at Big Hit -- writing each and every one of Namjoon's hit songs. A secret you were forced to keep as you watched your brother through a camera lens.

Which is how you find yourself as his strictly-invitation-only after party, an attempt at building momentum for the big final in just a few weeks time, with a camera in hand.

You're sat in the corner of the A-list club Jimin rented out for the event, swirling the deep red liquid in your glass with a bored disinterest as you watch your brother shake hands with company investors and big buck producers, most of which you'd never even heard of.

These things always seem to drag on, the clock ticking slower with each agonising second spent smiling courteously to uphold the supportive sister persona. Your feet are starting to hurt in your heels and all you want to do is hide away in the Big Hit studio and scribble down the lyrics floating aimlessly in your mind. That's the only good thing about these events -- they give you time to think, a rare relief in between your brother's busy schedules.

"Well, well. If it isn't my favorite lyricist."

A cheerful voice jolts you from your thoughts and when you blink up through the flashing lights you're met with a lazy grin belonging to Hoseok, one of the producers at Big Hit. He's an ex Mic Drop contestant himself, coming fourth and just missing out on the semi-finals three years ago. He never had the stomach for it anyway, he always says, but you never miss the rejection in his eyes.

Hoseok is also one of the only people who knows about your secret. He was hired to help you work on tracks for your brother once he made it big after all, and although he would never admit it you knew he probably had to sign a hefty NDA. Still, you were grateful to have him around — you couldn't deny you made something of a dream team together.

"Mind if I sit?" He gestures with his glass towards the empty space beside you, and you move your purse so he can squash in on the leather couch. "At least some of us are having fun, huh?" You follow his gaze to Namjoon on the dance floor, hands all over some vaguely recognizable celebrity's hips.

You grimace and swig back the remaining alcohol in your glass. "Too much fun, apparently."

Hoseok snorts, wringing his hands. "Y'know, we could get out of here if you're as bored as I am..." His words slur just slightly and you figure his confidence is a result of the amber liquor in his glass. The shy Hoseok  you know well returns quickly though as he averts his eyes when you raise a brow. "Not like that! I just thought maybe we could get a drink or something...if you want to?"

You shift awkwardly, having to shout over the booming club music for him to hear you. "I should really stay here. People might ask questions if the sister of the host just...disappears."

"Right!" Hoseok smiles sheepishly then slaps his own forehead. "Right. Forget I ever asked."

You shake your head fondly and turn back towards the dance floor just in time to see Namjoon whisper in the ear of the DJ, music cutting as he takes the mic and hops up onto the small stage to address the party.

Finally! A sign he was going to wrap up the evening for good!

He clears his throat and the huddle of mingling bodies below him fall into an expectant hush.

"Uh, so I'm not usually very good at these speech things --" He pauses and the crowd laughs. You tap your knee impatiently. "But I just wanted to say thank you. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for your support. So, the next round of drinks are on me! I haven't won — yet — but its never too early to start celebrating, right?"

Namjoon raises his flute of champagne and the party-goers cheer just as a flurry of confetti drops from the ceiling. The music starts again and you're too busy picking the brightly colored paper out of your hair disgruntledly to notice the way the room suddenly quietens and the guests part down the middle like prey from a predator.

"Y/N. Look." Hoseok elbows you sharply and flies forward in his seat, whisky sloshing over the edge of his glass. "Shit! Is that--"

Is that really him? What is he doing here? He's back!

You look up just in time to see the commotion as a figure in a black hoodie weaves effortlessly to the front of the room. You don't recognise him but something about his presence gives you chills.

Namjoon is too busy throwing back his drink to notice as the man climbs the stage, his skinny jeans and high tops sticking out like a sore thumb against the sea of dress shoes and cocktail dresses. He clearly wasn't invited.

By the time your brother senses the change in the air, it's too late.

You feel your face pale, choking when the figure finally turns and lets down his hood, revealing a head of blue hair and a venomous smirk.

"Gloss?"

Namjoon turns and his smile dissolves. He just stares stiffly at the person in front of him like he's seen a ghost. In a way you suppose he has -- the ghost of his past. After all, the last time anyone saw this face was five years ago at the Mic Drop final.

It is him! It's Gloss! Why is he back?

The night that changed all of your lives. When Namjoon claimed the Mic Drop trophy and Gloss, his opponent, lost everything.

It's been years since the last time you saw Gloss but you still recognize the distinctive confidence in his gait, the way his eyes flash with something dark as he looks your brother up and down with a breathy laugh.

Namjoon is frozen, breathing heavily.

Gloss' voice is husky when he finally speaks. It makes you shiver.

"Runch Randa. Long time no see, huh?"

A beat of unbearable silence.

"What are you doing here?"

Gloss's chuckle makes Namjoon snarl. You see the way his jaw tenses and his fists clench. He's too wound up; he'll snap if you don't do something and fast.

You get to your feet but Hoseok pulls you back down sternly by the elbow. "Don't." You protest but his grip is too tight so you just fidget helplessly instead.

Something settles in the atmosphere; a nervousness that makes you itch, makes your heart pump into overdrive as you watch them draw closer, eyes narrowed like boxers in a ring, waiting for the other to make a move. Hoseok covers his eyes.

"I wouldn't start celebrating just yet, Runch. The competition has only just begun."

The crowd gasps when your brother's clenched fist swings at his smug opponent. The rapper ducks but not quite in time and you can't remember which comes first — the crunch that crackles through the speakers when Namjoon's ring-clad knuckles collide with Gloss' face or the ear splitting thump of his mic dropping to the ground.

--

The party ends abruptly. Your head spins with confusion as you watch the guests leave in shock. Seeing Namjoon up on that stage opposite his biggest opponent again makes your stomach sick, like you were reliving the events of five years ago all over again.

Deep down you had always expected this moment to come. For Gloss to return looking for revenge or something. After all, Gloss didn't just loose Mic Drop to anyone -- he lost to Namjoon, his former best friend and music partner. Namjoon and Yoongi. They were supposed to win together. But for reasons still unknown, even to you, Yoongi was disqualified moments before the final commenced, plummeting your brother into the world of fame alone.

After that, Gloss all but disappeared, his pitiful downfall nothing but a hip hop legend to those who heard it. No record deals or sponsorships or stadium tours like your brother. A legend in his own right, but for all the wrong reasons. Mic Drop banned duos from competing thereafter.

Eventually you gather the courage to head into one of the back rooms where the rappers had been hauled by security guards in hi-vis jackets after their scuffle. You can hear Jimin babbling before you even reach the door.

"What were you thinking? Punching him? You better hope the press don't get ahold of this or else you're in big trouble—"

"Let me go!" Namjoon grunts to Jimin whose face is almost as red as his own. "I'm gonna end this once and for all."

"You'll do no such thing," Jimin tuts, pushing him firmly by the shoulder so he slumps into his seat with a roll of the eyes, other hand pressing his phone to his ear. "Do you even understand the amount of damage control I'm going to have to do to? — hold on, yes, this is Park Jimin speaking..."

The room smells of disinfectant and medical gauze and you spot Namjoon instantly, surrounded by an abundance of medics. His breathing is still ragged, the vein on his neck standing to prominence, knee bouncing as he impatiently waits for his ruby knuckles to be bandaged, too engaged to notice your arrival.

To your left you're surprised to find Yoongi. He's the epitome of composure despite the heavy tension in the air. He grabs a roll of bandage and begins to patch up his own fist, eyes lighting up with something you can't put your finger on when you slide into the room.

"Well, look who decided to turn up. If it isn't Namjoon's little sister. Long time no see, Y/N."

You freeze. It's been years since you heard him say your name. It makes you feel funny.

"Yoongi." You swallow. "What are you doing here?"

His shit eating grin makes your blood boil. "I take it you haven't heard yet, then."

You roll your eyes. You should be checking on Namjoon not humoring whatever stupid motives his opponent has. "Heard what, Yoongi?"

"I'm re-entering the competition, too."

You stagger backwards. Yoongi? Re-entering the competition? Mic Drop?

"But--you were disqualified--I don't understand?"

"I was disqualified. Disqualifications are only valid for five years, according to the rule book. Who knew?" He smirks when your eyes widen. "And I think you'll find that my sentence is up. I'm gonna win this time, once and for all."

"I don't think you know what you're doing, Yoongi—"

"There's more." He licks his lips. "I know your secret."

Your heart stops, mouth running dry. You throw a glance over your shoulder. Namjoon is still engaged, swatting away a medic's ice pack with a scowl, thankfully too busy to notice when you draw closer, voice a harsh whisper. "W-what secret?"

Yoongi lets out a dark chuckle, wincing just barely when he touches a damp cloth to the cut in his lip, a red splotch forming on the fabric. "You know exactly what secret I'm talking about, Y/N. Wouldn't it be ironic if someone slipped a tip off to the judges panel about Namjoon's ghost writer—"

"Shut the fuck up Min Yoongi or I'll break your nose for real this time!" Namjoon's voice bellows behind you, making you jolt. He charges at Yoongi, lip quivering like he might make his threat a reality. "Leave her out of this!"

Yoongi's nostrils flare. "Everyone knows she's a part of this, Namjoon, whether she likes it or not!"

All eyes look your way, as if expecting you to say something, but Yoongi's words fall cluelessly on you. You hadn't so much as thought about him in years. What did you have to do with this stupid ongoing feud with your brother that he refused to let go?

You glance between them, settling for sending a blank look at Yoongi and shuffling over to Namjoon instead. Your brother seems prideful at your show of allegiance. Yoongi scoffs.

"Namjoon?" Your mouth is dry with the shock of the situation and it comes out sounding funny, like you're wary of him. A gash above his eyebrow starts to dribble crimson. "Shit, you're hurt..."

"Get off me." Namjoon shakes his shoulder violently and you gingerly remove your hand, brows furrowed at his rejection. He directs his attention to Yoongi. "And you. You want a fight? It's on."

"Joon!—" He waves you off. It's pointless anyway. When he gets this rash there's no changing his mind.

"You want to end this thing once and for all? Then let's do this. You and me. At the final."

Yoongi raises a brow. "Deal. I'd shake your hand but you might try and knock me into next week again."

Namjoon doesn't laugh.

A hoard of security guards bust into the room and head straight for Yoongi. "Finally. What the fuck do I even pay these people for?"

"Get off me!"

You place a hand on Namjoon's shoulder and find that he's trembling. Rage? Nerves? Adrenaline? All three, probably, if the vacant blackness behind his eyes is anything to go by.

You're already trailing behind your brother when you hear Yoongi's voice carry down the hall. "I'll see you at the final! When I win. Secrets always find a way to come back and bite you in the ass, Runch. You should know that better than anyone!"

--

Namjoon begs you to come as his plus one to some scummy gig Gloss is rumored to be performing at tonight. To check out the competition, he says, but you recognise the way he nibbles his lip as he does.

Fear. He'll never admit it but Namjoon is scared he’s going to lose.

You agree to join him because you think it may put his mind at rest.

As Namjoon's manager, Jimin has all sorts of connections, mumbling thank you's into the head set sitting around his ears like a permanent accessory and scribbling down the address of some club down town.

The driver your parent's hired to escort Namjoon around as a paparazzi safety precaution drops the three of you a block away; the car's black tinted windows and shiny number plate would be out of place in such a scummy part of town. The plan would only work if you went unnoticed. Namjoon couldn't risk running into a Runch Randa fangirl tonight. It was technically against the Mic Drop rules to have any intel on your opponents, after all.

You don't like to tell Namjoon that his disguise won't do much for blending in. He dons a designer cap pulled down low over his face, long black coat drowning his figure and expensive leather boots crunching against broken glass and cigarette stumps as you near the club. It's too put together to seem natural, a dead give away that he doesn't belong here among the sea of ripped jeans and septum rings and tattoo sleeves around you. Even with a patterned bandana covering half of his face, the sculpted cheekbones and piercing eyes smudged effortlessly with black eyeliner poking over the top scream celebrity.

Luckily for you, the plain dress and knit cardigan hugging your body doesn't alert the suspicions of the bouncers cross armed at the entrance.

Namjoon wrinkles his nose and prods a half empty solo cup discarded outside with his toe, Jimin practically jittering with nerves and barely avoiding a stumbling drunk as you approach the men who stand at nearly double your size. Namjoon said it was best that you acted as spokesperson tonight — the only reason he even brought you along was because nobody would know your face and your position at Big Hit allowed you to pull some strings.

Your fingers shake as you produce a photography license from your bag, heart pounding as one of the menacing bouncers raises his eyebrow beneath the deep red hue emanating from a tacky neon sign posted above the door.

Luckily the breath you're holding is leaving you in a relieved thank you as he nods, moves to the side and gestures for your entourage to dip inside with the rest of the crowd. Namjoon charges ahead into the darkness and you follow him with an awkward smile to make up for his rude demeanour.

No turning back now...

Music hits like a deafening wave, blasting from the speakers at a volume that makes the walls shiver and your head throb. The club is alive with reckless anticipation, a sea of sweaty bodies gyrating on the dance floor in time with the pulsing beat. The energy swallows you whole, knuckles turning white as you cling to Jimin's sleeve, letting him elbow through the throng of indistinguishable faces that glitter beneath the tacky disco ball dangling haphazardly from the ceiling.

The crowd eventually spits you back out in a quieter corner of the club, Namjoon already making a beeline for the seedy bar. "There's a whiskey sour with my name on it and it's the only thing that'll get me through this shit." He murmurs as he crosses the room and occupies a bar stool beside a couple mid heavy make out session, pulling the hat closer around his face.

With a sigh, you turn back to Jimin who is eyeing up the strip pole and the exotic dancers nearby with wide eyes. "I still don't think this is a good idea."

The italian leather couch you slump into is suspiciously sticky beneath your bare thighs. "He needs to get the apprehension out of his system," you counter. "Once he sees that there's no competition he'll be able to take him down."

"I hope you're right." Jimin is wringing his hands, not knowing what to do with them now his headset is sat on the backseat of the car a block away. "I'd hate for this to knock his confidence."

"What?" You snort. "You think Gloss might actually beat him?"

Namjoon is the best rapper around, there's no debate. Nobody could beat him. Not even Gloss.

"No." His pursed lips say otherwise. You raise a brow. Jimin lowers his voice. "Maybe. Namjoon's rash. Gets ahead of himself. If he doesn't pull it together he'll play straight into Yoongi's hands..."

"Shows starting." Your open mouth snaps shut when the cushions dip beside you and Namjoon throws his arms over the back of the couch, swirling his half empty glass with an overconfident smirk.

Jimin averts his gaze. He knows he probably said too much. Sure, you're technically his colleague but you're also Namjoon's sister, the daughter of his boss. If Namjoon had overheard his position at Big Hit could have been called into question.

You would have to grill him more about Yoongi's motives later. Namjoon was right; the show really was starting.

Lights send the club into a dizzying purple haze, a new beat rumbling through the club that makes your skin prickle. It's almost drowned out by the electricity in the air, the frantic stamping of feet, the brazen chants of a single name over and over that fills you with a funny tingly feeling.

Gloss! Gloss! Gloss!

Something about it feels dirty.

The crowd is packed tightly together in the pit now. Even from where you sit, avoiding club goers eyes on the opposite side of the room, you find your attention glued to the stage. The set up is nothing like the one your brother occupies every night; just a wooden structure, painted black at one point but scuffed and scratched by the soles of shoes that boast the history of the place. The speakers are propped on broken crates, no big LED screens or back up dancers like your parents hire out for Namjoon.

Though none of that seems to matter when your gaze falls on the sole microphone stand placed centre stage beneath a blinding spotlight. It's the only familiar parallel between the two performers. It's a symbol of an artist, of the passion that comes with being up on that stage — any stage. It belongs to a performer.

You have to peer through a sea of frantic waving hands on your tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the combat boots taking the stage in time with the music rushing in your ears, mouth dry at the silver rings glinting under the harsh lights as fingers curl around the microphone.

"Yoongi." Namjoon grunts beside you, back stick straight and alert now. The traces of his previous smirk have been erased, a line appearing at the bridge of his nose. "There he is."

Yoongi throws his head back, breathes in the stuffy air that carries the shouts and whistles of the crowd like it's the sweetest oxygen money can buy.

The stench of beer burns your eyes but you're scared you'll miss a glimpse of his messy blue hair, or the eyes drunk on the fierce energy pulsing through the club to stop watching even if you tried.

When his voice permeates the room it's husky, burning through you like a shot of dry whisky. Namjoon stiffens, loosens the bandana around his face so he can see better.

Is that Runch Randa?

"Namjoon..." You hiss. "People are looking."

"Shut up." He grits, jaw tightening as Yoongi's lyrics cut through the tension like a serrated knife.

The way he moves across the stage like he owns it is exhilarating, makes the blood in your veins pump hot, limbs turning to lead as the crowd hangs off his every word.

He's good. Great, even. His lyrics give you goosebumps and you realise you haven't felt like this about a performance in a long time. Passionate. Yoongi is exhilarating to watch and it shakes you to the core.

It's then that it dawns on you. The reason Namjoon feels threatened is because there is a real chance that he might loose everything.

Gloss might take the trophy once and for all.

You only rip your eyes away from the stage when you feel Namjoon stand up beside you, his body disappearing into the crowd.

You get up too. "Leave him." You watch Jimin mouth. "He's just angry, he'll calm down—"

You don't care about Namjoon, not when the air is suddenly too thick, too heavy to breathe. Not when your hands sweat and you heave with a desire to run from reality and the suffocating smell of stale cigarette smoke that made your throat burn, like you can't get your body to breathe.

"Y/N? Where are you going?"

You swear you're floating, feet never seeming to quite touch the ground as you battle against the hazy dizziness that makes the room spin, ignoring Jimin's exasperated shouts of your name as you push through the gaps between bodies and pray your sense of direction is still intact enough to pull your outstretched arms towards the exit.

--

It's dark outside when you spill out of the exit, spluttering and heaving for air.

The brick is cool against your back when you slide down a nearby wall, hugging your knees.

A deep breath. In then out. Your chest loosens, lungs begin to feel full enough again.

Until a gravelly voice rings out into the night, clearer than the thump of unintelligible music from inside the club that makes your head pound.

"So it was you I saw back there. Good to know I'm not seeing things."

Even before you lift your face from between your knees you know who it belongs to. The single person you want to see least in the world at this very moment.

"Go away." You grumble but all that follows is a low chuckle as Yoongi slumps down next to you, ensuring to leave a safe distance between your crouched bodies.

It's funny. You had been preparing yourself to see him all night but now he's actually here in front of you, your mouth is dry.

He looks the same as he always did; dark eyes that burn hot as they scan your face, cocky smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. His brow looks wearier than you remember though, too weary for a man of twenty three. The only indication that time has passed since him and your brother were best friends.

"I assume Namjoon sent you here, then?"

The mention of your brother's name offers you the courage you need to look at him directly. His forehead still gleams with sweat in the dim moonlight, hair slicked back with a red bandana. There's a ring around his eye now, black and bruised. He must have taken off the black hoodie he donned on stage, left now in only a white vest which exposes his arms and to your dismay makes your blood run a little hotter.

"He's inside. I just came along because I had to." You mumble. "I'm not his spy, you know."

"Sure as shit seems like it." Yoongi spits with an amused chuckle, head lolling on his shoulders to face you. "He worried I might tell everyone about his little secret? Or was he trying to find his own leverage?"

A hot anger boils beneath your skin, rising all the way to your cheeks. Namjoon wouldn't do that would he? He didn't play that way. He didn't need to get an upper hand on Yoongi. He just wanted to see what he was up against.

"What's your problem, Yoongi?" The smirk on his mouth never falters, something glinting behind his eyes that tells you he wants to get a rise out of you. Even so, you can't help the way your voice raises, staggering to your feet. He chuckles darkly in response. "You get off on being an asshole or something?"

"You're too naive. What's so bad about telling the truth?" He closed the space between you until he's hovering above you, breath warm against your cheek. Your heart starts to race."What's so bad about taking back what is mine?"

Your breath hitches when his hand presses into the wall beside your head, effectively cornering you beneath his chest. "You could ruin his career."

Yoongi snorts. "What? Like he ruined mine?"

A few beats of silence. His eyes scan your face and it makes your stomach feel funny. You push at his chest, sucking in a shaky breath when he backs off a little and you realise part of you is weirdly disappointed that he did.

"Yoongi I don't know what happened between you and Namjoon—"

"No. You wouldn't know." He scorns, slinging his hands in his pockets, face darker now at the mention of his feud with your brother. "Because Namjoon loves secrets right? Namjoon likes to use people, Y/N. Just like he's using you now, to get to the top. And then he'll throw you away just like he did with me, sweetheart."

"Namjoon wouldn't do that." You bite your lip, the words leaving your tongue sounding a little less sure than you intend.

"Why? What makes you think you're any different?"

"He's my brother."

"I was his brother once too, remember?" He swallows, shaking his head in disbelief at your denial. "The only blood that matters to Namjoon is the blood shed to get him to the top."

You wrap your arms around your torso instinctively. Yoongi's words cut too deep. Maybe something inside of you thought Yoongi was right?

No. You came here to protect Namjoon yet here you were allowing his enemy to get inside your head.

"Fuck you, Min Yoongi." You spit, enjoying the way his eyes widen at the venom lacing your tone. "I made a mistake coming here."

Before you could brush past him and escape the heat  running through your blood stream which feels fuzzier than hatred should, a hand curls around your wrist.

"Shit. Looks like someone's on your trail."

A quick glance over your shoulder reveals none other than Jimin, face hidden by the visor of his black cap but recognisable none the less. He speaks a few words to the bouncer, probably asking if they saw you come out.

"Oh no."

The bouncer gestures in your direction. Jimin's eyes pause for a second as they skim across your form stood rigid with shock and your heart falls out of your ass when he starts in the direction of where you stand way too close to Yoongi unable to move a single muscle as you brace for discovery. To pay for your betrayal of your brother.

"You coming or what?" Yoongi snaps you back to reality with a tug on your arm, feet stumbling over each other as he drags you behind him further down the alley and around a nearly pitch black corner, too far away from the street lights to be basked in their orange glow.

"What the fuck, Yoongi?" You try to shrug out of his grasp, heart beating faster when you see the flat look on his face. "Let go of me!"

Yoongi comes to an abrupt halt. "Listen, I'm trying to save your ass here. You want to get caught? Go on then! Not my problem."

You nibble your lip, glancing one way at the dark alley and the other at Jimin pacing up and down the street with furrowed brows.

"Just trust me, Y/N."

Jimin's footsteps get closer and closer. It's now or never.

Tightening your jaw, you turn back to Yoongi and nod. The words feel foreign as they pass your lips. "I...trust you."

With that, Yoongi grabs your hand and breaks into a sprint

Turning the corner, the alley meets a dead end. The back of the club is just as run down as the front, littered with cracked beer bottles and cigarette stumps. The sign above the door labelled NO ENTRY doesn't offer any light and apparently Yoongi doesn't listen to directions because he fishes in his back pocket for a key, sliding the bolt and pushing on the bar to hold the door open with a small nod for you to go inside first.

With a deep breath, you do.

The door closes behind you with a jingle of chains, cutting off the slither of moonlight it provided and sending you into complete darkness. You hear Yoongi slide the bolt back across and then he fumbles for you in the darkness, your body pulled down next to his with a yelp so that you're out of direct view of the window which looks inside the room.

"I think they followed us." His voice is silk but there's an underlying insinuation. Be quiet.

Yoongi's eye level now, knees squeezed up against yours in the cramped space beneath the window ledge. Your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, able to see the way he scans your face when he thinks you aren't looking. The way he grumbles and looks away when you catch him.

There's not time to dwell as you hear footsteps turn the corner, tracking all the way to the door where the bolt rattles, a sleeve wiping the window and pressing a cupped face to the glass.

"She's not here, man. You must have seen someone else."

It was Hoseok. You'd recognise his voice anywhere. Countless all nighters in the studio together does that to a person. Had Jimin called him all the way down here to look for you?

Jimin chimes in quickly. "I could have sworn it was her..."

The voices trail off as they retreat back down the alley, around to the front of the club.

A sigh escapes you, head falling against the wall in relief. When you open your eyes Yoongi is looking at you again. There's something pained in his expression, unspoken words visible in the way he bites his cheek to stop them from spilling out into the darkness.

His fingers are still wrapped around your arm, an electricity buzzing through your veins when you feel him lean in closer, pulling you towards him just barely.

His lips. Chapped and so close to yours. God. You think you want to kiss them. Just to know how it feels. You've never seen them up this close before. Not close enough to feel his hot breaths puffing against your forehead. Not close enough that if you just lifted your chin a little bit...

Yoongi lets out an embarrassed cough, jolting you out of your thoughts. "That was a close one, huh?" The spot where his hand resided feels cold when he rips it away.

Yoongi's face is wiped of any emotion again. He's not completely slick though as when he finally speaks again he sounds husky, the betrayal in his voice surprising even him.

"Are you okay?"

What were you supposed to say to that? I almost got caught with my brother's enemy and then thought about kissing said enemy. No, I don't think I am okay.

"Fine. Thanks."

Yoongi offers you a hand, getting to his feet and pulling you up after him before he leans across your body to flick on the lights.

The yellowish stream burns your eyes but allows you to take in the room around you. There's a keyboard in the corner, piles of sheet music strewn across the wooden desk beside it. A pair of speakers hooked up to a worn looking sound machine. A mic and a pair of headphones slung over the back of the mismatch wheely chair tucked beneath a desk.

A studio.

He must notice the way you look around with wide eyes, redness creeping up his neck as he busies himself by kicking some of the clutter on the floor behind the desk. "Wasn't expecting guests."

It definitely wasn't the high tech producing set up you were provided with back at Big Hit, no hifi system or fancy computer programmes. The furniture was mismatch, like someone had collected a bunch of spare puzzle pieces and shook them up in the box until they made a picture.

Somehow of the pieces still manage to seem somehow inherently Yoongi; the basketball tee with GLOSS on the back draped over his chair, even the empty water bottles overflowing in the trash can. The tiny framed picture of a younger looking Yoongi next to a woman you think you recognise but can't quite put your finger on.

"Genius lab?" You snort, nodding towards the sign hanging haphazardly above the monitor.

Yoongi shrugs. "What can I say? It's true."

"Confident." You muse.

You share a smile. It's strange. Familiar. The way his eyes crinkle and even the husk of the chuckle that follows reminding you of when things were good, back when you considered Yoongi to be a sort of friend. Before things got fucked up.

"You'll take it back when I win."

Old habits might not die hard but the rational part of your brain registers the implication of his words, even beneath his playful facade. The studio suddenly feels cold. Nostalgia dissipates. You remember why you're here.

"Why didn't you just let them find me?"

"You know as well as I do that Namjoon risks getting disqualified if Jimin causes a scene and gets himself caught snooping around here."

You huff an exasperated breath. For all Yoongi's talk of  having the upper hand he sure did seem reluctant to use it. "Isn't that what you want? What's stopping you? Want to drag it out or something?"

Yoongi lets out a breathy laugh, crossing the room and ducking into a drawer in the far corner. He returns with two glasses and a murky bottle of something strong, already a quarter empty as he pours some out. He offers the second glass towards you but you wave it away.

"Suit yourself." He takes a swig of the dark liquid, squeezes his eyes shut. "Because I want to win fair and square."

You shake your head. "All of this. Just for a stupid trophy?"

He eyes you over the rim of his glass, swirling the liquid with an overconfidence that makes you grit your teeth in annoyance. "So Namjoon knows how it feels to lose something he loves." He looks you up and down then, coughing and turning his head when you notice it. "Yeah. I guess it's for the trophy."

Yoongi is despicable, you think. Is he really so fame hungry that he will destroy anyone standing in his way to get it? Even Namjoon? Sure, your brother has his faults but if there is one thing you know it's that he loves being on that stage. What happened between them that makes Yoongi think he deserves it more?

"So its a revenge thing, then. And what if you lose, huh?" The way your voice raises makes you wince. Yoongi slams his glass down and flashes you an are you serious face.

"Y/N don't you see? I have nothing to lose. Namjoon already took everything. My life, my family, my fame. Everything. You know how it feels to have it all dangled in front of your face? And then get it ripped away like it was never yours to begin with?"

Yes. You'd never tell him that, of course. But you did know. You had to watch Namjoon perform your songs every night through a camera lens. Snapping shots of him in his element and wishing those picture perfect moments were yours. What did Yoongi know?

"I see him on the big screen, on stages I dreamed of. Crowds screaming his name. It was supposed to be me, Y/N. Meanwhile I'm sat here," Yoongi gestures to the shabby studio you find yourself in, liquid sloshing over the edge of his glass. "In clothes I printed myself, making music in a shitty club for free because nobody will even listen to my shit."

He's panting by the end of his spiel, knuckles pressed to his eyes as he tries to regain his composure before he lets too many of his weaknesses show. Something resonates inside you, softening the anger towards him with what you recognize as sympathy.

"Then why do you still do it? Make music?"

"Because it's the only thing that never left me alone."

You sigh. While you're collecting your thoughts something catches your eye — a Polaroid picture, tacked onto the plasterboard behind his computer. It's of a smiling Yoongi and much to your surprise, a smiling Namjoon, arms wrapped around each other like nothing could ever break them apart. You briefly wonder why he kept it, if he hated Namjoon so much.

You turn to him again.

"Don't make me regret saying this but you're good, Yoongi. Like really good. Your performance earlier it was...amazing. I mean that."

Yoongi's stern eyes soften with surprise. He almost seems pained, like the simple compliment means more to him than you expected.

"So, you don't have to do this. Big Hit has connections, I could get in touch with a couple record labels--"

He stiffens again. "What? Are you my manager now? As if any record label would take a chance on the biggest Mic Drop loser in history, Y/N, don't talk shit."

You trail off. It's true and you know it.

He swallows hard. "You know what I think? I think you're here because you know that I might actually win this thing. As much as Namjoon knows how to play dirty he doesn't have the talent. He never did! That's why he's using you to write his material." His laugh makes you shiver. "How can he even call himself an artist? It's pathetic."

That's all it takes for your patience to snap. Is the way your blood boils with a sudden and insatiable rage because of the way he bad mouthed your brother? Surely you didn't actually believe him? No, everything he said was a lie -- it had to be.

Your hand curls into a fist, anger spilling over as you charge at him full force. Yoongi barley flinches, his fingers deftly curling around your wrist before it can meet his jaw and pulling you into him at the waist so he can slot his bottom lip between yours.

"Fuck yo— hmf?"

Your eyes widen as you register his slightly chapped lips moving against your own, remnants of the amber liquid he poured down his throat earlier sour on your tongue, a surprised gasp leaving you when Yoongi flips your bodies and slams your back roughly against the wall, settling himself between your legs.

"Gonna finish what Namjoon started, sweetheart?" When he pulls back you're panting, eyes trained to his parted lips with wonder.

He kissed you. Yoongi kissed you. For real.

His warm breath still mingles with yours as you try to choke a response, anything. Yoongi's eyes have a dark glint to them and god you should hate him for winding you up like this but being this close to him just feels too good.

Then, before you can think better of it, you grab his collar with your free hand and smash your lips together in a tangle of teeth and tongue that makes your entire body burn with relief.

The groan he lets out against your mouth tells you he wants this too. "Fuck, couldn't help myself." He pants. "You're driving me crazy."

You feel a dampness throb between your legs when his hands tangle in your hair, lips never leaving yours as he pulls you across the room and drops into his chair.

A whimper is pulled from your lips when his palms cup the flesh of your ass beneath your dress, though it's not in protest, dizzy with desire when he pulls you into his lap and bucks his hips so that his half hard cock brushes against your clothed heat.

"See what you do to me?" He pulls back to smirk at your swollen lips, a much needed breath entering your lungs, filling you with another bout of restless desire as Yoongi's eyes scan your face hungrily. It feels too good even though it should be so wrong.

"W-we shouldn't." Your mouth is dry, words coming out a little unsure which gives away just how much you want to keep going. "What if--"

A particularly harsh thrust of his hips makes you moan softly, head falling into the crook of Yoongi's neck. He growls when he catches sight of the growing wet patch on the front of his jeans, testament of his effect on you as much as you hated to admit it.

"What if Namjoon finds out?" His hand shoots between your legs, pads of his fingers tracing your clothed core, the coarse lace of your panties adding a delicious layer of friction against your folds. The delicate touch sets your body alight, skin burning to let go and submit to the feeling despite the voice in the back of your mind screaming no!

"What if Namjoon finds out that I make you this wet?" Your panties are sticking to your heat by now so it would have been futile to deny it. He smiles smugly when your legs shake and you throw an arm around his neck to keep your balance.

"S-shut up." It's meek and it only makes him laugh darkly, the husky sound sending shivers down your spine as he leans in closer to nibble on the lobe of your ear.

If you didn't know any better you would think he was unaffected by this. Your chest heaves with desire and your hands itch with a yearning to touch him but Yoongi appears the epitome of composure, maintaining sinful eye contact as he pulls your panties to the side. The only give away is the way his cock twitches against your leg with each jerk of his hips, a funny sense of pride erupting in your chest knowing that he wants you too.

Open mouthed kisses drag down your jaw, lingering at your neck. His teeth nibble at the sensitive skin, tongue laving out to soothe the sting and it feels too good to worry about the bruises his sinful lips leave behind as a reminder of your weakness Namjoon could never know of.

"Look so pretty marked up, sweetheart." The pet name makes your clit throb, head throwing back as his mouth attacks the sensitive spot on your neck like he knew it was there all along. It's almost concerning how quickly he has you falling apart in his lap. How easily he turned you into a shuddering mess, barely able to form coherent sentences in between breathy gasps at the sensation of him making you his for all to see. "Show everyone that you're mine, hm?"

When Yoongi removes his hand from your core you slap a hand over your mouth to stop a whine of protest from escaping. Yoongi's eyes narrow, palming his bulge through his trousers as he watches you writhe in his lap with amusement, every twist of your hips falling short and providing no relief for your pulsing clit, already missing the feeling of his hand cupping your mound and considering how it would feel skin on skin—

Oh god. What am I doing?

You let out a groan, but not the good kind.

"What?" Yoongi seems to read your mind, snapping you back to reality when he pulls your panties to the side. He circles your entrance teasingly and you can't help the way you whimper. "Don't act like you don't want to sink down on my cock, Y/N. You could ride me right here and nobody would ever know."

"H-how can I trust you?" It would ruin Namjoon if he found out. He was already stressed, already growing distant from you. This had to stop before it went too far. Before there was no going back.

"Because I can make you feel like this." A lithe finger slides into your heat, easy because of how you drip over his hand. "Think about how much better my cock would stretch you out, hm?"

Each drag of his finger against your velvety walls has you squeezing your eyes shut. The sensation is overwhelming, and when he adds a second digit  you feel your repose crumble. Lust seems to crash over you like a wave, clouding your thought with a hazy desire to just give in and let Yoongi take you, uncaring about the repercussions now as you push down to meet his thrusts so he hits deeper than before.

"Fine." Your words are slurred, too busy chasing the feeling between your legs to see the way it makes Yoongi's eyes light up. "J-just hurry up and fuck me Yoongi."

"Well well," Yoongi settles back against the wall, looking between your bodies to watch the way his fingers disappear into your soaking cunt with an expression almost primal, his own breathing ragged now as he tries to resist turning you over and fucking you into tomorrow then and there. "Never thought I'd actually get to hear my name on your lips like this. Say it again."

A sharp flick of his wrist has you falling against his chest, pulsing around him. "Yoongi!"

"That's right," He licks his lips, free hand unzipping his jeans to relieve the pressure on his length. "Me. Yoongi." The way he mimicks your breathless tone makes a hot blush rise in your cheeks, aware of just how fucked out you must seem right now but too horny to care. "Been waiting for this. Ah shit!"

You take it upon yourself to hurry along the process by reaching into the waistband of his boxers to wrap a hand around the shaft of his cock. It pulses at your touch, the pace of Yoongi's fingers in your cunt stuttering as he flies forward, knuckles on the hand gripping your thigh turning white as he tries to regain some control while you stroke him firmly.

"Fuck your hands. Sinful. Knew they would be. God you're going to kill me if you keep this up, I swear." The worlds tumble from his mouth in one heaving breath as you twist your palm around his sticky head, enjoying the way his thighs twitch with a want to buck into your fist and his nose flares with the effort it takes to resist.

His cock feels girthy in your palm, hot and heavy as you help him shimmy his jeans around his thighs. When his cock slaps back against his stomach, impossibly hard and leaking with anticipation you feel your mouth water.

"Like what you see?" He almost taunts.

You bite your lip. "I don't think you're gonna fit."

It must have brushed his ego because the tip seemed to flush an even deeper shade of red. "Wanna sit on it and find out?"

A nod is all it takes for Yoongi to slide your panties to the side, slapping your hands away to grip the base of his cock and line it up with your entrance.

You both groan in unison when he pushes into your heat, the stretch burning with every inch, fingers clutching the fabric of his tank top at the sensation of finally being full.

"Fuuuck." You see his tongue snake out to wet his bottom lip when his hips finally join flush to yours, hair sticking to his already damp forehead as he allowed you to adjust. "So fucking tight for me, princess."

His cock throbs impossibly deep inside you when you unconsciously clench around it, feeling your face flush as you whimper for him to get on with it and fuck you already.

"Shh, patience." His thumb pulls at your bottom lip, setting it free with a pop. "Move."

At his command you do, bracing yourself on his shoulders. You raise up, feeling every ridge of his length until just the tip remains inside your heat. Then you are slamming back down and flushing at the groan which tumbles from his chest.

"Such a slut, taking my cock so well." His palms feel hot on your hips, dragging you up and down through the motion that has you panting.

Yoongi looks utterly amazed at the visual of you sinking down onto his length, unable to stop the satisfied grin settling into his features when you cry out after a particularly deep thrust. "Imagine if Namjoon could see you now. Falling apart on my cock?"

"Can we — hnng — not talk about my brother when you're in my fucking guts?"

"Why?" A whine leaves you when he slips out of your cunt, grabs you by the ass, and hoists you to your feet, roughly bending you over the desk until your cheek presses against the cold surface. Yoongi tugs your hands behind your back, cock already sinking back into your heat before you can protest at the emptiness. "Worried he'll think you're a slut for taking my cock when I'm the one whose going to fucking end him?"

"Yes!" You cry, unable to hold back now as you feel his cock hit deeper than before with every ram inside you that fills the room with the slapping sound of his pistoning hips, brushing your sweet spot each time and making the coil in your stomach tighten.

God, this is so wrong and you know it. You know it shouldn't feel so good when Yoongi's hands tangle in your hair, pulling you so that your back arches flush against his sweaty chest. Know how many people would be hurt if they knew how much you love it, how you push back into his thrusts, eager for more.

"Shit, you're squeezing so tight." His voice sounds strained now, thrusts turning sloppy as you feel him shudder. "Close, shit. Where can I—"

"Inside me. Want you to f-fill me."

"Holy sh— always wanted to hear you say that. Okay, fuck."

A few more pumps of his cock and he's spilling inside you, the feeling of his release coating your walls enough to have you falling over the edge unexpectedly too, vision turning black as you cum with a cry.

The only sound that fills the silence is your heavy breaths mingling with his as your arms give out. You're silently grateful, as much as you hated to admit it, for the strong arm around your torso that holds you to him when your legs turn to jelly.

Yoongi slips out of you, admiring the way his cum leaks down your trembling thighs. The emptiness makes you keen, clenching around nothing.

"Made such a mess of you, kitten."

The sound of his zipper makes your heart sink, stiffening as he tucks his spent cock back into his pants. For a second you think he's going to leave you like this, shame caressing your cheeks as you envision how fucked out you must look.

But then, Yoongi's palms are back on your thighs as he kicks the chair from under his desk and pushes you roughly onto the cushion. "Think you can go again for me, princess?"

"Wha--?" His swollen lips make you loose your words, the way his tongue tantalizingly caresses your bottom lip drawing a choked whine from your throat instead.

"Fuck, always thought you'd make such pretty noises." It's mumbled gruffly under his breath, like he's confirming it with himself rather than addressing you. He pulls back to stare at you spread out for him, lidded eyes widening at the visual of your skirt pooled around your waist, legs kept open by the rough grip around your thigh that exposes your swollen slit. The way your arousal drips down your inner thighs along with his own release has him swallowing thickly. "Like being filled with my cum, huh? Such a slut."

Yoongi traces his fingers up your inner thighs, thumb applying a gentle pressure to your clit, legs struggling to fall shut around his hand to escape the over stimulation. "P-please Yoongi, I can't."

"You will." It's growled against your neck, hot breath making you shudder. "I know you can take it."

A knee slips between your thighs, holding them open so his fingers can deftly continue their brutal attack on your sensitive folds. Each drag of his knuckle up your slit makes you whimper, the way the pads of his fingers rub firm circles into your clit making it pulse. The feeling is more intense than before, borderline agonizing as a warmth builds in the pit of your stomach again.

Eventually the pain starts to dissipate, turns into something closer to pleasure when you feel a single digit slip into your heat, the slide made easy by the fact that his cock had already stretched you out and his release lubed you up nicely. Each pump makes a lewd squelching noise that has you biting your lip to stop from groaning unabashedly, Yoongi's gaze fixed to the sight of his knuckles disappearing inside you.

When you buck up into his touch again, desperately circling your hips to try and grind your clit against the heel of his hand, Yoongi lets out a dark chuckle. The muscles in your cunt tighten, skin damp with sweat as you fuck yourself on his hand in search of a second high that burns ever closer.

"Look at you, all needy again from just one finger. All fucked out again even after I stretched you out."

With that Yoongi removes his hand from your heat all together, leaving you gasping and clenching around nothing as your release falls farther away, unable to resist the groan of frustration that passes your lips.

"Don't stop!" Your head lolls back against the chair, thighs trembling with desperation to feel his touch again. "I was so close--"

"Suck." Yoongi raises his fingers to your lips. You notice the way they gleam, sticky and white in the studio lighting. The pads of his fingers smear the wetness across your swollen lips as he pushes for entry which you gave to him eagerly, humming around the digits. "Be a good girl, hm?"

He all but groans when your eyes flutter open and lock with his, tongue swirling around his fingers teasingly, enjoying the taste of your own arousal mixed with the saltiness of his cum, almost in sensory overload at the thought of how much better his cock would feel in your throat.

"That's it." A knuckle drags down your cheek possessively, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Good girl."

A sticky trail of spit follows Yoongi's fingers when they leave your mouth with a lewd pop, your breaths coming out shaky and desperate as you watch his eyes zone in on your aching core.

The sight of him dropping to his knees is enough to have you squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation, whimpering when his hot breath grazes over your throbbing clit. "Wanna taste you for myself."

And with that his tongue runs a rough stripe up your slit, eyes falling shut as he hums against your folds contentedly.

"Fuck Yoongi!" Your eyes roll back as he laps a few teasing licks across your bud, body turning to putty when his hands roughly pull you down the chair so that he can attach his mouth to your mound fully.

A guttural moan rises from his chest when you grind your core against his face, knuckles turning white as you clutch he chair like it's the only thing keeping you grounded, stopping you from floating away and losing yourself to the feeling of Yoongi's tongue teasing your already wrecked hole. An impatience rises in your stomach every time his nose grazes your clit, pushing your hips more forcefully to chase the relief it brings.

"So eager." You knew he'd have a smirk on his face if his lips weren't already occupied, wrapping around your clit and sucking with just the right amount of pressure to have your fingers tangling in the blue locks that spill loose from his bandanna now, holding him to your core so that you can rock against his tongue easier.

"Close sweetheart?" The way your chest heaves and little gasps spill past your lips as you chase your high must give away the effect he is having on you. You nod breathlessly and to your surprise Yoongi places a chaste kiss to your folds before pulling back all together, leaving you writhing and desperate for him to make cum for the second time. "Did I give you permission?"

Your heart beats furiously as your release slips away once again. Yoongi only stares at you intently. His lips glisten with a mixture of both of your releases and the thought alone makes your core ache. A loose shake of your head makes his eyes darken, licking some of the dampness from around his lips. "Gotta use your words, baby. Did I say you could cum?"

Dizzy with arousal, your words sound slurred and alien to your own ears. "N-no."

"Good. Now ask nicely."

"Please." It comes out whinier than you anticipate but Yoongi's hands twitch against the flesh of your thighs, giving away the fact that he likes it despite the way his mouth presses into a tight and unforgiving line. "Can I cum? Please?"

A deep laugh leaves his bitten lips. "I don't think you deserve it." His head dips back down between your legs, sloppy kisses pressed to each of your thighs as he edges ever closer to your dripping core. "I want you to count, okay?"

"O-oh, okay." He attacks your clit again, tongue swirling where his teeth graze across the pulsing bud. You're so sensitive that you're sure just the light brushes of his lips will send you over the edge if he keeps going.

"G-gonna cum if you--"

"Don't." The authority in his voice makes you gasp. "Didn't I say to count? One."

"Fuck!" Hot tears streak your cheeks when he pulls back so just his hot breath ghosts across your glistening folds. "I..I was so close!"

"Hey, hey." His hand reaches up to stroke your cheek, a strangely gentle action in comparison to the bruising grip on your thigh. "You're doing so good. Trust me, okay? Wanna make you feel good."

For the second time that night you nod, putting all your trust into him for reasons you are too fucked out to dwell on there and then.

When his tongue snakes out to tease your clenching hole again it draws an agonizing cry from you, the coil already tightening in your belly. You shut your eyes.

"Don't" The hand on your chin tightens, forces you to look down at where his face is buried between your legs, authority lacing his words again. "Keep your eyes on me."

As soon as you lock eyes he gets to work again, humming out a "good girl" before you're losing yourself again to his tongue and he has to plant your feet down roughly to stop your hips from bucking too much.

Before you know it your clit's throbbing again and you're about to fall over the edge but before you can even let Yoongi know he's pulling back with a pant, practically gasping for air but still flashing you a shit eating grin. "Didn't think I was going to let you, did you sweetheart?"

"Two." You manage to breathe. "Two!"

By now you're sick of the teasing, a hand coming between your own legs to finish yourself off, ready to come undone whether Yoongi likes it or not. Before you can get your way, Yoongi's swatting your hand away. "Desperate slut. Wanna cum that bad huh?"

"Please!" You practically whimper.

That seems to do it for him, his eyes glazing over with what you recognise as lust. As if the last of his self control just snapped. Anticipation makes your blood run hot.

"Then make it to three and we'll see if I'm feeling nice."

"Shit!" Yoongi's tongue plunges into your heat with a new found eagerness, thrusting in and out like a man deprived. You manage to maintain eye contact this time, falling apart at the way he groans in appreciation when he tastes himself, fucking your hole with his tongue mercilessly like he wants to get every last drop of his cum.

His thumb finds your clit and the coil in your lower belly tightens too rapidly for you to comprehend, tugging on his hair as you cry out. "Yoongi!"

"Cum for me."

His permission is all it takes to have you falling over the edge into a shattering orgasm that makes your vision turn black, mind wiped of any hesitation and guilt and replaced with a single word, over and over again: Yoongi.

When you finally take a gasping breath, he's there, rubbing encouraging circles into your hips and leaving kisses across your stomach that makes something in your chest warm, heart beating a little faster and not just from your orgasm.

"So fuckin' pretty when you cum." You're sure that's what he murmurs against your damp skin. "Can't believe I had to wait this long."

You furrow your brow. Yoongi sits back against his heels, wiping your arousal from his mouth with the back of his hand and flashing you a lazy but satisfied smile, looking awfully pleased with himself. Like this was his biggest dream come true.

It dawned on you that it probably was in someways -- what better way to get back at an old friend than by fucking his sister?

You suddenly feel like an idiot for letting him charm you, guilt washing through you, flying forward when your chest aches with regret.

Yoongi notices how you pale. "Are you okay? If that was too much then I'm really sorry--"

"Too much?" You suddenly feel exposed beneath his gaze, shuffling around to pull your skirt around your thighs, eyes roaming the room hurriedly for your panties so you can get out of here and quick. "This is all too much, Yoongi."

"What?" He puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you as you brush past him but the way you jolt at the touch makes him rip it away like he touched a live wire.

"I...shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake."

Namjoon's face was embedded in your mind. The way his eyes would crumple with betrayal if he found out you came here at all -- let alone let Yoongi take you so intimately. And you hadn't even tried to stop yourself from falling into him, gave in to your emotions too easily and allowed Yoongi to use you as a swipe at your own brother.

"Why? Didn't seem so upset when you were coming on my tongue." The scoff in Yoongi's voice makes you freeze.

"I can't stop you from hurting Namjoon," Your lip quivers and you have to press your nails into your palms to stop the tears spilling over. "But do you really have to hurt me, too?"

"Y/N, wait--"

Your hands shake as you grab your bag and head for the door. "Shit happened between you and my brother, I get it. But we were friends once, Yoongi. Doesn't that mean anything to you? We can't see each other again."

Your tears are warm in contrast to the cold evening air as you take off into a run, needing to get as far away from Yoongi and the evidence of your own betrayal as possible.

By the time you stumble back into the Big Hit company building, the studio is empty. To your surprise, words seem to flow out of you easier than they ever had before, a heart shaped stain appearing on the formerly empty page of your notebook.

--

Sleepless nights were becoming your norm. You had barely slept a wink since that night, not when every thought was plagued with guilt, the same name running circles around your mind, the same dark eyes and swollen lips and messy hair tauntingly appearing in your mind whenever your head hit the pillow.

Yoongi.

That night with Yoongi felt something like a dream, a hazy memory, the only evidence of it being real the fact that every time you closed your eyes you could feel the way Yoongi's hands burned your skin, how his lips moved perfectly in sync with your own.

As much as you knew it was a mistake, something that should have never happened, you couldn't help the way your heart throbbed every time you replayed it over and over in your mind, repeatedly, until you felt like you were going insane with guilt. It was eating you alive. But sometimes you would remember the way you felt when he was pressed up against you and every ounce of regret felt worth it.

You hated yourself for it, and you knew your brother would hate you to, if he ever found out.

He could never find out.

So, you take to avoiding Namjoon altogether. It wasn't that hard really, you knew his schedule well enough to be a step ahead of him at all times, and it wasn't as if he was enthusiastic about your company to begin with.

Of course sometimes your paths have to cross, but you still can't look Namjoon in the eyes when you slip into one of the Big Hit practice rooms where you know you'll inevitably find him.

The music hits before you even open the door. Namjoon is dressed in casual clothes, cap pulled down low over his face as he raps into a mic, the way his voice husks a tell tale sign that this was not the first time he'd gone over the same verse.

He seems stiffer than usual, all elbows and knees as he scrutinises his own form in the wall to floor mirror. You've seen him perform this choreography flawlessly hundreds of times so your brow furrows with confusion each time his feet miss a beat or his knees literally buckle under the pressure.

On the far side of the room sits a row of men and women in formal suits. Investors, brought in to bet on the contestant most likely to win. They watch Namjoon with intent eyes, some shaking their heads in disapproval, others whispering insults below their breaths.

Is that really Runch Randa? Pfft, he'll never win with footwork like that.

Jimin stands close by, hopping from one foot to the other and wincing with every mistake Namjoon makes. He's been making desperate phone calls for the last week, pleading with any investor he could get ahold of to take a chance on Namjoon which was hard to come by after the royal media fuck up the other day at the after party.

This was Namjoon's only chance at a do over — he needed their money if he wanted to win this thing. The judges were expecting a show from him. Smoke machines and good lighting are expensive, after all.

Namjoon, however, only seems interested in the reactions of your parents sat in the back row, expressions grave. He's chastising himself, self loathing evident in his eyes every time he stutters over a lyric. He knows how hard they worked to establish Big Hit and the disappointment in their eyes as it slowly slips through Namjoon's fingers like sand makes even you feel jittery with nerves.

For a brief moment you're grateful that you are practically invisible in this room, no eyes even glancing your way as you join them. You're glad that Namjoon takes the brunt of the pressure. You never were the strong sibling after all.

The music cuts, Namjoon coming to a stand still. He crumples at the knees, forehead pressed against the polished linoleum floor as he tries to catch his breath.

Jimin slumps into a chair, head in hands. That tells you all you need to know.

Investors leave the room, some sending apologetic looks towards Jimin with a shrug. Others deposit their cheque books back into their briefcases, taking pity on the pleading smiles and firm handshakes from your parents when they apologise for Namjoon's lacking performance. One even pats Namjoon on the back, following the small crowd as they leave the room. "Take a break, buddy."

Nearly everyone has filtered out before Namjoon gets to his feet shakily, slumping down into a seat beside you. You don't acknowledge him, afraid of what you might let slip if you do, fiddling with your camera as a distraction.

It's him who breaks the silence.

"How's the song coming along?" He seems disinterested, clicking his knuckles with no real intention of listening to your response.

"Fine." Another lie. It wasn't coming along at all, really, but now is probably not the best time to tell him when his nerves are already heightened by his failure to gain any crucial investments.

His eye is still slightly swollen from the fist fight a few days ago, a permanent line forming at the bridge of his nose that wasn't there before. You almost didn't recognise him. He stares at his own broken reflection in the steamed practice room mirrors vacantly, like he doesn't  even recognise himself.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence pass. Namjoon's heavy breathing slows to a regular pace.

"I know you went to see him."

It echos menacingly through the room and you stiffen, clutching the floor beneath you for support. Namjoon's hard eyes still don't look your way but you see him analysing your reaction in the mirror. The way your mouth gapes speechlessly tells him everything he needs to know.

"Not even gonna try and deny it?" His head shakes in disbelief.

You throb with guilt. "H-how did you find out?"

"I have people everywhere keeping an eye on him, Y/N. You're lucky the paparazzi didn't catch you, because it sure as shit looked shady. My own sister," He scoffs around the word, as if it tastes bad in his mouth. "Siding with him?"

You place a hand on his forearm, surprised to find him shaking beneath your touch. "I'm not siding with him, Namjoon."

"Then what are you doing?" He roars, ripping his arm away.

What was I doing? You don't even know yourself.

It takes everything inside you to keep the expression on your face neutral, to wipe away the regret and the sadness and the fear that makes your voice wobble.

"We just talked." You had to avert your gaze, scared that somehow your disingenuous eyes would give away what really happened with Yoongi — a little more than talking to say the least.

"About what?"

"The secret, okay? I wanted to protect you—"

"Protect me?" Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose. "How is meddling in business that doesn't even concern you protecting me, Y/N?"

"Have you forgotten that what you're — we're — doing is against Mic Drop rules? That you could be disqualified or...worse! Get your trophy revoked?"

"Pfft. Yoongi won't say anything.."

"What makes you so sure?"

"It's me he wants to hurt. I know him, Y/N. He'd never forgive himself if you—" He eyes you carefully. "If anyone else got dragged into this. It's between me and him, that's it."

Your head is spinning. You remember a time when things weren't this way, back when Yoongi and Namjoon were friends. Partners. What happened between them that made them so hell bent on destroying one another?

"There are things about Yoongi that you will never understand, Y/N. Things he did that can never be forgiven."

It briefly crosses your mind that if Namjoon could cut Yoongi, his best friend, out of his life, just how easy it would be for him to do the same to you if he found out just how unforgivable your betrayal was. A funny feeling pools in your stomach, a distance settling between you and Namjoon as, to your dismay, you realise just how much you have in common with your brother's enemy.

"But what about you, huh? Why should he forgive you? You took everything from him! I'm not surprised he's back to kick your ass. If you ask me it's him who should be holding a grudge—"

Namjoon's hands clamp onto your shoulders and you recoil from the contact. You're breathing hard, the tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill over any second.

"Listen to me. He's trying to get in your head. You need to stay away from him Y/N. He's bad news."

"Tell me why! Help me understand!"

Namjoon's face is grave. "Some secrets are best kept that way. It'll only make it worse if I tell you."

Before you can protest he's striding across the room and hitting the play button on the boom box in the corner, music blasting from the speakers again.

"Joon—"

"Just stick to taking pictures and stop getting involved in business that doesn't concern you."

Then his body is twisting across the room in time to the music with an intensity he didn't possess before. Like a machine on autopilot.

You shove your camera into your bag and let the door slam shut behind you.

--

"We were a mistake."

The cursor flashing on the empty document on your computer screen feels like it's taunting you.

"Please don't tell my brother what we did."

You've been like this for the last week. Holed up in one of the tiny studios at the Big Hit company building, head swimming with beats and melodies and lyrics that just won't seem to fit together. Not when your mind is preoccupied with a more pressing issue.

"Are you thinking about me as much as I'm thinking about you?"

Yoongi.

God, how are you supposed to write this song for Namjoon when all you can think about is his enemy?

You don't know why you're still so hung up on Yoongi. It's not as if what happened between you meant anything. It was just a spur of the moment mistake. You were both tense and needed someone to help blow off some steam. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Right?

You'll never admit that deep down, a part of you wants to see him again. To check that he's real and that you didn't imagine the whole thing. To see if he is going as crazy as you feel.

That's when the answer hits you. The only way to make this right is to end things once and for all. Tie up all your loose ends and tell Yoongi that you and him were a one time thing. Make sure you were on the same page.

Then maybe you'll be able to concentrate on helping Namjoon beat his ass.

A sudden confidence grips you, standing up abruptly from your desk, alerting the attention of Hoseok who up until now has been quietly engrossed in the track he's producing.

"Where are you going?" He asks.

There's an address burning at the forefront of your mind. You have the route committed to memory. How long it'll take to get there. How long it'll take to get back before anyone else at Big Hit notices your absence.

The only place you knew where you might find Yoongi.

"I won't be gone long. Cover for me if anyone sees I'm gone, 'kay?"

Hoseok eyes you curiously and pulls his headphones to sit around his neck. "O-okay but don't you think you should take an umbrella? It's raining and you might catch a cold — oh."

You don't hear him, the door already slamming behind you.

--

In hindsight, Hoseok was probably right. You're soaked before you even get half way to Yoongi's studio.

Not that you care. Not when there are so many things you want to say to Yoongi. So many questions only he knows the answer to.

Not when you're about to see him again and you're giddy and nervous and scared of the way your heart feels like it's about to bust out of your chest.

You don't really know why you're doing this. For Namjoon's sake? To ease your own guilty conscience? Both?

You shake your head before your confidence can deflate and focus on putting two feet in front of the other instead, trying to take your mind of your destination by focusing on your surroundings. You always liked this part of town, with it's bustling roads and street vendors and buskers. Here it's easy to forget, to just close your eyes and let the buzz of cars and the melody from a nearby street guitarist and the torrent of ice cold rain whisk you away, like life is operating at double the speed but you're too caught up in your own thoughts to care.

So caught up in your own thoughts that you don't spot the guy handing out flyers on the side of the street until your face is colliding with his shoulder.

"Shit, I'm so sorry!"

The guy lets out a groan as you helplessly watch his flyers flutter to the ground like autumn leaves, disintegrating on the rain dampened street.

"Does nobody look where they're going any more? My boss is going to kill me..."

The guy gets to his knees and starts grabbing as many flyers as he can by the handful.

"I'm so sorry, at least let me help?"

You hear him sigh deeply but he doesn't stop you when you drop down beside him.

You stamp on a flyer before it can be whisked away by the breeze. It's ruined. The rain makes the ink bleed into a black blotch in the center of the sodden paper, but if you squint you can just make out the barely legible print.

Live Classical Piano - 7:30 - 9:30 Every Wednesday At The Coffee House!

A throat clears, shaking you back to reality, and a nimble hand thrusts towards you, palm up, waiting for you to deposit the pile of flyers you collected.

"Just gonna stand there all day, sweetheart? Some of us have a job to do."

Shame heats your cheeks. "I wasn't looking where I was going, I'll pay for these —"

Its then, as you let your hood fall down, that the boy stiffens. You look up slowly, meeting a widened pair of piercing grey eyes for the first time. The very same eyes you haven't been able to get out of your head all week.

"Wait...Yoongi?"

It's him. He's here? A coincidence surely but it sure as shit doesn't feel like one.

Just seeing him knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Yoongi blinks a few times, eyes wide with disbelief. Then he's ripping the flyers from your slackened grip and grabbing you by the wrist, dragging you behind him to the side of the street where you're just out of view from passerby's.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He deadpans.

You take in the way his mint hair clings damply to his forehead, shirt darker in places where droplets of rain soak into the fabric. He's wearing one of those traditional pianist outfits with the funny tuxedo jacket and a little black bow tie strung around his neck that looks like it came from a bad Beethoven Halloween costume. It catches you off guard. No wonder you didn't recognise him before. Not exactly hip hop.

"What are you doing here?"

Yoongi glances over his shoulder warily. "Look, you can't tell anyone you saw me here okay? Did Namjoon send you?"

"What? No--?"

"Just leave, Y/N. Before someone sees you here and tells your precious brother that you've been hanging around with scum like me." He spits, drops your arm and starts in the direction he came from.

"Yoongi, wait!" You blurt, throwing your hands up in frustration. He freezes."Can we...can we just talk?"

Yoongi nearly does a double take. He's usually full of jibes but this catches him off guard. "Talk?"

He backtracks, though you notice the way he keeps a safe distance between you. It feels silly considering how much...closer you were just a few days ago. You wonder, as his eyes look you up and down, if he's thinking about it too. If you crossed his mind as much as he crossed yours.

"Listen, I don't have time for this, I need to go get some more of these flyers..."

Your heart drops, embarrassed for even entertaining the idea that he would want to see you again.

"Please?"

He hesitates. You're sure he's going to blow you off again but then his eyes fill with something scarily close to concern. "Shit, you're shivering."

Your hair hangs in heavy tendrils around your face, droplets of cold rain caressing your cheeks. Your knees knock, arms wrapped around the damp hoodie clinging to your torso to retain some warmth.

Yoongi shrugs off his jacket, despite the way his own teeth chatter. "You're going to catch your death dressed like that."

You stand there dumbly as he holds it out to you. He kicks a stone with the toe of his sneaker awkwardly when you finally wrap it around your shoulders.

"I thought you didn't want to see me again." It's almost accusing but you're sure you hear a trace of a pout in his voice.

"I...I didn't want to." Yoongi looks up. "But I think we should talk about you know...us."

Yoongi bites his lip, like he's having an inner debate. Like he's about to do something he knows he shouldn't.

"Fine. Let's talk. I, uh, guess I have some things I need to say to you too." He scratches the back of his neck. "But not here. Could I—would it be weird if we got coffee or something?"

Definitely weird. That's what you should say. But you don't.

"Okay."

You don't miss the way Yoongi's cheeks turn a little red.

--

The coffee shop Yoongi takes you to is a quaint little place, definitely not the sort of establishment you expected rough-around-the-edges Min Yoongi to frequent with its exposed brick walls and mint green espresso mugs with smiley faces on the side that give it a somewhat cosy appeal.

"I work here," He explains when he sees your eyes roaming. "Needed some extra cash."

You nod. Makes sense. The smell of pumpkin bread and coffee beans is still a welcome relief from the bitter chill outside.

The guy at the counter nods in greeting when Yoongi approaches, already grinding up coffee like he knows his regular order. Yoongi flashes him a tight smile. You figure they know each other, not that Yoongi seems the type to mingle within barista social circles but then again he is full of surprises today.

They share a few hushed whispers, staring not so subtly in the direction of where you sit hunched in one of the corner booths, but you just ignore it by watching a rain drop crawl down the window with rapt attention.

Words barely pass between you and Yoongi until you're both seated, him with a coffee you learn he takes black and you with a much too sugary frappe which you take to stirring with your straw nervously, chin in palm.

It's Yoongi who finally breaks the silence.

"What are you thinking?" He looks at you expectantly over the rim of his mug. For some reason it makes you nervous.

Guilt niggles at your repose. The cafe is alive with indistinguishable chatter, a coffee machine whirring loudly nearby. In reality, you merely blend in to the hubbub. But as you watch Yoongi fiddle with the rings on his fingers in anticipation of your response it's like a hush has fallen and all eyes are on you. Judging, like they know how wrong it is for you to be here.

He's been the only thing on your mind all week but now you're here in front of him it's like your mind is blank.

"Did you tell anyone?"

Yoongi blinks. "Namjoon's secret? I said I wasn't going to say anything—"

"No. Our secret. Us..." It feels foreign, referring to Yoongi and yourself as a unit. You hate to admit it makes your heart beat a little faster. "Namjoon knows."

Yoongi's coffee cup clatters to the table and words rise like bile in your throat, everything you've been bottling up inside tumbling out before you can stop it.

"Namjoon knows! He found out about us somehow and now everything has gone to shit and...I shouldn't even be telling you this! God I'm an idiot! I just don't know what to do—"

Your wailing is interrupted suddenly by a warm hand covering your own. Yoongi's hand. The touch is gentle, comforting, something about the squeeze of reassurance it provides calming your hyperventilating. It feels right.

Why does it feel right?

Yoongi must misinterpret the puzzled look you flash him as a warning he's crossing a boundary because he retracts his arm jerkily, a flush creeping up his neck.

He glosses over the weird moment hastily.

"Slow down, go back. He knows?" There's a lilt of surprise to his voice. Either he's a really good actor or he is just as panicked as you by this news. "And you think I told him?"

"Well, not exactly. He knows some of it — not everything! — he thinks that I just spoke to you after the show...I assumed you would have filled in the blanks by now."

Yoongi laughs breathily. Relieved. It flummoxes you. Shouldn't he be satisfied that his plan to get under Namjoon's skin was a success?

"Y/N, there were hundreds of people at the gig, anyone could have seen us. Jimin and Hoseok probably told him. You act like I tried to seduce you just to get revenge, or something." He gulps back the last of his coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before his expression suddenly turns serious. "You don't think that right?"

"Isn't that exactly what you did?"

Say no.

Yoongi opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He doesn't deny it.

Something in your chest twists with disappointment. It scares you shitless and you know you have to end this — whatever this is — before there's no turning back.

"Look, it — we — were a stupid mistake okay? I need to know that you're not going to use this against him. It would kill him."

"Mistake?" Yoongi's face drops. "Didn't I say you could trust me?"

It sounds somewhat pained, like he wasn't expecting you to think so lowly of him. His eyes soften with a certain gentleness now and you almost feel bad for thinking they could ever look at you with sinister intentions.

"Do you regret it? What we did?"

You hesitate. You want to say no so badly. But that's not why you came here.

Pull yourself together!

"Yes."

He raises an eyebrow. "You really believe that?"

"Do you regret it?"

"No." His eyes glint. You can't breathe. "Which is exactly why I'll never say a word. I don't play that way. Fair and square remember?"

You're speechless. All you can get out is a measly oh as you stare at the coffee in your cup and process.

"What did Namjoon say anyway?"

Your fingers find the patterns carved into the surface of the wooden table top, feeling the grooves as a distraction from the embarrassment flushing your cheeks. "He told me not to come back and find you."

A wry smile creeps across his face. "But you did?"

Even Yoongi is accusing you now? God, you played right into his hands. He's probably enjoying this. That you broke Namjoon's trust again, all for him.

The worst part is that you can hardly bring yourself to care. Sitting with Yoongi still feels deliciously indulgent — seeing his face again, feeling the heat of his body where your knees brush under the table finally satisfying a craving that had been growing inside you since that night in his studio.

"He doesn't control me."

He just nods. "I get that." His fingers tap in time with the sickeningly happy radio tune that plays overhead, eager to change the subject, like he's aware that he already said too much. "How is Namjoon anyway? You written him a song yet?"

Not allowed. If any information gets leaked about Namjoon's Mic Drop stage the first person he'd blame was you. You had to keep your lips tightly sealed.

You shrink back into your seat. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Okay, then." Yoongi throws his arms over the back of his chair, a cheekiness in his voice, like he's testing the waters to see how you'll react. "Ask me something instead. I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Shoot."

That's allowed, right? Where's the harm. If it doesn't involve Namjoon then it can't hurt him...

"Okay..." You purse your lips, eyes travelling around the dimly lit coffee shop. "Why do you work...here?"

Yoongi nods to the stack of damp flyers beside him. Live classical piano. "I play piano here sometimes." He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. It's kinda cute. "Needed some spare cash and this was the only place that could take me at such short notice."

"You play piano?"

He nods and you follow his gaze to the grand piano stood unoccupied in the corner. You imagine how Yoongi would look bent over the keys. How his fingers would move across the instrument with concentrated precision. How the tune would mingle with the warmth of the coffee shop on a cold evening.

"I didn't know you like classical music?"

"I don't. Not really." He cocks his head, finding the right words. "Namjoon has investors right? People who just throw money at him?" You nod, somehow ashamed. "Teaching me to play piano was my mom's investment in me. She always said it might come in handy some day."

You nod. "And do you have to wear that stupid costume every time?"

"This?" A snort leaves you when he shoots you a look, a shy smile finding the curve of his lips. "Don't mean to brag but it's a huge hit with the older ladies."

You can't help but laugh when he smugly tugs at the bow tie around his neck, unable to miss how his eyes light up. You share a smile that makes you feel light headed.

"I'd have to see it to believe it."

"Well, you know where to find me if you're ever bored and need a good laugh on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Friday evening." He shifts in his seat. "Or you could just come back to my place, y'know if you wanted to —" You frown, the easiness that had settled between you dissipating as you both sense the inappropriateness of his suggestion. "I know I shouldn't ask, it's just I have a piano and—"

For some reason the rational part of your brain taps out and your heart says fuck it.

"I'd love to."

--

"So, where do you live?" You ask when you finish your drink and nervously copy Yoongi who is already getting to his feet.

"Oh about that...I live in the apartment upstairs actually." He chuckles sheepishly."Cheap rent, you know?"

It takes you by surprise but you don't press.

"Oh. Right."

Yoongi extends a hand towards you. The thud in your chest gets faster when you slide your palm into his and he pulls you behind him to the foot the stairway you had disregarded upon entry, the distressed baby blue door at the top labelled RESIDENTS ONLY seeming strangely inviting.

Yoongi gestures for you to go first and you've barely ascended three steps before a voice rings out behind you, making you freeze like a child caught in a mischievous act.

"Use protection you two! And close the door so that Odengie's innocence isn't compromised this time!"

The barista from before rounds the corner, a tray of empty mugs in his left hand and a cloth for wiping down tables in the other.

You suppress a laugh. "Odengie?"

"His goddamn sugar glider—" He says it more to himself rather than in response to your query, flashing the tousled haired boy an exasperated look. "Really, bro?"

The other man either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "What? He's too young to learn how baby sugar gliders are made." His eyes suddenly flit to you and, as if remembering his manners, he deposits the cloth onto a nearby table and reaches a damp hand through the staircase to shake yours with a friendly smile. "I'm Jin, by the way."

You take it cautiously, wiping your now wet hand on the back of your jeans. "Nice to meet you?"

"Come on," Yoongi is flushed red as he pushes you up the rest of the stairs with a pressure at the small of your back. "We'll be back down in a minute, chill okay?"

Yoongi shoulders his way into the apartment, pulling you across the threshold alongside him, but not before you catch a glimpse of Jin's teasing grin poking around the staircase, words reaching your ears before Yoongi could slam the door shut in time.

"Oh, so it's a quickie? Have fun!"

A laugh escapes your lips, Yoongi pressing his back to the door with a sigh of relief. "Sorry about him. He's my roommate. Kind of came with the apartment, you know?"

You glance around at the small maisonette that unfolds before you curiously. It feels more like a dorm room, a mismatch pile of shoes piled at the entry way, a pair of beanbags substituting a couch surrounding a small gaming set up littered with empty pizza boxes you presume belong to Seokjin.

"Ah. He's part of the furniture then."

The other corner of the room is littered with an assortment of vinyls strewn out beside a pair of speakers and a record player, the needle still hovering over the grooves of an album by an artist you don't recognise. Yoongi's touch to the decor, you suppose.

"Guess you could say that. He's not so bad once you get over the uh...small rodents."

You trail behind Yoongi into what you assume is his bedroom, if the frameless mattress which lay on the floor in the corner beneath the window with sheets unmade and strewn across the floor messily was anything to go by.

He flicks on the set of fairy lights tacked to the wall, a surprisingly homely touch that makes you think Yoongi isn't as cold as you believe him to be.

Yoongi approaches a clothes rack stuffed with a variety of stage outfits. "Here." He pulls an oversized hoodie from one of the hangers, throwing it at you from across the room. "You're clothes are still wet. Wouldn't want to catch a cold. You can wear this until they dry."

"O-Okay." You stand there dumbly. He isn't expecting you to strip right in front of him, is he?

He seems to sense your hesitance, turning around so his back is to you with wide eyes. He plays it off by grabbing a selection of clothing for himself, shuffling past you with eyes trained to the ground. "I'll use the bathroom. Tell me when you're done."

You are soaked through to your underwear but you leave them on since Yoongi probably didn't have a spare pair of panties laying around you could borrow. The fabric of his hoodie is soft and warm when it slips over your otherwise bare skin and you breath in the woody scent that seems to embrace your entire body, ignoring the way it makes your head dizzy, and roll up the large sleeves to free your hands before calling to him that you are done.

When he re-enters the room, pulling a grey beanie over his head haphazardly to match the much more Yoongi appropriate outfit of a simple white tee and sweats, his breath hitches at your bare legs peeking out from the bottom of the garment. His lingering stare makes you hug your torso self consciously, eyes never leaving you even as he grabs the pile of sodden clothing you discarded earlier and lays them neatly over the radiator to dry.

You practically hear the way he swallows awkwardly when his eyes lock with yours, caught in the act. He's quick to lighten the mood.

"Well...here she is."

You turn as he moves across the room to the piano occupying the opposite wall, wood stained dark but bleached slightly in places by the stream of sunlight which washes its surface from the opposite window. The stool beneath it scrapes against the scuffed floor boards when Yoongi makes enough space to seat himself on top of the blue velour cushion.

"I know it's not much — nothing like you're used to I mean, but it makes music just the same."

He must take the way you hang back near the door frame as a sign of your distaste which couldn't have been further from reality; it's simply to allow you to study the way Yoongi sits with his back perfectly straight, fingers lingering over the keys like he knows the piano as well as an old friend. And, though you'll never admit it, the way your heart thumps at the thought of being in Yoongi's most private space.

"Where did you get it?"

"It was my mother's." The breath you suck in is slightly too harsh. "Like I said earlier, she liked to play, before she..."

Died. The word never passes between his lips but it sits heavy in the air like a weight.

Yoongi's eyes avert yours so you don't press any further, instead focusing your attention to the pattern of scratches embedded into the piano's lid, unable to help the way your fingers trace the coffee cup rings littering the surface like rugged halos. "It's beautiful."

The side panel is littered with lines, carved deeply into the wood with a penknife; a makeshift height chart like the one you had on the back of your bedroom door as a kid. Your drop to your knees to squint at the nearly illegible words scrawled next to the markings that ascend almsot to the top of the instrument.

Yoongi aged 3...Yoongi aged 4...Yoongi aged 5...

All the way until Yoongi aged 7 where they stop completely.

You frown but he lets out a soft laugh, somewhat pained. "That's when she got sick. I grew up quickly after that."

Straightening up, you swallow thickly, unsure what to say, so you just settle for changing the subject instead.

"So, what can you play?"

Yoongi fiddles with the open sheet music book on the piano stand. His fingers tremble slightly as he turns the worn pages before finally settling on a sheet that is lightly crumpled and ripped around the edges and coffee stained and ferociously dog eared at the corners. Tell tale signs that he had played this piece before, over and over again.

His favourite, you perceive.

Sure, he had literally fucked you into next week already but your hands get clammy at the knowledge that Yoongi feels comfortable enough to share such an intimate tidbit about himself with you. Music means a lot to him after all. Anyone can see that.

You catch a glimpse of the piece over his shoulder.

Romeo and Juliet - Love Theme.

Yoongi notices how you raise a brow at his choice.

"I know I said I don't like classical music but this arrangement is different. You know the story right?"

High school had given you enough general knowledge about Romeo and Juliet for you to nod in confirmation.

"It's like you can feel the passion they have for each other in every note, you know? Like nothing could ever come between them."

His words are so earnest they make your heart ache. You hadn't put him down as the hopeless romantic type.

"I mean not really. They still die in the end." You counter. He frowns.

"But only because of their fucked up families. It's their feud that comes between them in the end. This piece comes before all the shitty parts. If you play it over and over again it's like they never stop loving one another."

His hands fold in his lap and he sucks in a bashful breath, nose scrunching with embarrassment at his dramatic outburst. "It's stupid. I know. Forget I said it."

"No, no I understand completely. Maybe if they weren't so busy fighting they could have listened to their hearts. Right?"

"Right." He scoots across the piano stool, patting the empty space beside him with an encouraging look. "Sit."

Like a magnet you find yourself drawn to his side, shivering when his shoulder brushes yours. His arms hover over the piano, poised and relaxed, concentration etched into the hard lines of his face.

"Ready?"

You can only nod. And then he starts to play.

Yoongi's fingertips eagerly caress the keys of his piano, eyes lifting from the sheet music to gauge your reaction while his hands carry the melody on autopilot, the pretty silver rings he dons glinting with every movement. His neck is bent slightly, allowing his head to bob and sway along with the rise and fall of the rhythm, eyes screwing shut as the composition reaches its most pivotal sequence.

He's practically raking the keys now, pure passion and violent emotion splashing every inch of the room. You shut your own eyes, hands clutching the bottom of the stool until your knuckles whiten, like you might float away with the beautiful tune if you don't ground yourself.

When he said you could feel passion with every note he wasn't wrong. You could feel his passion clear as day.

Slowly, he comes back down from his high, wrists coming to a standstill. All he can do is take in heaving, ragged breaths, body slumped down, spent with the sheer effort expelled in his performance. Oxygen is lodged in your own lungs as you take in how how his bangs stick to the beads of sweat prevalent on his forehead

You recover before he does, unconsciously fumbling around in your tote bag, hands curling around the Polaroid camera you bring everywhere just in case a photo opportunity arises.

They never usually do. Until now.

"Stay like that." The viewfinder raises to your eye and you snap a shot of him with precision, the soft click that emanates through the room making Yoongi's eyes snap open.

The picture dispenses from the camera, black square fading out to reveal a hazy image as you shake it back and forth. Yoongi, face relaxed, lashes pressed softly to the tops of his cheeks with a lazy smile.

It's the Yoongi you remember. Your Yoongi.

He smirks when you slide it into the back pocket of your jeans, cheeks glowing with a contentedness you hadn't seen for a long time. "You always did like taking pictures of me."

"Shut up."

When your hand tentatively closes over his where it still rests on the piano, it's his turn to shoot you a curious look. With a shaky breath you flip his palm, slotting your fingers together perfectly, and lean across the piano to press your lips against his.

His mouth is softer than you remember, not attacking with the rich taste of lust but rather caressing your lips gently, sweetly. Taking your time to commit each tickle of breath against your nose, each slide of his bottom lip between yours, to memory. Everything other than the dizzying sensation of his tongue tracing your bottom lip disappears. All your worries, reluctances, regrets,  just dissolving like the setting sun.

Everything feels safe here with him. Everything feels right.

It barely lasts a minute, not much more than a delicate brush really, but when he pulls back you are already breathless, immediately starved of the satisfaction that came from finally feeling him against you again, tasting the spearmint mixed with something so inherently Yoongi you didn't quite realise how much you were craving.

Yoongi sighs blissfully. You need more.

Your hands tangle in the front of his T-shirt but before you can pepper his mouth with a series of further eager kisses, his free hand plants on your shoulder and pushes you back carefully.

"About what you said the other night." His eyes are wide with concern, trained to your lips, resisting the urge to capture them again with all his self control. It made your heart flip. "I don't want to hurt you Y/N. We don't have to do this—"

"I want to. So bad." His thumb caresses your knuckles. "I trust you."

In that moment, it's true. You trust him more than you've ever trusted anything in the world.

"But Namjoon..."

His words fade out when you lean in for another reassuring peck. Namjoon's name falling from Yoongi's lips doesn't make your skin crawl like it usually did. In fact you feel nothing at the mention of your brother.

"To hell with Namjoon. I'm a big girl. I know what I want."

Yoongi grins, hand coming to cup your cheek tentatively, eyes crinkling with what you could only describe as liberation. "And what's that?"

Your eyes narrow in on his parted mouth again.

"You."

His eyes darken and then his hands are tangling in your hair and pulling your chest flush to his in a kiss that is far rougher than before. No more beating around the bush. Just passion as you crawl into his lap and kiss him like it's the first time — or perhaps, more accurately, the last time. Like the world will end if you part for a single breath.

Fingers find the hem of his shirt and you're pulling it up his torso greedily, heart beating a little faster when you feel his warm skin beneath your fingertips. His chest is softer than you expect, a perfect contrast to the strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you back to his lips.

It's not long before you feel his pants fill out underneath you. The feeling is all too familiar, reminding you of how it felt to be above him like this in his studio. That night feels like a life time away as his hands grab your hips and press you roughly down onto his crotch.

You both groan out at the feeling, something intense, something primal, heating up between your legs as you circle his clothed length, want and need blending into one as your core dampens with every twist of your hips.

Yoongi breaks away from your lips with a gasp when your fingers reach between your body and find the sensitive head of his cock, a wet patch forming on his sweats. His eyes are shut, head thrown back against the piano top as he bites into his thumb to stop little moans tumbling from his swollen lips.

He shoots upright when you slide down his torso, hardwood cold against your bare knees, fingers fumbling with the strings of his pants. When you finally get them open and slip your hand beneath the waistband, Yoongi all but groans at the feel of your cool palm grabbing his hot cock skin on skin.

You shimmy his sweats around his thighs, mouth practically watering as you eye up his pulsing length, unable to resist stroking it firmly with your fist. A hand covers yours.

"Wait!" A strangled noise of agony rips from his chest when your grip loosens, desperate to buck up into your touch but managing to stay firmly planted to the stool in favour of gaining your consent. "Are you sure?"

You scoff teasingly. "Would I be on my knees if I wasn't?"

His laugh is breathy, half a moan as you pick up your pace again. "Just nervous — ah!" A soft kitten lick to the reddened tip of his cock has him flying forward, knuckles white as they grip your shoulder.

"Min Yoongi gets nervous?" The precum that coats your tongue is salty, makes you itch to take him into your mouth fully.

"Shut up." His breathing is ragged, hands hovering over your hair. "Didn't think this would happen again. Needs to be perfect — holy fuck Y/N."

You give no warning before you sink down on his length, his hands finally tangling in your hair and tugging lightly when your nose presses to his pubic bone, groaning around him when you feel the head of his cock pulsing in the back of your throat.

"So warm, shit."

You come up for air, lips wrapping around his head and enjoying the way his thighs trembled when your tongue runs teasingly along the underside of his cock. His hand pushes at the back of your head, forcing his length further down your throat than you're expecting until you gag around his girth.

"Shit, sorry."

The groan that follows doesn't sound very apologetic though. The visual of your drool coating his painfully hard length mixed with the sensation of your warm mouth engulfing him whole nearly has him blowing his load then and there, utterly fucked out and oblivious to the string of groans leaving his lips when you finally come up for air. Tears streak your cheeks and Yoongi wipes them away with his knuckle tenderly.

"God, look at you." He's breathless, amazed. "C'mere."

A hand cups your elbow, pulling you to your feet so he can connect your lips again, humming when he tastes himself on your tongue. His hands are all over you now as he wraps you in his arms and stumbles backwards your back is pressed to the mattress in the corner. It dips in the middle when he crawls over you, tucking away strands of hair that fan around your face like a halo before his mouth is on you again like he can't quite help himself.

A series of open mouthed kisses caress your jaw, then your neck, all the way down your chest. Yoongi's eyes flick up to watch your face, lips parted with want as his hands fiddled with the hem of his own much too big hoodie swaddling your body.

"Can I?"

Your hand threads into his hair encouragingly. "Please."

A gasp passes his lips when he finally pulls the fabric over your head, eyes following his curious calloused hands as they explore the expanse of skin exposed to him now you're left in just your bra and panties.

"So beautiful." He traces his fingers down your shoulders, down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach. The light and delicate touches have you shivering, writhing for more. Almost as desperate to feel him everywhere as he is to worship every inch of you.

His touch stops at the hem of your panties. You're already working on the clasp of your bra, a violent nod the only permission he needs to drag the fabric agonisingly slow down your legs, unhooking them from your ankles carefully.

When he looks back up you are completely bare, laid out beneath the stream of half-sun-half-moon bathing the room.

Yoongi pounces, lips wrapping around one of your nipples greedily, tongue swirling around the hardened bud until you're gasping his name over and over.

"Can't believe you're letting me see you like this."

Hands wrap around your thighs, legs falling open, the way he licks his lips as he takes in your glistening heat not going unnoticed.

Yoongi's head shakes in disbelief, mumbling words which sound an awful lot like so pretty and fucking gorgeous as his head dips and he continues his trail of earlier kisses, tongue laving over your inner thighs and edging ever closer to your aching core.

"W-wait." Yoongi freezes and comes up to meet your face. His breath is hot against your cheek, eyes scanning your face for hesitation.

"What is it? Are you okay?" He's frantic, swallowing nervously as his palms cup your face. "Want to take care of you this time. What is it? Tell me."

"I'm fine. More than fine." You brush your noses together. It makes him smile. "Just want to feel you, that's all. Now."

Yoongi lets out a dramatic sigh, voice high and whiny. "But I've been dreaming about how you taste for days, Y/N. Literally. Dreaming about it."

You don't mention how you've been replaying the visual of his lips wrapped around your clit and edging you over and over again since it happened, just stroke his cheek in mutual understanding.

"Too bad. You'll just have to wait until next time." His features light up at the promise of a next time. Another moment like this, just you and him.

His face falls into the crook of your neck, nibbling the sensitive skin teasingly as a hand trails between your legs. When the pads of his fingers circle your entrance you whimper, clit throbbing with want when his hand pulls away nearly as quick as it came.

The want only intensifies when he brings two of his arousal coated digits to his mouth with closed eyes, guttural moan vibrating your flush chests when he savours the taste of your arousal coating his fingers.

"Next time." He hums and you are sure you nearly came untouched.

"Need you. Now."

He wastes no time taking his achingly hard cock into his fist, placing a supportive hand on your hip as he lines himself up with your entrance. You whine when he drags the tip up and down your slit, giving some brief but much needed stimulation to your clit.

Before he can push inside though you place a hand on his chest to stop him. He doesn't have time to dote on you again though because without further ado you're whipping off the beanie that still sits snugly around his head, throwing it across the room with a smirk.

His eyes glint fondly. "Whoops."

The room has grown darker by now, only lit by the gentle sparkle of the fairy lights and Yoongi has to feel around in the sheets to find your hand. In the same moment he tangles your fingers together beside your face, he pushes inside with a gasp.

Unlike the first time in his studio, Yoongi is in no rush. He wants to savour it. He fills you slowly, so that you can feel every ridge of his length dragging against your velvety walls. When he finally bottoms out and your hips press flush together, you squeeze his hand. Tight. It's this small action that tells him everything he needs to know. Explains the funny feeling in your chest without ever saying the words.

Your legs wrap around his back automatically when his hips begin to rock, angling your body so that he hits so deep with every thrust it steals the breath straight from your lips. Arousal drips from your heat down onto the bed sheets, making each slide deliciously smooth.

"Yoongi I.." It almost slips from your lips. The deepest, darkest secret that you haven't quite admitted to yourself yet.

Yoongi just ups his pace, exchanging words for actions to show you he feels the same. Fucking you a little harder, a little deeper. More sincerely. It compensates for the words neither of you know how to say.

"I know." You feel so full, so warm when he places his forearms at either side of your head to press you into the mattress. "I know."

All the yearning inside you disappears. All that matters is you and Yoongi now, nails scratching up his back, his forehead pressing to yours so that your moans mingle together until you can't tell whose was whose any more.

With a fucked out moan against your lips he's spilling inside you, sending you over the edge with him, hissing as you clench tightly around his cock.

All thoughts are wiped from your mind. Apart from the sensation of his cheek pressed to your chest, hot breath against your collar bone. How you can't believe you lived in a world without Yoongi in it. How you never want to go without him again. How you don't think you can deny how Yoongi makes you feel anymore even if you tried.

The stars behind your eyes fade, and when you come back down, Yoongi is hovering over your body, lips parted and eyes blown out, mesmerised. He's sweaty and smiling and you can feel the way his heart beats in time with yours.

"You okay?"

"Never better." His smile stretches into a grin when your words slur together. "—'m so happy."

A soft, chaste kiss is pressed to your forehead and before you know it Yoongi is tangling your legs together and wrapping the sheets around your bodies, entwined as one.

Me too. You knew that's what he meant. You'd dwell on it another time. For now your eyes are falling shut, satisfied as you inhale Yoongi's scent on the sheets...

Before a blissful slumber could take you away, you're interrupted by a series of knocks against the bedroom door. Both you and Yoongi shoot upright, exchanging a puzzled glance.

"I thought you said it was gonna be a quickie. Come on man, I need to use the bathroom!"

Yoongi groans into the pillow.

"That's it. I'm getting a new roommate."

--

As the weeks go by you start spending less and less time at the Big Hit office, turning up late to your shifts or clocking out before they were up. The perks of being employed by your parents is that they can't fire you in good conscience, you suppose.

Instead you increasingly find yourself at Yoongi's apartment, writing lyrics at the piano when he was around (sometimes even when he wasn't) or down in the coffee shop, helping yourself to hot chocolate refills on your work breaks. Jin joked that you'd need to start paying rent soon.

Just like how you were able to pick apart each of the boys' influence on the apartment the first time you went there, your own presence was becoming ever apparent.

In the way you spilled sugar on the counter when making tea and always forgot to clean it up, much to Jin's dismay. How some of your own hoodies and pyjama pants had begun to smell like Yoongi's washing powder, ending up folded neatly in his laundry basket and stowed away on his clothing rack like they belonged there. The way his piano top was littered with open notebooks filled with your messy scrawl and pens with the caps lost and half empty mugs stained around the rim with your chapstick.

Yoongi seemed wary at first, cautious to let you get too comfortable around him, dropping you home late at night once the lights in your house switched out and you knew it was safe to go inside.

But eventually he started to crave the little things that reminded him of you, unable to stop the smiles which crept onto his face as he loaded the dishwasher with the mugs and carried you to bed when you fell asleep at the piano stool.

Your bed. That's what you'd taken to calling it now.

Yoongi hated to admit that he was weak. When he got up on stage he was Gloss, hard faced and brazen and ruthless. But here with you, the facade he tried to uphold seemed to crumble into nothing. And the worst part was that he loved it.

Even when he was performing at the club or practicing for the competition, his thoughts always ended up wandering back to you. There were times when your schedules clashed or it was too risky to see each other or times you were simply too exhausted once you got home, falling into bed as soon as you crossed the threshold. But the knowledge that you were always there waiting for each other became the only safe place he knew and that was enough.

Of course you still had to oversee Namjoon's Mic Drop stage, it was your job after all, but that never seemed to come up when you were together. Just watching movies on his laptop or laughing at ungodly hours while you filled each other in on anecdotes that happened in the time you were apart, retreating beneath the sheets when Jin banged on the wall because it was four in the morning so would you please shut the fuck up.

For the first time in a long time you felt happy. Like you belonged somewhere that was all your own. No more answering to Namjoon or your parents. Just your own heart. And it always seemed to lead you back here to Yoongi, straight into his arms.

And as much as you hated yourself for it, you could feel your resentment for Namjoon growing. You'd be damned if you let him take this away from you, like he'd taken everything else.

Eventually, you stopped crawling through your bedroom window like a goddamn teenager and your parents stopped questioning why you never came home anymore. The cracks between you became a chasm. And right now, Yoongi was the band aid holding you together.

--

When Yoongi returns home later than usual, he's not even surprised when he ascends the stairs and find you and Jin laid out on the bean bags, already tipsy on red wine and giggling at his disgruntled expression.

That is until you take in the weary lines that had etched their way into his forehead, how his eyes look sunken and puffy. How his hands tremble against your waist when you pull him into your arms, body swaying back and forth lightly in your grasp like he could topple over any second.

You know what overworked looks like — after all, you had tended to Namjoon plenty of times when he refused to stop at his limits, barraging through them instead, a habit Yoongi also seemed to possess.

Ordered to stay on bed rest, Yoongi slumps face down into his pillow, letting out a long groan of relief when the mattress cushions his aching limbs.

You're already tucking him in, half way to the door to prepare him a hot cup of honey and lemon to soothe the husk in his throat from rapping too aggressively when his arms loop around your waist and pull you down to snuggle into the crook of your neck contentedly.

"Yoongi, let me go." It's futile, his grip is firm and he is already kicking the sheets over your body and pressing his cheek to the left side of your chest where you're sure he can hear how your heart races, a pout evident in your voice. "I want to take care of you."

"Mmf you are.." Words already slurring with the beginnings of sleep, he smiles groggily when you fall slack in his grasp and press your cheek to the top of his head in defeat. "Stroke my hair please?"

As soon as your fingers tangle in his blue locks he lets out a sigh of relief, like he'd been waiting to feel the touch all day.

Watching his face relax as he drifts off, you bask in the warmth of fulfilment singing your very nerve ending and silently wish that you can stay like this forever.

Just you and Yoongi against the world.

At some point your own eyes fall shut.

--

You're awoken by the sounds of muffled sobs.

The dark room momentarily disorientates you, heart quickening as you realise you're not in your own bed. Eventually your eyes adjust to the blackness, taking in the piano stood sturdily in the corner, breathing in the scent lingering on the pillow beneath your cheek and you're washed with a wave of comfort.

"Yoongi?" You croak.

The sheets are ripped from your body as Yoongi's form shoots upright. His bare back is damp with sweat, visible in the moonlight creeping through the slanted blinds, mattress rocking slightly with every sob that wracks his frame.

"Go back to sleep." His voice is gruff , but forcibly so and you hear the tremor lurking below the surface.

You sit up beside him. His face is buried in his palms. The sight makes your heart ache.

"Are you okay?" You're still new to this. Sure you're tangled up in his sheets most nights but you're still learning the ropes, unsure how best to comfort him. You settle for gently patting his shoulder, wincing at how cold and distant the action feels.

"I said go back to sleep." When his face emerges from between his hands you see the tell tale tracks of tears streaking his cheeks. Even when he wipes his face with the back of his palm there's a steady stream of them dripping down his chin.

"Is that what you really want?"

Yoongi presses his mouth together in a tight line, eyes black and empty as he tilts his head back and takes a shaky breath. That's when he crumbles. "Please stay."

"Oh, Yoongi." It's barely a whisper, afraid that if you speak too loud he'll shatter into a million pieces. He's like a scared kid, knees hugged to his chest as he wipes the hot tears from his eyes with a hard rub of his knuckles.

Yoongi stiffens when you fumble under the sheets to find his hand. You think he might pull away as you link your fingers with his but to your surprise he pulls your interlocked palms into his lap and squeezes so hard you feel the circulation in your fingers cutting off. The way he chokes back another sob stops you from complaining though, already cupping his cheek and tilting his face towards yours with your free hand.

"Why are you doing this?" His eyes squeeze shut, fresh tears sliding down his face and doing nothing to hide the slight tinge of red beneath them that tell you he's embarrassed to be seen like this. Vulnerable, so unlike the hard faced Yoongi you had come to know.

"Because I want to." You squeeze his hand and feel him squeeze back weakly. "You can tell me anything, you know."

Pressing his forehead to yours, Yoongi leans down and captures your lips between his own. I know, it says.

This is different to the way he usually kisses you. There's no hunger, no hands on your neck and your thighs that set you alight with desire. Just a sense of yearning, like he wants to be closer to you, the plump flesh of his lips slotting between yours like a perfect puzzle piece, slightly salty from his tears. It makes you ache all over, like you're somehow connected and sharing his pain.

He pulls away, sharp exhales tickling your face as he scans your eyes for any sign of hesitation, any sign that you're going to leave him here alone. This is side of Yoongi that you have never seen before. He always said he isn't good with words and you know better than anyone that he hated admitting that he needed someone. This was is his way saying he needs you.

And in that moment you feel a piece of your heart flutter into his hands.

"Nightmares." He mumbles, swallowing thickly and tipping his head back against the headboard, expression pained "Just nightmares."

"Want to talk about it?" You sit back next to him, and when he rolls his neck to face you. He looks unreadable again. Eyes void. You half think he's going to push you away, turn over and fall back asleep and leave you to stare at the ceiling alone with the silence.

But he doesn't. Instead he lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head at himself as he pulls you into his arms, stroking your cheek fondly when your head comes to rest on his chest, burying his nose in your hair.

"Why can't I say no to you?"

"Guess I have that affect on people."

He snorts lightly, the first proper reaction he'd given you and you're pleased at his amusement. Pleased you were able to comfort him somewhat.

Unspoken words cloak a heavy silence for what feels like hours, just tracing mindless patterns on his arm and listening to the way his heart slows to a normal pace beneath your cheek, grip around your torso never faltering. When his breaths dwindle to soft puffs against your temple you think he's already drifted off.

Until, "Do you remember when I convinced Namjoon to sign up for Mic Drop the first time. The day after my mom died?" His voice is gravelly, both with sleep and a sign of his withheld tears.

"Of course I do." You swivel in his arms to blink up at him curiously. Sure you remembered. After the funeral, your parents had taken Yoongi in — a repayment they called it. For helping Namjoon achieve his dreams. Of course, that was before you realised just how much Yoongi would help.

Yoongi became a part of the family for a short while. An extra seat at family dinners. Another pair of shoes by the front door. Another bed in Namjoon's room.

"Back then, I was too trusting. I thought that they wanted to help me...I thought that they saw me as their son." He spits the word with the bitterness of a man who was stripped of the title of 'son' before he knew what it really meant.

You think back to how Namjoon and Yoongi used to be. Joined at the hip, everyone used to say. Brothers.

"I think they did—"

"No." He stiffens. You bite your lip. "Namjoon never cared about me. He just saw me as a way to get to the top. And it worked."

You feel a pang in your chest.

"I'm sorry, he's your brother. I shouldn't be talking about this with you."

Yoongi almost turns away but you stop him by pressing your lips to his briefly. Telling him its okay. You understand.

"The nightmares." You say with an eagerness to change to subject before you could dwell on it too hard. Before you could admit to yourself that Yoongi was right. "You didn't say what they were about?"

"I'm getting there." He lets out a strained chuckle and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The action makes you shiver.

"The last time I saw my mother she said that she wasn't scared to die. She was just scared that she'd miss seeing me on the stage. She was the only one who believed in me." The next words come out choked. "She said that if she couldn't be there to see it then I needed to make as many goddamn people watch me lift that trophy as I could."

Mic Drop was never about the fame for Yoongi after all. It always ran deeper than that; a need not a want. A vulnerable promise left unfulfilled.

The realisation makes you blanch. All this time, all these years, you hadn't been able to see the real greed right in front of your eyes; your own brother.

The image of Yoongi, crumpled and broken on that fateful day all those years ago makes its way to the forefront of your mind.

The same anger flashes across his face now. "Namjoon took that from me. I don't care about the fans or the money or the trophy — none of that shit! He took my dream Y/N. Do you understand how that feels?"

You find yourself nodding, slowly at first and then with vigour as the dam inside you breaks and your own tears flood. "I do. I understand."

And you do. You understand why Yoongi is so determined to win Mic Drop. You understand why he hates Namjoon as much as he does. You understand how it feels to always fall second best to Namjoon, to be outcasted.

"I keep forgetting her face. I can't hear her voice in my head anymore." Yoongi's crying again now, heavy sobs no longer able to be contained. "But in the dreams she's so clear. The disappointment in her eyes, its so clear, Y/N." His words are interrupted by hiccups that leave him gasping.

"I'm sorry." You whisper once he calms. It's all you know how to say.

"Not your fault." He flashes you a watery smile, wiping away the tear on your cheek with his knuckle. It makes your heart flutter, even despite the guilt weighing on your shoulders.

You feel useless. It wasn't your fault directly but you couldn't help but feel like you wronged Yoongi. All of this happened right in front of your eyes but you were too blinded by Namjoon's broken promises to see it. All this time you had let Namjoon make you think Yoongi was the enemy.

"I'm here now." Hands plant on either side of his face, eyes meeting his. "I believe in you."

He doesn't need to say anything. The way he kisses you speaks louder than words.

All you can do now is hold him, tangling your legs with his and pulling the covers over your intertwined bodies, stroke his cheek with your thumb and pepper kisses to his strained forehead which relaxes beneath your affections.

"I'll make this right." You whisper into his hair after his eyes flutter closed and the sun starts peeking through the window, watching dust particles floating in a stream of light in the room's golden glow through lidded eyes. "I promise."

--

"I like this." Jimin nods enthusiastically along to the track playing through the headphones Namjoon placed over his ears. "Sounds like a hit to me."

Namjoon's face contorts into a scowl. He disagrees, obviously, if the disgusted shake of his head is any indication.

Mic Drop is just a few days away and Namjoon had decided to scrap his entire stage after Jimin scored a couple big last minute investors who suggested he do something new, something exciting. Something that pushed Runch Randa's limits.

It was a bold move, this close to the big day. But Namjoon was cocky, said that he had enough experience in the industry to win in his sleep. Practice was a waste of time anyway.

"Next one." He waves his hand, barely even glancing in your direction as you press a button that cuts off the track and makes another one start playing.

The bass is louder in this one and it makes Jimin startle backwards, the headphone jack slipping loose so the music plays through the speakers instead.

"Hoseok and I still need to put the finishing touches on this one but it's pretty catchy—"

Namjoon cuts you off with a sharp no, it was too upbeat for his Mic Drop performance. Said he needed something with grit, something that would make the judges feel something.

"Let me see that." He gestures for you to get up, slumping down into the chair you occupied and slotting himself beneath the studio desk to scroll through the open folder on the computer screen.

He skims through countless tracks, demoed and ready to be recorded at Namjoon's disposal — you were something of a writing machine, always scribbling down lyrics on receipts from the store or on the back of your hand and paired with Hoseok you were a dream team; he always seemed to find a beat that fit perfectly. Unfortunately Namjoon's straight face gives away his disinterest in any of them.

"None of these will work." Namjoon throws the keyboard down with a force that makes you wince, jaw tightening as he presses his knuckles to his eyes in frustration. "I'm going to fucking lose."

You are about to tell him to write the fucking track himself like everyone else if none of yours were good enough for him but Jimin flashes you a glance. Don't make things worse.

You settle instead for a hand on his shoulder. He tenses at your touch. It had been a while since you'd been in the same room for longer than ten minutes and when you take in the gauntness of his cheekbones you briefly wonder if he's been eating properly. He always did forget when you weren't around to remind him.

You suck in a breath to give you strength. "There must be one that you like."

His lips purse and he disgruntledly goes back to scrolling again, clicking on a couple titles that draw his interest. You and Jimin let out simultaneous sighs of relief.

"What's this?" Namjoon's eyes narrow as he presses play on a track that sends you flying forward, heart in your mouth and colour leaving your face as a song plays that you swore to never show to anyone.

Yoongi's song. The one you wrote after that night in his studio. Probably the best song you had ever written.

"That's not — I was supposed to delete that one." The heat in your cheeks as you push him aside roughly to wrestle with the pause button has you hiding behind your hair, as if he would somehow know this wasn't just an ordinary song. That it was a song about his enemy, for god's sake.

Namjoon's slaps you away from the computer, head bobbing to the beat and you fall back into your seat in defeat, fingers crossed behind your back that he would hate it as much as the others.

"I love it."

Oh no.

"This is the one!"

Shit shit shit!

"A-are you sure?" You're rambling now, words slipping out way too fast and Jimin seems puzzled at your lack of elation at Namjoon's decisiveness. "I'm sure I could write something much better if you just give me some more time—"

Namjoon's arms pull you into a tight embrace before you can finish, your nose ending up smushed against his chest as he practically vibrates with excitement. Your body goes stiff, hands dangling at your sides awkwardly. Considering Namjoon's coldness towards you as of late his sudden display of affection takes you by surprise. Mostly because despite your physical closeness it only makes you feel even more distant from your brother.

A sigh of relief escapes when he finally sets you free, only to be replaced with pure horror as you watch him stick a USB drive into the computer and load up the song before sliding it in his back pocket with a grin while you have no choice but to stand there helplessly.

"I'm totally gonna win!" His change in attitude is abrupt but seems to soothe Jimin who nods enthusiastically. You feel sick. "I can't wait to see the look on Yoongi's face when he hears this shit."

The smirk on his face washes you with dread. If only he knew.

Yoongi was right. Secrets always find a way to come and bite you in the ass.

--

Every rap of your knuckles against the run down studio door seems to echo ominously through the alley like an omen.

"Y/N?"

As soon as the bolt wrangles across and the wooden panel flies open to reveal a disgruntled Yoongi, a warmth seems to thaw through the icy evening chill that, along with your nerves, is making your knees knock together.

His chest is warm against your cheek when he pulls you into his arms, the smell of cologne and black coffee consuming your senses. It's enough to make your tense limbs fall slack, curling into his firm frame instinctively. Finally. You can breathe again.

"Hey." He mumbles sweetly against your temple, a trace of a smile in his voice like he was happy to see you. You silently wonder if he'll still be so happy once he hears what you have to say.

The studio is basked in darkness, the contours of his face barely visible in the blue glow emanating from his desktop monitor. There's a dent in the cushion of the adjacent chair, Yoongi's hair sticking up at the back where the pair of headphones slung around his neck had sat moments ago.

"I can go if you were working, wouldn't want to interrupt." As the words are leaving your lips you cross your fingers, selfishly hopeful that he would send you away and you could avoid the conversation that was about to follow. Blame it all on circumstance, leave saying that you at least tried.

But that would be keeping a secret. It would make you just as bad as the rest. And the thought of him finding out from someone else was enough to make your palms sweat and enough to keep your feet planted against the carpet determinedly.

Yoongi's hands find you like he can't bare to keep them away, dragging you across the threshold without hesitation. "S'fine. Work better with you here anyway." He smiles and you try to return it but your lips are pressed into a permanent line, like they're scared the daunting words you have to say will come spilling out before you were ready -- if you ever would be ready. As you slump into a chair and watch him wheel another one around to face you with his arms slung lazily over the back, you realise there is no going back.

Considering the countdown to Mic Drop was nearing its end, less than twenty four hours to go before Yoongi would be stood opposite Namjoon on stage in front of thousands, he looked the epitome of relaxation, unlike the nerves in your chest making you jitter.

"Jin's on his way with takeout, I would've asked him to get more if I knew you were coming but I'm sure we can share— babe, are you alright?"

Babe. The endearment had started slipping from his lips frequently recently. At first he tried to cover it up with nervous laughter but now he was brazen, enjoying the way the word tasted on his tongue. It would be so easy to force a smile, to push "the right thing" to the back of your mind and let the selfish part of your heart accept his affections, even knowing you're about to hurt him.

But the clock ticking away on the wall sounds deafening with every beat of silence that follows, twisting the rings on your fingers until you could no longer distinguish the sound from the sinister thrum of your heart.

You can't hold it in any more.

"I need to tell you something." It comes out a hoarse whisper, nearly unintelligible beneath the stream of hip hop from the hifi system in the corner.

"What is it?" Yoongi's concerned eyes never leave you as he reaches over to switch it off, the room now draped in a shroud of quiet. The reality of the situation seeps into every dark corner and right into your bones.

"It's about us. Kind of."

Yoongi rolls closer, stopping your teeth from nibbling your cuticles by slotting his fingers between yours like a perfect puzzle piece. It seems to ground you, like you're filled with helium and he's the weight stopping your feet from floating off the ground. For a second you think everything will be okay. Nothing, not even this betrayal, could come between what you had.

"Did Namjoon find out?" Even in the dim light you see the panic stricken raise of his brows. When your head shakes in a violent negative they smooth back down, relieved, as if nothing you could say next would be worse than that. No matter how hard you try to meet his eyes you can't.

His hand squeezes gently then. You muster up the courage to squeeze back. Perhaps it would soften the blow that was about to follow.

"His song. The one I wrote for Mic Drop...it's about you. I thought you should know. Before you hear it for yourself."

Nothing but an immeasurable silence followed. "Oh."

Yoongi is unreadable, almost as if he didn't hear the words hanging like heavy storm clouds over your heads. You expected him to be angry, to shout -- even cry, maybe. Not knowing how he was feeling was even worse than any scenario you had imagined. Made you feel like you were back to square one and he was shutting you out of the window into his soul you'd worked so hard to wriggle through.

For a second you think the sudden cold against your palm is a result of the numbness coursing through your veins like you were dunked in ice water, but then you see his hand retreat to his lap, eyes wide and staring at it in disbelief like he'd been scalded.

"I...I don't understand." He sounds choked, face contorting with pain. Like it does when he wakes thrashing in the night with a bad dream. Unlike those times though, he doesn't levitate towards you for comfort, just stares at you vacantly like he's far, far away despite being physically close enough for your knees to brush.

"It was written after the first time we...y'know...here--" You glance around, convinced your mind is playing tricks when you see a vision of you in Yoongi's lap across the room, lips attached like nothing else in the world mattered. It feels far away and out of reach when the real Yoongi gets to his feet, creating a distance between you that is foreign, his form staggering across the room so that you could see the way his back tensed beneath his t-shirt when he grips the edge of his desk for support, processing.

"I don't understand."

"I was emotional. It just happened--"

"No. What I don't understand is why you're letting him perform it?" Fists send a stack of sheet music flying to the ground. His lip trembles, face red, with anger or affliction, you can't tell which.

"Yoongi--" You reach for him, fingertips barely grazing his arm before he's smacking you away with a violent shake of his head. He'd never resisted you before. Not even in the beginning.

"You expect me to just sit back and listen to Namjoon of all people rapping the lyrics my girlfr-- that you wrote dissing me? This has to be a fucking joke."

"It's not that kind of track!" You hug your body pitifully. It's the only thing you can do to stop yourself from falling apart as his mouth spits a venom that makes your heart shatter. His eyes fill with one thing. Betrayal. "I'm sorry. I just...I can't keep choosing between you anymore, Yoongi. He's my brother."

"And what am I, huh?"

Every second that passes, every stutter or attempt at explanation that leaves your mouth makes Yoongi crumple. You see it in the way his adam's apple bobs, how his shoulders slacken.

For some reason you can't open up. Tell him he means more to you than anyone ever had. That you thought your heart might really break and bleed out on the carpet if he didn't feel the same way.

Instead you settle for, "Why are you so mad? It's my job! I had no choice."

Without warning he's rushing at you, trembling palms capturing your face and pressing his forehead to yours. His breaths shake, chest heaving as he battles internally with the words flying from his lips like a ghostly breath across yours.

"Because I fucking love you, Y/N! Can't you see it? I fucking love you and your bastard of a brother always finds a way to ruin things between us!"

His admission stuns you, the tears welling in your eyes spilling over in a silent stream down your cheeks.

He loves you. He loves you.

"Yoongi--" Words just won't come. Nothing feels right.

Because you love him too. It had taken you this long to admit it to yourself but it was clear now. Every breath, every beat of your heart, every fucking song you would ever write was for him. It scared you before but now, stood here in front of him, you know it's true.

Something hopeless niggles at the back of your head, stops you from spilling everything to him. If he loves you, how can he expect you to choose?

If words couldn't make him see the truth then you'd just have to show him the only way you knew how. Straight from your heart.

You're crying as you dig around in the bottom of your bag to retrieve a USB, pressing it into his curled fist firmly and begging him with your eyes to understand. "Just listen to the song. Please. It'll explain everything. I promise."

You begin to back up and his hand shoots out to stop you, pulling you roughly into his chest which only makes you cry harder, tears creating a wet patch on his T-shirt.

"Please don't leave me. Not again." It's a fragile whisper.

It's all too much.

"I can't choose any longer, Yoongi. This has to end."

With one last look at his crumpled face you flee from his studio with eyes just as watery as the first time you'd walked down this very alley. Except this time it takes all of your strength to resist running back into his arms.

Yoongi can only stand there and watch you go, the USB hot against his hand.

This has to end. The words make his chest burn and he hates it. Hates feeling weak. You always make him feel so fucking weak.

If he can't have you then he had no choice but to do everything in his power to make sure he got the next best thing.

Suddenly it all seemed clear. Yoongi knew what he had to do.

--

The arena is almost desolate when you creep inside.

Just a sea of empty seats stretching out from both sides of you where you sit in one of the stands, nibbling the skin around your thumb and watching Namjoon pace the stage below.

It's gone midnight by now. Most of the crew went home hours ago. Not Namjoon though. He stayed to practice some more. Said he couldn't get the choreography quite right.

You tried going home but you couldn't get the fight out of your head. Everything reminded you of Yoongi and your thoughts started to wander. Did he hate you? Was he listening to the song right now? Why hasn't he called? Why is your own bed not as comfy as the one you shared with Yoongi?

It all got too much eventually. Something told you that you weren't welcome at the apartment so you ended up heading towards the only other place you knew, surprised to find your brother had the same idea.

A single spotlight illuminates the stage as Namjoon twists his body in time with the one, two, three, four he unconsciously mumbles under his breath, face contorted with a stark concentration that flits to impatience when his foot slips and he misses the beat. Again. It just about sends him over the edge.

"I can't do this anymore!" A microphone squeals and hits the ground with a thump. It reverberates through the arena, your hands flying to your ears as you watch Namjoon let loose all his anger on an innocent amp stand before collapsing into a heap at the edge of the stage. "Fuck this shit!"

You're flying down the stairs to his aid before he can do any serious damage to the stage equipment — or worse, to himself.

Namjoon scoffs when he hears the stage creak under your feet. "Nice of you to show up."

It stings. You snap.

"What happened to you, Namjoon?" You look at his sunken cheekbones, his curled fists, the blackness behind his eyes. "I don't even recognise you anymore."

He just sniffs and says nothing. The distance between you feels bigger than ever.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

A secret? Since when did Namjoon abide by a policy of honesty?

He takes your shocked silence as a yes.

"I'm calling first thing and dropping out of the competition."

Your world stutters to a standstill, breath knocked out of your lungs.

Dropping out?

"Shit Joon...if this is about Yoongi—"

He waves you off.  "No. This is about me."

You can't breathe. This can't be real. "I don't understand..."

"I've made up my mind. I can't do this any more. I used to love being up here you know?"

You follow his gaze, out over the empty arena. The last time you were here every seat was filled. You were down there, part of the crowd, packed into the cramped space with barely enough room to breathe.

Imagining how it must feel to be up here comes easy. If you close your eyes you can hear the screams, feel the body heat. Smell the sweat and the anticipation. See thousand faces looking up in awe. At you. It makes your blood run hot.

You much prefer being up here, you decide.

Namjoon brings you back down. "Now it just feels like a chore. I look out and all I see is disappointed faces. I can't pretend for them anymore."

"People travel miles to see you Joon! No one is disappointed."

"Not the fans. They love me. Well, Runch Randa, at least." He cracks a half smile. "It's me whose disappointed. In Kim Namjoon."

You always thought your brother was sure of himself. He's cocky, confident and above all fearless. It's his biggest strength (and his most irritating quality sometimes) but it's what you always admired most about him.

Clearly you didn't know your brother as well as you thought you did.

You bite your lip. "Why?"

He turns to face you, leaning back into his arms while he searches for the right words and, little to your knowledge, gathers the courage to confide in you.

"Because I re-entered Mic Drop for all the wrong reasons. I just wanted to prove myself, you know? Win for real this time, not just by default." He swallows. "But then I saw Yoongi perform. And to be honest? I saw you. I saw how much you care about the music. How you come alive when you're writing lyrics or when you're in the studio." His smile is woeful. "Im supposed to feel like that. But I don't. I never did. It's like I'm always asleep, y'know?"

You did know. Every time you lifted a camera. Every time you pressed the shutter and snapped another shot of Namjoon on stage you felt your soul grow exhausted.

It makes the distance between you and Namjoon close a little. For once you understand each other and you don't have to hide how you feel any more.

"I can't stop thinking that it's your name the fans should be screaming. Not mine. They deserve better than me."

"But you're the best performer I know!" You rush. It always seemed like he wanted to keep you out of the spotlight at all costs. "Why now?"

He lets out a deep sigh. "I'm a selfish person, Y/N. I thought I was protecting you from... all this." He gestures around him. "The late nights and the paparazzi and the criticism and a fucking manager on your back all the time." His eye roll makes you snort, sharing a brief smile at the image of hardworking Jimin mumbling into his headset like a man posessed.

He's quickly serious again though. "Fame comes with a price. But I realize now that the price is worth it if your hearts in the right place and...what I'm trying to say, Y/N, is that mine never was."

You let your chin fall into your palm. Huh. "So that's the big secret?"

"Actually...there's something else." He shifts nervously. "I know about you and Yoongi."

You freeze, scrambling to your knees with wide eyes. "Wait, Joon, let me explain—"

"Let me finish!" Namjoon brushes you off with a breathless laugh, nodding to himself, as if finally coming to a solid conclusion about coming clean when his eyes meet yours. "He's in love with you."

This time it feels like the whole world goes into overdrive. You forget how to breathe.

"What...how...huh?"

It's Namjoon's palm squeezing your knee reassuringly that brings you back down.

"He always was. Even back before things got messed up." A deep breath. Something was coming, you could tell by the way his eye twitched nervously. "That's why me and Yoongi fought. That's why I...I lied and said that I wrote the song the night of the Mic Drop final...accused him of plagiarism—" Your mouth gapes. "I know! I know. Don't look at me like that. I can see the irony."

It all makes sense now. She's a part of this, Namjoon, whether you like it or not.

The reason Namjoon sacrificed his best friend wasn't for fame but for your sake?

You want to fly at your brother, scream at him for keeping this from you for so long. For turning you against Yoongi. For keeping you from the only person to make you feel safe. Feel Happy.

But his eyes are void of anything other than regret and you can tell his betrayal had been playing on his mind all these years.

"Point is, I didn't want you to get hurt." He shuffles awkwardly, not knowing what to do with your silence. "That's not an excuse, I know. Do you hate me?"

"No." Your voice sounds small. His chest heaves with relief. "I just wish you had been honest with me before. Saved us a ton of trouble."

"I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was a shitty brother in the end anyway."

It's strange. Even after all the fights and the resentment and the goddamn secrets, you don't think Namjoon is a shitty brother. Sure, his actions and intentions were shitty there was no denying it. But now it's like the puzzle pieces finally click into place and the full photograph comes into view, crystal clear.

All this time, he just wanted to protect you, when you should have been protecting him. He was hurting too, you just never knew it.

"It's not too late, Joon. Just be happy for me okay? I think..." If Namjoon plucked up the courage to tell you his secrets then it was only fair that you did too. "I love him too."

A pinkish tinge caresses your face when you finally admit it, both out loud and to yourself.

You love Yoongi. And now all the cards are on the table there's nothing holding you back from it.

Now you just need to tell Yoongi.

"I know. You think I don't know who that song is about?" The grin that spreads across Namjoon's features is sincere."And I am. Happy for you, I mean."

Now the truth is out in the open it feels like your wounds are already beginning to heal. You place your hand over his and squeeze it tight. It was time to forgive.

A thought suddenly strikes you. "So what are you gonna do now?

Namjoon fumbles in the back pocket of his jeans, thrusting something towards you. A polaroid picture. The same photo you'd seen at Yoongi's studio.

He kept it, too?

"This kid." His finger jabs at the innocent face of a younger Namjoon, arm wrapped around the shoulders of his best friend. "I didn't get enough time to live as him before I became Runch Randa. I think it's time to just live as Namjoon for a while."

"But what about Big Hit? It'll fall apart and mom and dad will kill you—"

"No it won't. They have you. I already talked to them, in fact. There's a stage with your name on it right here." He pats the ground. "If you want it, that is."

You blink, stunned. You? "I...I don't know if I can."

"I believe in you." Namjoon says. "And I'll be cheering you on from the front row."

You'd have to think about it long and hard but you can't help the grin that appears on your face. Things were going to be okay.

An urge rises in your chest to tell Yoongi this news. To see the way his face would light up as you started the journey to following your own dreams, like he always said you should.

You and Yoongi were going to be okay.

"Hey! Maybe I should try photography now I have some free time." Namjoon tugs at the camera strap around your neck, lifting his eye to the viewfinder and laughing when you cover the lens with your hands. "Damn I'm kinda good!"

You bump his shoulder teasingly, the belly laughter that spills into the arena feeling like the most natural thing in the world.

You're only interrupted by approaching footsteps. Jimin bursts into the arena.

"Namjoon," he pants. "I have some bad news."

--

It's compulsory for all competitors to attend the crowning ceremony. Even those who get disqualified.

RUNCH RANDA BLACKLISTED FROM COMPETING IN FUTURE HIP HOP COMPETITIONS AFTER PLAGIARISM SCANDAL SURFACES.

Just one of the devastating headlines that hit the media after the judges panel received an anonymous tip in the form of a USB stick that exposed Namjoon once and for all. The same USB that you pressed into Yoongi's hands just hours before Namjoon's disqualification.

RAPPER GLOSS TO SNATCH MIC DROP TROPHY IN SHOCKING REVENGE FOR HIS BRUTAL DEFEAT.

Namjoon reads it aloud in the back of the car. He laughs at the end but it does nothing to lighten the mood.

The windows are tinted but you can still see the hoards of fans lining the streets, eyes steeped in betrayal.

You should hear the way they boo as your brother drives past. You should hear the way they chant his name instead.

Yoongi! Yoongi! Yoongi!

But you don't. You don't hear anything. You don't feel anything. All you can think of is the same three words, throbbing in your chest over and over again.

I love you.

Did he mean them at all?

"Y/N? Did you hear me?"

"Hm?" You look up. Namjoon's staring at you with concern.

"Your phone's ringing again."

It's no surprise when you pull out your phone and see a contact picture of yourself and Yoongi gracing the screen. He's been calling all morning. It takes every strength inside you to tap the red decline button.

"Aren't you gonna talk to him?"

Another call lights up the screen.

"Not like this."

With trembling fingers you shut your phone off all together.

--

Paparazzi cameras flash brazenly as you step out of the black company car, following Namjoon with your hood pulled tightly round your face. A hoard of body guards usher you through a back door to the arena. The main entrance is reserved for notable guests only, you learn.

While Namjoon's presence usually makes the room buzz with an electric energy, there's no excitement when he enters now. An awkward hush falls like a shroud as he elbows his way past pitiful stares. It's like someone died. In a way it's true; there's no trace of Runch Randa in Namjoon's hunched stance. Here, the dead still walks for everyone to see.

Jimin's waiting by the stage door. No words are exchanged as he slips passes into your hands. Namjoon's has a big red strike through the word TALENT, "guest" scribbled all too generously below it to match your own.

It's nearing show time. They're just waiting for you to take your seats, Jimin says, though you barely hear him. You're too busy imagining what you would do if you bumped into him right now, heart pounding whenever you catch a glimpse of blue or hear a laugh you're convinced you recognise.

Deep down you know exactly where you have to go to find him. To find Yoongi.

"I'll join you in a second, okay?"

Namjoon looks nervous, the first time you've ever seen him with such a severe case of the jitters. His smile is empty when you rub his forearm reassuringly. "Don't be too long. If I'm gonna do this I want you by my side."

You manage a smile. "Always."

With that, Namjoon takes a deep breath and pushes out into the life of the arena and you find your feet numbly carrying you down back corridors you know by heart until you reach his dressing room.

Your heart is blind, you think. Even now the shattered fragments ache for him, beat a little faster knowing he's just behind this door.

Why can't you go back to hating him, just like you did before? Deep down you know it's because you never really hated Yoongi. You don't think you ever could.

Forgiving him, though? Some wounds never heal, no matter how badly you want them to.

You pause outside the door. The stupid gold star that used to be there has been scraped off, replaced with a new name tag. Gloss. You put your ear to the wood. Nothing.

A deep breath and you find the handle. Should you burst in and give him a piece of your mind? Knock and enter politely? You can't help but scoff. Shouldn't he be the one coming to find you?

He calls your name before you can do either.

"Y/N?"

Fuck. Is hearing his voice supposed to hurt this bad?

You don't know what you're expecting when you turn around. Something different about him perhaps. A sign that he isn't the person you had grown to know. Grown to love.

But there he is. All messy blue hair and bitten lips and eyes a little red around the edges. Your Yoongi.

Your arms curl around your body like a band aid, holding you together. You can't crumble. Not now.

He looks stony but his eyes flicker with tender remorse when he sees the tears staining your cheeks.

His hands reach for you instinctively. The same hands that make love to his piano in the shitty apartment above the coffee shop. The same hands that could make you fall apart with even a delicate touch. You want to run into them so bad it hurts. But now they're stained red with betrayal and he chokes when you recoil.

Seconds feel like hours as you just stand there taking each other in like it's been years. It's only been a day or two. Maybe three? You can't remember. They all rolled into one meaningless blur of angry tears and insomnia.

You had a whole speech prepared for the moment you finally faced him again. But there are no words that feel right. You just need to know. If he meant every touch and every inside joke and those three words that make your heart soar despite how badly you want to hate him. And there's only one way to find out.

"Why did you do it?"

Your voice sounds timid and scared, like you feel. He winces.

"Y/N, let me explain—"

"Explain what?" Your voice raises shakily."How you lied to me? How you used me?"

He rushes towards you and it takes all of your strength to draw back, especially when his eyes look so frantic, so desperate. Like he's having one of his nightmares. It tugs at your heart because this time the nightmare is real and you're living in it.

"It's not like that—"

"Did you ever even want me? What about all that fair and square bullshit you told me huh?"

"Of course I wanted you Y/N...want you." His eyes fill with pain. "This wasn't meant to happen. I know how this looks but I just panicked!"

You rush at him, fists curled like that day in his studio except this time he doesn't stop you when you start hitting his chest, vision blurry.

"He was going to pull out! Namjoon was going to let you win! So that I could -- we could be happy!"

"What I...I don't understand?" His mouth gapes, processing. "But you didn't..." He swallows, like remembering is painful. "When I confessed, you didn't say it back. I thought we were over! I thought I had nothing to lose, Y/N. He had already won..."

You remember your words. I can't do this anymore. A misunderstanding that would never have happened if he just—

"Did you even listen to the song?"

His face drops at the mention of the song. "No." He looks like he might cry. "I was angry! I...I acted impulsively. I never got the chance..."

You bared your soul in that song in ways you never thought you could. He wasn't supposed to find out how you felt about him this way. Not here, when you're falling apart and there's nothing you can do to stop it. But it all comes tumbling out before you can change your mind.

"I wrote that song because I love you, Yoongi!"

Silence. He has to grip the wall to steady himself.

"Y-you love me?"

"I love you." The words feel indulgent on your tongue and even now as they hang heavy in the air and you're overcome with an indescribable combination of grief and longing, you mean them with every bone in your body.

You rush at him. You can't help it. Can't resist how your head falls into his chest and how you cry harder when you breathe in his scent one last time, sobs muffled by his hoodie. But he hears them, you know he does, because his hands are trembling when they pull you closer like you're fragile enough to break.

"I love you. So fucking much it hurts, Yoongi."

You're weak. You're so so weak.

You don't know why you do it but you grab his face with both hands and then you're kissing him. Showing him how much you need him, how much you mean your words. His hand cups your jaw like always and his lips press back with a tender desperation and you believe him. You believe that he loves you. Whole and true. Because in that moment, with his lips on yours, everything is okay. He's your Yoongi and you're his Y/N and he loves you.

But then you pull back and he's crying too and everything's broken and your heart goes numb.

"I'm sorry. God, Y/N I'm so sorry. If I could take it back I promise I would."

You muster up all the strength you can. You know what you have to do.

"I'm giving you a choice, Yoongi. You go out on that stage and pick up that trophy and we're over. For real."

He tries to kiss you again, grabbing at you frantically when you turn your cheek.

"Y/N, don't do this. We love each other. That's all that matters right?" He musters up the closest thing to a smile he can manage, like he's convincing himself more than he is you. "You don't have to—"

"No." You pull away from grip. It feels cold and wrong. "I have to do this. If you love me like you say you'll...you'll understand."

You turn but he grabs your wrist, pins you in place.

"I can't lose you to him again, Y/N. I...I already lost you once and I don't think I..."

The hard faced Min Yoongi you once knew is gone. All that's left is the vulnerable man in front of you who holds your heart in your hands with a grip so tight it scares you.

"He can't win...please."

You suck in a final breath.

"Please what? Don't make you choose between me and that stupid fucking trophy? You did this to yourself, Yoongi." You turn and this time he lets you. "The only person pushing me away is you."

"Y/N please, wait!"

You don't dare turn to look at him as you walk away. Not even when he pleads or you hear him fall to his knees, a strangled sob echoing down the hall. You're scared you might run back to him if you do.

You don't let yourself break down until you turn the corner. Yoongi doesn't follow.

--

"I'm okay." You assure Namjoon as you take a seat beside him inside the arena. It's a lie, of course. No amount of cold water splashed on your face in the bathroom could prepare you for this moment.

You're just in time. The ceremony is already starting. The host is taking the stage and the lights are dimming but you're too numb to care.

You go out on that stage and pick up that trophy and we're over.

Your decision is final. There's no going back. You've cried all your tears. You've said all that needed to be said. All you're left with now is a sickly feeling in your stomach as you look down at the trophy sat in a display case center stage.

We love each other. A slither of hope tugs at your heart strings. You barely manage to suppress it.

"Sorry! Excuse me!" The empty seat to your left sinks under the weight of Hoseok as he clumsily stumbles into the arena, late as always.

He offers you a smile which turns to a frown when you only stare past him vacantly, straining your neck to keep an eye on the stage.

A hand covers yours. You freeze at the contact, only relaxing when you peer through the darkness to find Hoseok staring at you gently. His voice is a whisper. "Whatever happens I'm here for you, okay?"

A wave of emotion crashes through you and you think you might cry again. You can't make your lips sound out a response but Hoseok understands and you feel a little stronger when you turn your attention back to the ceremony knowing you have someone by your side.

"As you all know there have been some...complications with this year's finalists." The host coughs and fiddles with his tie awkwardly. "But we are glad to announce that we do in fact have a winner here with us today!"

The crowd chants Yoongi's name again. Namjoon stiffens. Your free hand grabs his and he squeezes it tight.

"So without further ado, I would like to welcome this year's winner, Gloss!"

The crowd goes wild but the sound is drowned out by a ringing in your ears. It's like you're underwater, holding your breath as you wait and wait for him to take the stage and all the oxygen to slip away.

One...two...three...

You get to ten seconds, then twenty seconds and then thirty and by the time you get to forty you feel yourself break the surface, take a heaving breath.

You're floating. He chose you.

He loves you! Yoongi loves you! He—

No.

You're seeing things. You must be. That can't be Yoongi's face lighting up every screen in the room. That can't be him crossing the stage and taking the trophy from the hands of the host with a smug grin. That can't be Yoongi holding it up in the air like a martyr.

That can't be your Yoongi. This is a stranger.

You crash back to reality when Namjoon wraps his arms around your waist and you realise your sobbing. Sobbing so hard it hurts your chest and your lungs burn with misuse and you're sure the tears will never stop.

"It's okay! Shh."

Nothing is okay. Nothing.

Yoongi's face is still blown up on the big screens in painful detail. The smile on his face falters when he looks out into the crowd and spots you instantly. Sees you crumple.

There are two things Min Yoongi ever loved in this world.

His music and you.

The trophy feels cold in his hands. The crowd gasps as he rushes to the edge of the stage and calls out to you.

"Y/N wait! I'm sorry—"

You hear his voice through the speakers but it's too late. You're already running.

Yoongi's mic drops to the ground.

--

Yoongi's nightmares are back. Except this time they're different.

When he closes his eyes you're there. Smiling and laughing like you used to. His heart warms and he reaches for you...

And then he realises it's not you. Just a picture, blown up on the big screen as you cross the stage at the front of the room he's suddenly aware he's in.

He glances around at the indistinguishable people around him, all smiling and clapping ferociously. Why isn't he happy?

The bottle in his hand is half empty. He's realises he's screaming. So hard his throat burns and his lungs beg for air but you don't even look his way. He screams your name, over and over again. Nobody seems to hear him.

Namjoon's there too. Bouncing a baby on his knee, maybe one or two years old if he has to guess.

"That'll be you one day," He whispers, but its deafening to Yoongi. "Only the very best for my niece." The baby giggles up at him, stubby fingers wrapped around his thumb.

She has your eyes. The very same eyes Yoongi would look into like they held everything in the world. The very same eyes Yoongi saw fill with pain on the last day he saw you before things got messed up.

She has Hoseok's nose. And his mouth, too, small and heart shaped. The resemblance is uncanny as Hoseok appears beside Namjoon, takes the baby girl into his arms and places a sweet kiss on her forehead.

Then there you are. The same old Y/N. The same smile that makes your eyes crinkle and the same laughter than makes his heart melt. The same girl who used to love him.

Though it's clear that that much is no longer true. Not when you lean up to kiss Hoseok on the cheek, Namjoon drawing you into a hug when you present the trophy in your hands to them with an elated laugh.

A family.

It feels like he's been punched in the stomach.

Yoongi always thought winning Mic Drop would mean he had everything. Fame. Money. Glory.

He didn't need family. He always got by on his own.

It took holding the whole world in the palm of his hand to realise none of it meant anything if he didn't have you by his side.

You were his everything. But he was too stupid to see it and he let you slip away.

It's too late now.

A hand appears on his shoulder. It's cold, grip bruising. The voice that comes next gives him chills every single time.

"So was it worth it?" Namjoon asks.

Yoongi tries to answer but his vision is blurred with hot tears now and he's on his hands and knees and he's screaming.

And when he wakes up at ass o clock, sweaty and gasping for air, he still finds himself reaching for your warmth beside him.

But all his fingers find are cold sheets and bitterness.

extended a/n: okay so if you have reached this far then you are a TROOPER. a trooper who i love and appreciate endlessly for reading 30k of my waffle lmao im so sorry <3 ksksksk so this fic has been in my head for the longest time and in my drafts for almost five months so im super attached to it and putting this out is like the scariest ever?? i really put my heart into this piece, like y’all don’t understand how many times it’s cropped up in my dreams and I’ve woken up like MUST WRITE. it’s far from perfect but i tried my best!! i can’t tell you how many scenes had to be rewritten until i was happy enough with them bc this fic is literally my baby in every sense of the word and i wanted to get it right :( although that just made the ending even more SOUL DESTROYING to write for me ugh i had the ending set in my mind before i even started writing but there were moments where i jus wanted yoongi and oc to be happy ever after :( but alas, I feel like this ending was far more realistic for them and i couldn’t go against my gut sigh. there may be a few drabbles planned in the future tho to make up for the angst :) Anyway!!! I’ll stop rambling. Thank you for reading this far, if anyone has. TROOPER. love you <3

updated 12/01/19: drabble #1 | drabble #2 | drabble #3 

#ksmutclub #bts #bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi imagine #btswriterscollective #btsguild #kwordsmiths #thebtstown #yoonkooknetwork #yoongi scenario #my writing #fic: mic drop #love yourself collab

[rebelcourtesan]

Conflict in Hazbin Hotel

One thing I've noticed is people have been pissing potential scenarios for fanfics or comics. Such as one where the VVVs (Valentino, Vox, and Velvet) kidnap Charlie and people lost their shit saying they could never get away with that because Charlie is a princess and Lucifer's daughter. Or in shipping scenarios where Alastor would give the hotel complete protection against any threats.

If that's the case, then Hazbin Hotel will be boring.

Good fiction is only as good as its conflict. Conflict is when there is an opposing force or obstacle the character(s) must overcome to achieve their goal. The bigger the conflict, the more wide scale the story and higher the stakes. Below are examples of conflicts I see arising in Hazbin Hotel.

Long post below

Character vs Character

Most common and regular of conflicts. Black and white example is Good Guy Vs Bad Guy and/or Cop vs Robber. You have two opposing characters wanting the same thing (rivals) or conflicting goals (enemies). Sometimes it's view as the benefit for another character - the grandmother in Coco breaking music loving Miguel's guitar because she sees it as a source of heartbreak.

Examples:

(Aladdin) Aladdin vs Jafar - Jafar wants to marry Princess Jasmine to take over the kingdom while Aladdin who is in love with her, wants to save her.

(Tangle) Rapunzel vs Mother Gothel - Rapunzel wants her freedom while Mother Gothel wants her stashed away inside a towel to access the restorative magic of her hair.

(Superman) Superman vs Lex Luthor - Lex wants to take over the world, but Superman stops him to save the world.

Angel Dust vs Valentino - Angel Dust wants to be free and respected while Valentino wants to continue exploiting him for sex and money.

- How this conflict will play is yet to be determine, but will be very interesting to see when the series is released!

Cherri Bomb vs Izzy* - conflict unknown, but it is framed in such a way to tell me that he is going to cause her grief in the future.

(Not sure if this is his name, but going with it as it was his name when he was a planned character for Zoophobia)

Charlie vs Lucifer - It's made obvious to the viewer that Lucifer doesn't see Charlie's dream of redeeming Sinners in a positive light. Even though he might now do anything to directly oppose her, his disapproval is enough to cause Charlie some inner conflict (which I'll discuss later in this post).

Vox vs Alastor - Rivalry between two Overlords with opposing views of technology and entertainment.

And there are minor conflicts through the pilot with Charlie vs Katie Killjoy and Cherri Bomb vs Sir Pentious, but these are the more prominent ones I believe will become main Character vs Character in Hazbin Hotel.

Character vs Society

This conflict pits the character(s) against a larger foe. Whether it's a corrupt government or police force, or a dystopian world, the character struggles their place in the world or it's laws or ideology.

Examples

(Hunger Games) Katniss Everdeen vs The Capital - Katniss is trying to survive the Hunger Games, a brutal game where the rulers force children into an annual death game.

(The Handmaid's Tale) Offred vs. Gilead - Offred is a woman enslaved by Gilead, a brutal regime who treats women as second class citizens or slaves with draconic rules and punishments.

(Kindred) Dana vs Antebellum South - Dana, a black woman, keeps going back in time to the time of black slavery where she is forced to endure hardship and abuse by her white ancestor.

Charlie vs Hell - This is the biggest conflict in the pilot. When Charlie makes a genuine heart felt speech on live television to resolve the overpopulation crisis peacefully and without the yearly Extermination, she is openly mocked, ridiculed, and humiliated by a disbelieving city.

Most of the conflict I see stemming from this is convincing sinners to give redemption a try while dealing with opposing forces such as Katie Killjoy and others who may want to take advantage of the Hotel and its characters.

Character vs Self

When a character deals with their inner demons, self-doubt, or depression, it's them overcoming their own weaknesses. The 'Self' can take on multitude of different forms. Prejudice, fears, self-esteem, etc.

(Outlander) Claire vs Her Love for Frank and Jaime - Claire who fallen back in time into Scotland 17th century has to deal with her conflicting feelings for warrior Scotsman Jaime when she is married and still in love with her husband Frank in the 19th century.

(Frozen) Elsa vs Her Fear of Harming Others - Elsa is a princess who has the power to control snow and ice, but it's so powerful it harmed her sister and kingdom so she secludes herself into the mountains so she won't be a danger to them.

(Infinity Train) Tulips vs Her struggles with Change - Tulip is a girl whose parents have divorce and the changes have made her withdrawn, angry, and afraid which influences her journey on the Infinity Train.

Angel Dust vs His Persona - In a short, but very telling scene, Angel wanted to comfort Charlie after the disastrous hotel opening. However, he decides against it, likely in a means to save face.

I believe Angel Dust has this 'persona' to safe guard himself from emotional pain. He's a character who has been abused and sexually assaulted on a regular basis by Valentino and putting on a strong and untouchable 'front' is how he safe guards himself, but it also prevents him from opening up emotionally to others which I believe is going to lead him to finding redemption and a wholesome relationship.

Charlie vs Self-Doubt - After the failed tv interview, Charlie is fearful her father was right about being a failure.

This may be Charlie's biggest conflict is with is standing on her own as the Princess of Hell. This may be discussed in another post, but I see Alastor being her mentor and helping her find her feet to stand against the Overlords and her own father. Even though Alastor himself doesn't believe in redemption, having someone as powerful as Alastor backing her might be the support she needs to rise.

#fictional conflict #Hazbin Hotel

[blushing-starker]

Listen. I know it's been done before. But @starkermoodboards and I were sighing dreamily at starker when I had a miniature epiphany. A lot of content revolves around Peter being mafia boss Tony's lover and not taking part in the illegal business, and I am here for it. It's an amazing concept that I appreciate wholeheartedly. I just decided to shift the dynamic and see how it played out.

The man who runs the sandwich shop can't pay up because his daughter had a rollerblading accident? No problem, Peter will leave her flowers, fill the hospital room with teddy bears and extend the due date. You missed the meeting because pay day came in from the day job and you blew it on beer and cocaine? The kid, usually seen smiling and laughing with nearly everyone, doesn't appear all that threatening. Barnes does. But then this beanpole from Queens decks you so hard two teeth go flying. Consider the due date changed. There are now twelve hours on the clock before Peter comes by to collect. Hiding makes it worse. Tony's enforcers, particularly Peter, Clint, Wade and Pietro, love when people run for cover. It helps keep them in shape and breaks the routine.

But then a new boss rolls into town, a so called Killian (Iron Man 3, I can't remember the name) that tries to steal Pepper and his customers. None leave Tony, of course. Those with small businesses, the little guys, appreciate how compassionate Iron Man is. Even the people that often see Peter's knuckles up close don't turn on him; the prices are  extremely fair and the Starks' always go through with the deals. So this peacock decides to challenge Tony for the throne. It's a political suicide, a new comer daring to impose upon such an honorable house. Not only that, Tony's been in Queens for decades and he's never once betrayed those that were loyal to him. The man had helped the city become a thriving community, often offering assistance to the people while the government's hands were tied. To challenge Tony was to challenge the principles of the entire system. Thing is, it was technically allowed.

The laws state that any person who believes they have fair reason to challenge another member may do so only if the ensuing fight is overseen by the council. There is no room for competitors to initiate wars based on faux insults. Tony couldn't take out Killian's safe house as retaliation for the challenge. Killian was unable to bomb the Stark headquarters to establish dominance. It was the mafia, not an anarchic society. There was order to these types of things.

Peter arrives early with the team, sweeping the area and making sure the ring hides no lethal secrets. He's been to plenty of these fights, but Tony hasn't been challenged in nearly two decades and the man almost never has to fight someone when there are bodyguards to be found everywhere. Nonetheless, the older enforcers can easily recall the last time Anthony Stark was in the ring and they assure the young man Killian will be out like a light after the boss steps in. They wait, silent and solemn, eyeing the competition for any threats or tricks. The men on the other side are from neighboring cities, names hazy but reputations sparkling. There will be no illusions today. Except from the jester with slicked back hair and a haughty attitude.

The insults rain down and they don't flinch. This behavior is inappropriate, for there is honor among thieves and devils. If one is to seriously fight, one keeps quiet and stays with their own. Most fights that occur between opposing families are mere squabbles, friendly rivalries that keep the atmosphere thrumming during boring weekends or holidays. Barnes has a hobby of coaching Steve in the ring after work and Natasha tends to employ her knife throwing skills against Clint's bow and arrow. They would fight members of the same family for fun, for fuck's sake. But no matter the cause or how drunk people were, insults were looked down upon.

It starts with their abilities as enforcers. Peter stares straight ahead at the wall, they all do. The Stark members were considered some of the fiercest fighters by the community, matched only by the legendary Black Panthers. The little boy criticising their skills does not know how in the wrong he is. But he's a quick learner. The tone shifts slowly, and shift it does. Ten minutes before Tony arrives, his rival begins claiming how incompetent and worthless he is. That makes every person grind their teeth simultaneously.

Whether or not you were a member of the Starks did not matter. It was clear Iron Man was an efficient leader ready to help the entire city evolve into something better. So when Killian leans towards Peter, boasting how he'd do a much better job of ruling, him, a nobody that can't even follow the protocols, the kid very nearly rips him a new one. But that is not allowed and a Stark enforcer does not break a law unless absolutely necessary. He would not bring dishonor upon his job, his fellow coworkers, his family; he would not tarnish the Stark name, let alone allow this weakling to get the better of him. Peter loves Tony and he'd let Bucky put a bullet in him if he ever harmed his boyfriend in any way. Not only had Tony saved his life, he'd shown Peter a better reality that let him thrive. He'd shown the young man how to love himself. Taught him he could be loved by another without anguish souring the relationship.

He was Tony Stark's right hand man, one of the best bodyguards in the mafia. Not just a powerful enforcer either. Peter was more than a Stark; he was the goddamn Spider and that meant something here. Before Stark dropped into his life like a fallen angel, Peter Parker ruled the ring. They considered Ben Parker's nephew a legend years ago, a warrior that could go head to head with the best without dying. Fighting against people like Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had earned him his reputation. Every knocked out tooth, jagged scar and black eye made it clear to all: he was a menace unwilling to break for anyone. Becoming Tony's lover and enforcer only resulted in more respect, but the community hadn't viewed Peter as strong for the first time when he exchanged kisses with the Iron Man. They realized the kid was strong the second he looked Bucky in the eye and grinned at the challenge.

(Peter guessed that's why they get along so great. Buck was a puppy. A lethal one that could rip your arm out, but still a puppy to him. The older of the two appreciated being seen as more than just a good fighter.)

Peter vows not to break. And then Killian is claiming he could breed Tony's bitch, show Peter how a real man fucks. The man gets so close he tastes the spit that comes flying two seconds later.

"Tony Stark is unworthy of his seat. And he sure as hell doesn't deserve such a pretty little thing like you."

It's sneered at him, Killian smirking at him wildly. The whole place changes, white tiles morphing into shades of red and Peter wants.

Barnes snarls at Tony's rival with eyes gone dark, Natasha lets out a hiss reminding him of rattlesnakes and the two russian speakers pounce at the same time. If Clint and Steve weren't so attuned to their family and strong as hell, Killian would be sliced ribbons decorating the floor. All in all, a fairly restrained reaction. Peter's proud of Nat and Bucky for not killing the man on the spot. Makes a mental note to get them new punching bags and cover Clint and Steve's shifts should they need the extra hours.

Killian doesn't move from his spot when the room becomes alive with furious shouts of indignation and Peter has to admit it's impressive. But this is a child, and children respond best to the monsters hiding in the closet, not the ones standing in the light. So Peter thinks about the audacity this creature has, insulting his lover, criticising decades of hard work and dedication, diminishing their relationship and in the process implying that his fellow enforcers were just pieces of meat to satisfy lust, inadequate at their jobs. For to attempt to dishonor or belittle one enforcer meant questioning everyone's competency. Not only that, this scum thought Peter was nothing but a whore. He hadn't fought enhanced assassins just so an arrogant dick would take one look at him and dismiss him as a threat.

Peter doesn't raise a hand or growl or yell or shoot him. He could, the council would see it as fair. After all, Killian had insulted all aspects of Peter's life. Doing any of that wouldn't lead to Killian being beaten, though. And Peter wants him to submit. So Peter smiles and the Spider comes out to play.

By the time Tony arrives, his baby has two buttons undone and a single strand of hair out of place from where he stands in the ring. He knows an enraged Peter when he sees it.

The crowd parts for him, bowing slightly and falling quiet. Only the bosses held in high esteem get such a treatment and it's been years since the community behaved in such a way towards him. The Stark heir was arrogant, but he'd always preferred that the people's respect be shown in a different way, one more subtle.

The bowing reminded him too much of his father's reign, the silence that would engulf him as a child and choke the air out of his lungs with the pressure of Howard Stark's legacy. No matter where they went, the roar of nothing followed. Besides, he was always trying to remind the community that they were all equals. Tony was only in his position because of the people that chose him, the people with the actual power.

So for them to actually bow as low as possible and simply cease conversing, knowing how much Tony abhors the sight, it tells him just how deeply Killian fucked up.

By the hate found in Barnes' face and Nat's curled fist, his rival must have hit a little too close to home. But the man was still alive, leaning against a marble column. Which meant Peter, his genius lover, had somehow initiated a course of action that would lead to satisfaction for all those here. The mafia was made up of untamed creatures. For a hundred people to agree not to rip an intruder's throat when the man had so obviously comitted a heinous act, Peter must have pulled out the big guns.

He settles next to Steve, but all his enforcers surround him anyway. In fact, every person in their side of the room shifts closer. It warms his heart. He'll let them break Killian when this is done, show his appreciation for their care and protection.

Well. If Peter actually leaves something to break.

A body slides out of the ring, ends up at his feet. It's a man the size of Thor, someone living two cities over. The tattoos on his right hand are what clue Tony in. Peter's played fair. The guy will need all his teeth replaced and that scar will definitely make a lovely crisscross pattern on his face. Bruce and Strange are already there, dragging him to a corner filled with more groaning bodies and hard working nurses disinfecting wounds. Each man will showcase those scars proudly. They went against the Spider and lived to tell the tale with proof right on their bodies.

He counts ten. Turns to find Peter staring at him, expressionless face morphing into the one he's most familiar again. A grin confirms his suspicion; his darling isn't even sporting a bloody lip. The grin he gives in return appears instinctively, pride overflowing and resulting in Tony Stark beaming at the Spider. It's both unsettling and a relief. The community was used to a happy Peter so the interaction helped remind them who the Spider was. That familiar sense of comfort vanished because Jesus, Tony Stark was beaming.

"Feeling merciful, sweetheart? Giving them a minute is twenty times longer than usual." His tone is light, not wanting to imply Peter has gotten slow or rusty. Sure, it's been a while since his boyfriend was in the ring, but you don't offend the Spider when he's already in a bad mood.

Steve and Bucky tense up, eyeing Peter in case they need to fight him out of the ring. If he gets even more pissed, Killian's men don't stand a chance. Tony could stomach murder. Peter couldn't. The enhanced soldiers prefer the possibility of bruised ribs to Peter with a heavy conscience.

His boyfriend doesn't twitch and Tony thanks whatever entity exists for giving Peter some self control.

"Figured it'd be best I don't get the suit too dirty. May is always complaining about getting the blood stains out. It hurts her hands so I'm trying to help out. If I take the jacket off, the shirt will stain faster."

God, Peter could really pull at his heartstrings without meaning to. He falls in love with him a little more.

The eleventh man tries to catch Peter and tackle him to the ground. The kid just slides to the right, drops down, sweeps the guy off his feet and knocks him out with two punches. It's the loveliest thing Tony's fucking seen and he's thankful Jarvis is taking pictures. He settles the sunglasses onto his lapel, happy to let the A.I immortalize this moment from that vantage point.

"I'm gonna guess what's going on and you'll stop me if I'm wrong, right?" Peter nods and Tony is ridiculously happy for the chance to do this in front of Killian.

He glances at Nat, sizes up Barnes, reads Peter's posture and Steve's facial cues and just knows.

His father used to hate when his only child pointed at things before analysing them. Found it too mundane, or some shit like that. Tony makes sure to point at Killian with both index fingers.

"You were disrespectful to my people. That's common with you. They shouldn't take anyone's insults, but they can and they did. The council probably thinks they were exemplary, hell, Fury probably thinks they were the textbook definition of good. But you kept pushing. Just poking at their buttons. Because it's Peter in the ring, you're little stunt turned personal. You insulted him, his family, me. If it had been one of the others members, Peter would have cut you a nice scar. But tradition is tradition. Even if he could have challenged you, which he could have, Peter would have stepped aside in that case. The recipient of the insult should have a role in the fight. You pissed him off before I got here. Thought he was weak. The last person to be that naive learned how ridiculous that assumption was when Peter beat their ass."

Peter had knocked Tony flat on his back when he'd made a comment about frail sheltered boys not knowing how to fight. He hadn't seen the kid fight before that; hadn't processed the fact that soft looking Peter Parker was the menacing Spider. That was two years ago. Not a single soul has thought Peter weak since then. Until now.

"The law states your men can take your place against your rival. Which is honorable if you're at a disadvantage. Broken bones, flu, life handing you shit right before the day of the fight. It isn't really put in practice, though, because the council knows how hard it is for everyone to synchronize their schedules for a second round if there are problems. They plan weeks ahead of time to ensure participants are in perfect condition. You seem to be just fine. Putting your men in danger by having them take your place against Peter just for the hell of it, just so you survive, sounds like what an idiot boss would do. If you had courage, you'd fight Peter. You'd fight me, but I doubt you're man enough."

The taunting does its work. Tony knows Peter can just knock him out before Killian even gets close. He could switch with his lover, but Peter needed to establish his reputation once again, make it impossible for any to doubt his abilities. By saying Killian is a coward, the Stark heir challenges his claim of being good enough for the throne. No mafia member would accept his reign if they knew Killian lacked bravery. Well. They already knew this, it just needed to be finalized so the council could have it all in record.

The man has just witnessed what happened when Peter wished for destruction and justice. He could get in the ring, be knocked out and none would laugh. The community would talk about it, but they never mocked the loser. Killian would be seen as an incompetent asshole that at least had courage. If he refused…

Every Stark enforcer/member grinned when the peacock snarled and entered the ring. Until a butterfly knife gleamed and slashed through wool, cotton and flesh.

It feels odd, being stabbed. You'd think the cold blade would send goosebumps everywhere, but Peter doesn't register the cold. Would he be cold if the blade was bigger? Or if Killian hadn't been holding the knife for an hour? He knows his reaction is ridiculous. Who the fuck was wondering about the temperature when they had a knife piercing their abdomen?

Although, it could be the shock. Yeah, he remembers Bruce's lessons on the effects of stabbing. Natasha had also reminded him of the shock, so at least that's a normal symptom. What isn't normal are his other ... responses to being stabbed.

"Are you gonna need this back?" is asked sweetly, nearly sickly so. The Spider has a thing for contrasting aesthetics . Being a little shit while a knife is rearranging his intestines does not sound common, but Peter takes pleasure in behaving oddly.

Killian gapes at him, mouth wide and eyes wider. He shakes his head, careful not to jostle Peter too much. Not like it matters much. There's a metal arm dragging him to safety, sliding over the ring's edge and onto a stretcher. Bucky is being as gentle as possible, he knows. It still feels horrible to move and have the knife shift in time with his breathing. Nat is there to rip open the suit, nails clearing the area around the intrusion and Doctor Strange appearing with antiseptic and everything Peter needs. He loves the Doctor.

And yes, definitely in shock. As he's being wheeled away to the med corner, there's a roar similar to that of a lion and Peter catches sight of Tony leaping at Killian. His clothes, jacket, vest, shirt and wife beater lay in a heap by Steve. Tony's expensive shoes are guarded by Sam. The shoemaker was a nice woman. She bought him a churro once. After that, his boyfriend would always buy his shoes at her store. Peter appreciated Tony helping out the little people. It was nice being what society thought was a bad guy while not actually being a bad guy. Like capitalist loving jerks like Brad. The room's spinning a bit and oh look, sparkly lights.

Afterwards, Jarvis shows him pictures of Killian, explains how the man landed in prison five days after the fight. The council had convened with their counterparts from five different cities. All had tales of Killian's horrible behavior. It wasn't hard to call in a few favors and dump him in jail. It was a bit hard to recognize him, though. Tony had gone berserk and no self respecting person was going into the ring to drag him off his rival.

Killian played dirty, so his boyfriend had first claim to fight while Peter was being treated. Steve and Bucky only hauled him away when five minutes had passed, not wanting their boss to have more blood on his hands.

Peter himself only remembers the dull sting of a needle meant to calm him, Nat's gentle cooing and Sam wiping away the sweat near a disheveled curl. Bruce and Strange had murmured assurances during all of it, careful to work on Peter away from Tony's eyes. If Iron Man thought he'd lose his lover, Killian would've been dead in two minutes.

He'd woken up a few hours later, Tony sitting by his side and sobbing. His boyfriend was sniffling as he wrapped Peter's hand in bandages. Apart from the new scar on his stomach, only his knuckles were slightly bruised. Even so, the mafia's most efficient leader was tenderly applying antibiotic cream to the tiny nicks, letting enough space between bandage and skin for the area to breathe. Tony had never once been violent with him, but Peter thinks this is the first time he's seen his boyfriend be so gentle.

The angle was odd and uncomfortable with him being unable to bend much at the waist. That didn't stop the legendary Spider from kissing Iron Man softly, barely there whispers filling the centimetres between them.

"I love you, Tony. And I'd do it all over again for you. I love you, I love you, I love you 3000.

Alright, here we go! My mind associated Killian's body with Yinsen's name and I've no idea why, but here's the correct version.

#starker #my moodboards #ironspider #peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #peter x tony #tony stark #dark!tony #Dark!Peter #Mob boss!Tony #Enforcer!Peter #Enforcer!Steve #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #Enforcers!Avengers #Dark!Starker

[simastysims]

Simasty Season 1 Episode 2 “The plot thickens” (originally published Nov 2018 @simasty.com)

Brystle Hemmings is preparing for her marriage to billionaire Burke Simmington. She faces hostility from all sides in his mansion, either from the staff or from Burke’s spoiled daughter Fathom. Brystle is worried that a past indiscretion may come to light…. Fathom meanwhile was overwhelmed by Brystle’s cheap perfume and sought comfort with potential sugar daddy Cyril Dolby, business rival to her father Burke. Cyril brushed off Fathom’s amorous advances and urged her to marry her former boyfriend, who is also his nephew, Seth…. Meanwhile Burke’s estranged son Heathen returned to the family mansion for his father’s wedding and is unsure if he will be able to reconcile with his father….And now, read on for the next juicy chapter….

Brystle knocked back the remains of her Brindleton Bay Iced tea and took a deep breath. This was the day before her wedding, she should be celebrating. Yet here she was all alone in Burke’s study in Siloli mansion with not a friend in the entire 48 rooms of the house. The snidey comments from Joseph the major-domo had stung. He referred to Brystle as replaceable, did that mean there had been multiple women in Burke’s life? Had they all been replaced whenever Joseph was displeased? There had only been 1 previous Mrs Simmington as far Brystle knew and she had abandoned her husband and children years ago, never to be seen or heard of since. But what part had Joseph in all of this? Was he such an influence on Burke? Brystle had no clue but the fact that Joseph knew, or implied he knew, something about Brystle’s past made her alarmed. For she knew her previous affair with married man, and employee of Burke, Mayhew Drysdale would cause a rift between her and Burke. The affair had been brief and it was before she and Burke got together but Brystle knew that any new headlines of the new Mrs Simmington sleeping with her husband’s employees would not sit well at all. There was only one thing to do and that was to see Mayhew.

Brystle left he study and walked through the never-ending corridors of Siloli mansion. It truly was cavernous. She still had trouble finding her way about and had once got lost for several hours just trying to locate the nearest bathroom. Eventually after much wandering she found herself in the grand ballroom, the most luxurious of all rooms in Siloli. It wasn’t where she needed to be and was about to turn to leave when she heard a soft male voice from behind her.

Brystle, at first startled, turned and faced the young man. His delicate features matched the softness of his voice. She knew who he was even though they had not met

And so Heathen took his seat at the grand piano and started to play. Almost immediately Brystle was captivated by the melody, it was mesmerizing. She was also captivated by the very movements of Heathen’s fingers across the ivories.  Heathen continued to play effortlessly and with precision. Brystle took a seat beside him and waited until he had finished.

Heathen took a seat by Brystle and the two started chatting away like they had known each other for years.  After spending time getting to know one another and brightening one another’s day Heathen started to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He even felt that there would be a chance to make amends with Burke.

At last Brystle felt that she had made a positive connection with another individual in the house other than Burke. It was a weight off her heavily shoulder padded shoulders but there was still the matter of Mayhew to sort out and that was where she had to go next. But first she needed an outfit change….

Millionaire playboy ,and heir to the DolbyDoh fortunes ,Seth Dolby was entertaining his latest female acquaintance, the delightful Minus Manners. He had met her only recently, about an hour ago to be precise, on a flight into San Myshuno International Airport aboard the private DolbyDoh jet. Seth had been returning from an extended stay in the hedonistic gambling city of Lucky Palms. Minus had just started her first day on the job as the DolbyDoh jet’s stewardess and couldn’t believe her luck when the handsome playboy began flirting with her.

Once the flight landed Seth whisked her off in his waiting limo. In the back of the limo they could barely keep their hands off one another and smooched passionately all the way to Seth’s apartment. Once there they continued their afternoon amorous activities including a steamy shower together. Afterwards the flirting continued with Seth showing off his fine physique…

They took their canoodling to the couch where Minus proceeded to demonstrate the power of her hands by giving Seth a sensual massage.

As things got steamy in the apartment, Seth’s uncle Cyril was arriving to pay his nephew an unexpected visit following his earlier meeting with Fathom at the art gallery.

Being a very forthright man, Cyril let himself into the apartment without knocking. Seth was surprised but happy to see his uncle and quickly leapt up to welcome him. Minus was less than impressed by this intrusion not realising that Cyril was the CEO and founder of DolbyDoh. In other words her boss!

Seth then introduced Minus to his uncle. Minus spoke politely and hid her annoyance rather well. Cyril ,however, viewed the girl with disdain for he had come here on a mission -he had plans for Seth. No 2 bit, good time girl was going to get in his way.

Seth offered his uncle a seat as he himself sat back down on the sofa. Seizing his chance Cyril leapt forward and positioned himself nicely on the couch in between the prospective lovers.

The penny dropped for Minus and she realised who this older man was. She quickly got up and scurried herself off to the bedroom. Cyril turned his attention to Seth.

Seth got up from the sofa. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing from his uncle. Cyril had never disapproved of Seth’s playboy antics before and had in fact actively encouraged Seth to go out and enjoy himself as much as possible.

Cyril still had a plan to see through. As this stern father tactic was not working he decided to try a different approach.

Seth stopped in his tracks. Right then and there Cyril knew he had him in the palm of his hand. Seth had always loved Fathom and no other woman could fill the emptiness she had left behind when they broke up all those years ago. This was going to be easier than he thought.

And with that, Cyril left the apartment satisfied in the knowledge that he had successfully sown the seed of his deception in Seth’s mind. His nephew had never settled with any girl following the break up with Fathom when they were teenagers. His heart belonged to her. Fathom just had to play her part now. Cyril knew that deep down Fathom had feelings for Seth though she would not admit it. But she was a fickle girl and if Seth behaved like a love sick puppy then Fathom would probably run for the hills and his plan to take over Burke’s company WindenburgSimmington would be over before it had begun…

Seth was left in a state of total confusion. He had not seen much of Fathom these past couple of years save for what he read about her on online gossip columns. She had broken off with Seth claiming she was bored of him so to learn that she had been in love with him all this time seemed unreal. He staggered into his bedroom where the scantily dressed Minus waited for him but his thoughts were now of Fathom.

Minus was about to say something but instead Seth took her in his arms and began intensely smooching her. Minus did not complain, not even when Seth whispered another woman’s name in her ear…

And then after a false start, Minus finally got her man into bed. He may have been thinking of another woman but Minus was determined to show Seth the time of his life and woohoo his brains out.

As it was the eve of his wedding Burke had decided to leave the office early. Being the CEO and founder of a global corporation meant he still had a lot of matters to see to and as such he had his right hand man with him in his study, lawyer and good friend Andre Wayward.  

Andre and Burke went back years and Burke had given Andre his first job straight out of law school. Andre had stood by Burke over the years and helped him build WindenburgSimmington into the mega global corporation it now was. A very resourceful lawyer, Andre has found the means to help Burke out of any sticky situation be it work or personal. It is this lifelong friendship that has made Andre look out for Burke and to prevent anyone from taking advantage of the billionaire. Including potential new wives…

Andre was of course referring to Burke’s first marriage. That Mrs Simmington had been paid off with a small fortune to leave Windenburg and never return. Whilst it hadn’t financially ruined Burke the scandal of it all almost did.

Andre hadn’t anticipated this response from Burke. His friend and client was always one step ahead of anyone at anytime, always pre-empting his opponent’s every move. That was how he had become so successful. To see him like this throwing caution to the wind was unheard of. Just what had Brystle done to him? Andre persisted with the prenuptial agreement.

Andre sighed, there would be no changing Burke’s mind. This was more like him, always sticking to his guns on something he believed in. Only this time Andre feared this would end up costing him dearly. And he wanted to state for the record his opinion on the matter.

Burke considered the file momentarily before shaking his head.

Andre too shook his head but in pure disbelief that Burke was behaving like this. He shook his friend’s hand told him while he disagreed with his decision he wished nothing but the best for him and Brystle. But, as every good lawyer knows, keeping a poker face when hiding the truth is the key to being a success. Andre’s thoughts were not what he was vocalising. 

Across town Brystle had gone to Central Park. She had gone there in the hope of meeting someone who she knew to frequent the park for his post work / early evening jog. She stood in the gazebo and gazed at all the happy couples casually strolling through the park. Everyone seemed so joyful, without any cares. Why didn’t Brystle feel this way? It was her wedding tomorrow, she was to be a bride, she should be euphoric. But there was something pressing on her mind.

It was getting late, there were rain clouds rolling in. Just when she thought he wouldn’t show, there was the sound of footsteps on the wooden gazebo behind her. The smell of musky cologne filled the air, it was the type that had a ship on the bottle. Brystle salivated at the whiff of it knowing who was wearing that all too familiar scent.

Heathen had been notified from Joseph that his sister Fathom had returned home and she was having cocktails on the lanai by the swimming pool. He had also instructed the house staff not to inform Fathom that he was here already as he wanted to surprise his sister. So after slipping into some outdoor gear Heathen made his way to the lanai.

After spending a few moments reminiscing the siblings sat down together. Heathen looked around at the house and a wealth of memories came flooding back, not all of them were pleasant.

The mention of Heathen’s boyfriend Fred was obviously a sore point. Fathom was keen to learn more but knowing that Heathen would clam up she decided not to pursue the subject for now. Heathen was already keen to move the conversation along.

The siblings laughed and joked like old times. Heathen made a promise to hang around for a while after the wedding which delighted Fathom.

After a few cocktails they both ended up flat on their backs looking up at the towering trees that were in the Siloli grounds. The conversation by now was less frivolous and for the first time Heathen touched upon a subject that had always been taboo for them both.

They both lay in silence for a while after that for what else could be said about the woman who had seemingly abandoned them as children? It was something that had haunted them as they grew up, the absent mother who never made contact with her children again. Whilst Fathom seemed she could care less whether or not she would see her again, Heathen always believed that their mother would one day return. Perhaps that day would be sooner than he thought…..

Across town at Central Park, Brystle was with her former lover Mayhew….

Brystle turned and faced Mayhew. He looked super hot in his skimpy short shorts. She tried to avert her eyes.

Joseph’s insinuation that he knew something had fuelled Brystle’s anxiety and was the reason she had come here to ask Mayhew that question. That and to catch one final glimpse of those rock hard thighs….

She was trying her best but her eyes were being drawn south….

Brystle felt that she was being torn in two. Her love for Burke was great but seeing those thighs of Mayhew’s again had set her pulse racing. There was only one way to deal with it and that was to cut Mayhew loose.

Mayhew looked crestfallen. Brystle felt so guilty for upsetting him. She sat herself next to him on the bench.

Mayhew was right. At that moment she realised she still had feelings for Mayhew all along. Was it love? Was it possible to be in love with 2 Sims at the same time?

Sensing he had hit a nerve Mayhew got up to leave. A rain cloud suddenly burst in the sky over them and a downpour ensued.

With that he ran out of the gazebo into the rain and vanished from her sight.

Brystle stood and looked out across the rain soaked city. A storm was fast approaching. And it appeared to Brystle at that moment that there would be no sunshine for her after all…..

Will Brystle ever get to see Mayhew’s magnificent manly thighs again? Can we just get to her wedding already?  What information has Andre discovered on Brystle? What is the name of the first Mrs Simmington? And will Seth make a total tit of himself declaring his love for Fathom? Stay tuned for the next exciting episode!

#dynasty #sims 4 #sims #thesims #thesims4 #the sims 4 #simslit #soap opera #blake carrington #krystle carrington #fallon carrington #steven carrington #80s tv #80s soap

[thethreemages]

Time for some more parent exploration~ 👀 this time ft Raider & Noira’s folks-

Lachlan Crane (age 45) is the head CEO of a branch of magic-enhanced weaponry, and a former traveling Storm Mage himself. As his family had a long, proud history of brute-force mages, Lachlan proudly carried that image for pretty much all his life. Not having much of a care for “frivolous” things like manners and good will, Lach grew up being quite the hotshot bully for most of his school years (his most frequent rival being Ivor Valma). Joining in with another group of rude kids (Elken, Sienna and Elyvia) who propped up themselves as “superior” to everyone else, they basically ran the school with an iron fist by the encouragement of their then-Headmaster Zoras. It wasn’t until the old man got dethroned by a man known as Auran that the bullies’ reign of terror got ceased to a halt... things being kept more on the downlow this time up until their eventual graduation where they all went their separate ways. 

Once he broke off from this particular group, Lachlan joined some other rugged Mages to trail across Terra as a hotshot band of thugs. He had his fun for awhile, terrorizing weaker Mages and trying to hog up more “glory” for himself as a Crane deserved (in his eye)... but soon, the excitement of adventure was beginning to wane on him. So much that Lach decided to try and dial back a bit to a “different” venture in mind... to start up his younger dream of designing and selling weapons to the bigshots in the city who may not have been “blessed” with magical abilities like himself. 

Of course, even Lachlan knew that he couldn’t exactly start up this big business plan on his own... so once he was able to connect with a fellow Ice mage known as “Vinia”, the two got to work developing a strong company that quickly took Graystone’s capitol by storm. This newfound success sparked more than just an abundant supply of wealth... but also something “more” between Lach and Vinia themselves, resulting in an unexpected pregnancy and a hasty marriage to follow soon afterwards. 

Feeling proud of having gained a bouncing baby boy (Raider) from all this, Lachlan wasted no time trying to instill his own haughty “views” of magic hierarchies and toughness onto his son. Yet little did he expect Raider to not exactly be the most... “receptive” to this type of attitude, as he turned out to be alot more good-hearted and "soft” than Lach ever expected. Naturally, this lead to some further disputes between father and son as Raider grew older... with the latter rejecting Lach’s offer to have his son “join” the family business and instead make his own path as an aspiring extreme stunts-artist. Only time may tell whether things would ever get any better between the Crane men... but for now, Lach’s got quite a workload in making his family’s name stronger through his weapon-selling, even if certain “sales” may not always be made out to the most... “honest” of customers... 

Vinia Crane (age 46) is the co-head of Lachlan’s company, and a non-practicing Ice Mage. From the time she was young, Vinia always had a knack for running the place and being “on top” no matter what... from winning nearly every school election to nabbing promotion after promotion at her part-time jobs & volunteer work. Her family knew their daughter wasn’t going to settle for anything less in life, given how they themselves made themselves a wealthy living partnering with the Shelrovet mining company. Yet even after she had graduated with full honors... there was still something “missing” in Vinia’s life that she just couldn’t put her finger on. Even as her parents tried to fix this by setting her up with every “well-to-do” doctor, accountant, and lawyer they can think of... none of this could satisfy Vinia for very long... 

Up until one fateful night, when one particularly boring date between her and a meek bank-teller got interrupted by the loud arrival of Lachlan Crane and his Mage gang. The way he commanded such a "bold” presence easily caught Vinia’s eye more than any of her past few suitors did... and it helped that Lach himself seemed pretty eager to get her attention too, through using a display of his storm magic to spook away her “jellyfish” of a date. From that point onward, Vinia and Lach started to “click” some more and with the knowledge of his upcoming weapon-business idea, Vinia was able to use some of her own managing skills (and inheritance) to make this dream come true. Between Lachlan’s fierce determination and Vinia’s cool demeanor keeping him in line during business deals... things worked out pretty well for pair of up-and-coming CEOs. 

By the time she became a brand new mother and wife, however... Vinia seemed to have a struggle on how to balance these “nurturing” duties with firmly keeping up the family business. Leaving her little time but to offer Raider anything other than a quick pat on the head, some decent amount of pocket change if he kept up his grades, and a nudging for him to “play nice” with the sons of Vinia’s friends, Iantha Byzantine and Gladionna Shelrovet. Naturally... this failed immensely as said boys (Kaz and Cable) turned out to be pretty cruel bullies to Raider when their moms weren’t looking... with Raider not being able to tell anyone since he was too timid to want to interrupt his mom’s work (or annoy his dad, who already gave Raider grief as is for being “such a softie”). 

Granted, underneath all her cool professionalism... Vinia did genuinely mean well for both Raider and later on Noira once she was born, having wanted to instill a sense of firm, honest discipline that could’ve pushed her children to be as successful as their parents someday. Making it all the harder on her once Raider hit his “rebellious” teen years and decided to break off from the family traditions all together... filling up Vinia with regret for how strained their household had become by this point... 

Not wanting to repeat that same mistake with Noira, Vinia decided to work harder on adjusting all her work schedules to better accommodate for her daughter... even if it means kind of “taking over” a little too much of Noira’s school and social life (especially annoying Noira whenever she has to sit through her mom trying to “encourage” her on giving a certain silver-haired prince a chance... no matter how clear it’s been made that it’d never happen in a million years). 

All in all, the Cranes may be a family riddled with struggling relations by this point... but in a way, it helped to bring Raider closer to Noira whenever he has time off his stunt work to come visit. Hoping that someday, his lil sis can stand up strong as more than what their parents want to mold... but her own strong, unique person with the badass magic to match~ 

#the three mages #raider crane #Noira Crane #parent stuff

[blackswaneuroparedux]

In the past few weeks I have really felt as if the Suez Canal was flowing through my drawing room.

- Clarissa Spancer Churchill Eden, Countess of Avon, on the Suez War 1956

Clarissa Spancer Churchill Eden, Countess of Avon  turned 100 on 28 June 2020.

When she was born Lloyd George was Prime Minister and her uncle Winston Churchill was Secretary of State for War and Air. Her father Jack’s parents were Lord Randolph Churchill and the beautiful Jennie Jerome. Her mother was also a beauty, Lady Gwendoline Bertie. As an only daughter Clarissa felt over-loved and smothered.

Clarissa was never much interested in politics. Self-contained and silent as a girl, she would say, ‘I only spoke when I had something to say’. She made her debut with Deborah Mitford and Pamela Digby, but wanted more and was tutored by famed Oxford philosopher, Isaiah Berlin and Lord David Cecil.

She then joined a heady milieu of artists and writers - Lord Berners, James Pope-Hennessy, Edith Sitwell, Cecil Beaton, Greta Garbo. Her life was like an early volume of Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time. Evelyn Waugh and Duff Cooper were hopelessly in love with her.

But at 32 years old she went from High Bohemia to High Politics on maarrying Foreign Minister Anthony Eden - a surprise to many in high society. The Anglican Archbishop of Sydney and Evelyn Waugh protested that Eden had a wife still living. Much of Waugh’s moral outrage was down to personal jealousy and his unrequited love for Clarissa. Eden had indeed been a loveless marriage to his first wife Beatrice but in 1950 they finally divorced, and in 1952 Anthony married Clarissa.

Anthony Eden was no slouch as he sailed through Eton and, like many of his generation, he served in the First World War losing two brothers killed in action along the way. Eden himself served with distinction in the trenches and front lines of that bloody war. At the age of 19, he was the youngest adjutant on the Western Front and by 1918 because of his conspicious bravery, at the age of 20, Eden became the youngest brigade major in the British Army. He was awarded the Military Cross (MC) for her war time service. After the war, he studied Oriental Languages (Persian and Arabic) at Christ Church, Oxford, starting in October 1919. At Oxford, Eden took no part in student politics, and his main leisure interest at the time was art. Eden was in the Oxford University Dramatic Society and President of the Asiatic Society. Along with Lord David Cecil and R. E. Gathorne-Hardy he founded the Uffizi Society, of which he later became President. Possibly under the influence of his father he gave a paper on Paul Cézanne, whose work was not yet widely appreciated. Eden was already collecting paintings.

Eden read the writings of Lord Curzon and was hoping to emulate him by entering politics with a view to specialising in foreign affairs. He went into politics and became an MP at the age of 26 years old. In Parliament he quickly made a name for himself and was already being talked of as a future Prime Minister. He was gently mocked for his fussy self-image and was often regarded as the best-dressed, best-looking politician of his time - although one rival rival said of him, “half- beautiful woman; half- mad baronet’.

Clarissa was deeply in love with Anthony, and he with her. But she wasn’t quite prepared for the high stakes of politics as her husband climbed the greasy pole of political advancement. Eden was deeply ambitious and he eventually became Foreign Secretary in 1931.

Clarissa recalled, ‘My first visitor was the wife of the head of the Foreign Office, Lady Strang, who came to tea….I did wonder what I had got myself into when her opening remark was ‘I hope you are not going to denationalise steel – it is doing so well’ I had previously had no views about steel’

Within 3 years, Anthony at last achiecved his life’s goal and became Prime Minister, having at last succeeded Clarissa’s uncle, Winston Churchill who stepped aside for the younger Eden. Was she the most beautiful cultivated chatelaine of No 10 since Catherine Walpole? Many did then and many think so today. 

A gall-bladder operation gone wrong and the debacle that was the Suez Crisis made for a short and unhappy time for Eden as PM and a trying time for Clarissa. She was famously quoted as saying ‘in the past few weeks I have really felt as if the Suez Canal was flowing through my drawing room’. This was said in a rare political speech at Gateshead on 20 November 1956, but picked up and widely reported.She later regretfully conceded that “drawing room” was perhaps an unfortunate metaphor.

Nevertheless the Suez War took its toll and Eden eventually found his health broken. His stellar political career lay in ruins as Haorld Macmillan plotted behind the scenes (a fact that Clarissa never forgave him for). Eden resigned in 1957 and in 1961 accepted an Earldom (of Avon). Both Anthony and Clarissa enjoyed 20 leisurely years between Wiltshire, Stratford, Paris and the Caribbean.

Her main loves are art and opera, she loved to travel and, though not one for discomfort, she would endure any amount of it to find an obscure chapel in Serbia. In later life she took up sub-aqua swimming, happily enjoying life in deep waters. Though she read serious classics, she took an unexpected enjoyment in soap operas like Dallas, greatly entertained by the antics of J. R. Ewing and Cliff Barnes with their huge Stetson hats, talking about their “Daddies”.

A great many people bored her and still do, but she takes a wry enjoyment from that. I heard an anecdote from a friend that once after a dinner, when she said, “I think we have exhausted the social possibilities of this evening, don’t you?” - a more elegant way of saying it was time to go.

In many ways Clarissa remains a reminder of a nobler age of Britain and who embodied many of the values that made Britain so great before the sunset of its empire and the dawn of counter culture of the Modern Britain of the 1960s. She has always remained enigmatic person, the soul of discretion but fiercely devoted to her loved ones. Above all, she has been a woman of substance in control of her own destiny.

#clarissa #countess of avon #clarissa spencer churchill eden #quote #femme #beauty #nobility #aristocracy #britain #society #culture #politics #history #icon

[littlegalerion]

Doing two forms, one for Aithilo and one for Hirchire.

Name:

Aitholo Raamando

Race:

Dunmer

Gender:

Male

Hair Color:

Dark satin red

Eye Color:

Pink

Complexion:

Lighter gray-toned

Body Markings:

Tattoos of wines with leaves on his torso and arms

Height:

Relatively tall for a dunmer

Mortal Parent:

Rasulu Raamando

Their influence on the their child:

Aithilo was inspired by his late mother's desire to travel and learn of all the knowledge Tamriel had to offer, as well as her patience and hope a trace of good nature laid within every soul.

The demigod's opinion on their mortal parent:

Aithilo never met her, as she passed after giving birth to him, but the stories his uncles and father would tell him brought him a sense of wonder. He always hoped to be as optimistic, open minded, and resilient as his mother.

"Mortal" Parent 2:

Divayth Fyr (adoptive father)

Their influence on the their child:

He made sure Aithilo received "education standard for his breeding", which meant apprenticeship to Fyr for most of Aithilo's young life. Divayth was always firm, persistent, and prideful of Aithilo, but also a good listener and shockingly patient, despite the many things he and his son clash over.

The demigod's opinion on their mortal parent:

Aithilo is well aware of his father's flaws. He dislikes Divayth's sharp tongue, stubborn temper, and flirtatious appetite. However, he also admires Divayth's shameless studies into the planes of Oblivion, and him not caring what other dunmer think of him.

Divine Parent:

Sotha Sil

Their influence on the their demigod:

His influence was his absence. Sil chose to not claim Aithilo, and so none if Sil virtues were reflected upon his son.

The demigod's opinion on their divine parent:

Upon learning the truth of his real father, Aithilo became sickened, and harbors a bitter resentment towards the Tribunal. He disagrees with everything Sil teaches, and never refers to him as "father".

Divine Parent 2:

Lorkhan

Their influence on the their demigod:

Lorkhan is Aithilo's 2nd true father. He shares no blood with him, but a spiritual connect perhaps thicker. The Tribunal, which means Sil, stole Lorkhan's power, and as Sil fathered Aithilo, Lorkhan's power was inherited by him. Unlike the Tribunal, Aithilo has no need to steal power. His immortality and limited but still divine powers are his own.

The demigod's opinion on their divine parent:

Aithilo is extremely frightened and cautious of his connection to Lorkhan. They sleeping god has tormented Aithilo with nightmares of the god's death, of Nerevar' death, and Lorkhan's heart itself whispers to him whenever he sets foot on Vvardenfell. Eventually, Lorkhan attempted to totally possess him, especially once the heart was destroyed. Aithilo only survived and overcame the possession with the help of Trechire and Fyr. Ever since, Lorkhan has remained quiet, but Aithilo knows that he is still there, somewhere, waiting for the next promising opportunity.

Demigod's childhood home(s):

Around Grahtwood and in various homes with Divayth has the two traveled.

Demigod's current home(s):

Ebonheart (a rented room) and in Western Skyrim

Demigod's relatives (both dead and alive):

Uncle Raiynes: His mother's brother, who left their Ashlander tribe with her as they both wished to learn the schools of magic without restraints.

Uncle Arncano: Raiynes' husband, an altmer noble who moved to coastal Valenwood after a family out with his family.

Setheso: Aithilo's daughter, the Nerevarine, through an unnamed dunmer woman.

Demigod's relationships towards relatives:

His uncles raised him up until he was eight, when Fyr insisted Aithilo was old enough to begin an apprenticeship. Aithilo loved his uncles, and misses them a great deal ever since their peaceful passings.

Setheso is precious to him, though he was absent throughout her young life. He will forever feel guilt for that, and will forever try to become worthy to refer to himself as her father. Setheso is indifferent towards him, but becomes hostile if he tries to form any sort of close family bond. The irony is not lost on him that he is essentially his own blood father, Sil.

Demigod's view on mortal political affairs:

Aithilo participated in the Three Banner's War, though more so by flying under no banner but going where he was needed to help peasants and common folk who were affected by the war. This was in both Dominion and Pact territories. He even reluctantly worked with Alamalexia for a brief time.

After that, he never took part in politics again, except for matters in Black Marsh when his friends needed his assistance with uniting or pacifying the various tribes

Demigod's own personal beliefs:

Funny enough, Aithilo reveres Sithis. He picked up this practice from his argonian friends, who worship Sithis as the bringer of constant change. Sometimes in the form death, but not all change is bad. Aithilo deeply values this mindset, and can not fathom a world of absolutes.

He also does not eat vegetation, as he has a respect for both Y'fre and the Hist, though he is well aware the Hist does not demand such things. Still, eating vegetation seems award to him. So he is a full blown carnivore.

Demigod's personal goals in life:

To be a better father, to assist other half-divine individuals like himself, and to hold on to the weird family he has seemingly attained over the various centuries.

Are they single:

Yes

Their partner:

He's an ace, but does keep close, intense frienships as he craves companionship.

Steady or fragile relationship:

Steady. As long as he is able, he will always try to keep a strong friendship going.

《《••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••》》

Name:

Hircine

Race:

Altmer-Daedra mix

Gender:

Male

Hair Color:

Cinnamon Brown

Eye Color:

Blue

Complexion:

Copper-gold skin

Body Markings:

Fawn colored patches with white dapples splashed over his body. Has antelope horns.

Height:

Very, VERY tall. Taller than a tall altmer.

Mortal Parent:

Trechire Galerio

Their influence on the their child:

Raised Hirchire throughout his entire childhood, mentored him when he joined the packs, and to this day visits with him and is supportive.

The demiprince's opinion on their mortal parent:

Hirchire is extremely close to his mother, overprotective to the max. He didn't take well to her husband Eliindil mantilng Sheogorath, and for the longest time didn't know how to react to his demiprince half brother Kirr. It's only due to his love for his mother that he isn't hostile.

Divine Parent:

Barbas

Their influence on the their demiprince:

Hirchire was concieved due to Barbas attempting to fool Trechire, masquerading as someone she loved. The idea was to take it incredibly far, then reveal himself and watch her spirits break again. Clavicus Vile always grows bored every century, and his favorite pastime had become stirring trouble with one of his bigger rivals.

However, Trechire caught on to the act early, but pretended to be fooled. When she became pregnant, she sought Hircine, and dedicated the demiprince to him, if he would accept it as his own. Hircine agreed because what huntsman wouldn't want a fluid shapeshifting hound bred straight from one of his most prized hounds??? And so Trechire is the one who fooled Barbas and Vile, revealing to them she had played them and carried a demiprince, which humiliated Barbas and enraged Vile.

Barbas has never interacted with Hirchire, and most likely never will.

The demiprince's opinion on their divine parent:

Hirchire doesn't consider Barbas his father, and so refers to his simply another daedric being with which he has no interest in.

Divine Parent 2:

Hircine (adoptive father)

Their influence on the their demiprince:

Hircine was more than eager to accept this demiprince as his own, and saw to it Trechire raised him as true hunter, one who would serve him for all eternity and even help to maintain his realm. Hirchire is his best of the best-of Hircine sends him after you, then know Hircine will have your head on his wall.

The demiprince's opinion on their divine parent:

Hirchire is loyal to Hircine, sharing his mother's respect for him, as well as a bold nature to even question Hircine at times, which is what made Hircine value Trechire in the first place. Everything Hirchire does is for Hircine' honor.

Demiprince's childhood home(s):

Valenwood (near Reaper's March)

Demiprince's current home(s):

The Hunting Grounds

Demiprince's relatives (both dead and alive):

Rinyu: Elder Half brother

Sunnabela: Elder/Younger Half Brother

Kirr: Younger half brother, fellow demiprince

Eliindil/Sheogorath: Step-father

Demiprince's relationships towards relatives:

Hirchire is on great terms with Rinyu, but towards Sunnabela and Kirr he isn't so social. Kirr is the son of one of Hircine's great rivals, and there is considerable jealousy over the young demiprince in Hirchire's heart, as he liked being the only demiprince offspring of Trechire's. Sunny is always around Kirr, so that doesn't help Sunny.

Hirchire at first was neutral towards Eliindil, but once he mantled Sheogorath now Hirchire no longer speaks with him for obvious reasons.

Sadly, Hirchire was born after Vanus and Caafire's passing, so he never met his grandparents.

Demiprince's view on mortal political affairs:

Not interested at all, unless it affects his packs or hunting grounds.

Demiprince's own personal beliefs:

A true hunter doesn't chase weak prey. A hunter always strives for the best, and seeks a fair hunt. Anything less and you are no better than a common dog chasing chickens on the farm. There is no satisfaction, just a stupid and primitive gratification that means nothing unless you wish to be a basic beast.

If which case, you aren't Hircine's hunter, but a throw away pawn.

Demiprince's personal goals in life:

Bring honor to Hircine, protect his pack mates, live up his mother's legacy among the packs.

Are they single:

Yes

Their partner:

None, but is welcome to the idea

Steady or fragile relationship:

Somewhere between if he had one.

#elder scrolls #tes #demigod #demiprince #barbas #sotha sil #lorkhan #hircine #hirchire #aithilo

[bluewatsons]

Joseph A. Harriss, The Elusive Marc Chagall, Smithsonian Magazine (December 2003)

With his wild and whimsical imagery, the Russian-born artist bucked the trends of 20th-century art

David McNeil fondly remembers the day in the early 1960s his father took him to a little bistro on Paris’ Île St. Louis, the kind of place where they scrawl the menu in white letters on the mirror behind the bar, and masons, house painters, plumbers and other workingmen down hearty lunches along with vin ordinaire. Wearing a beret, a battered jacket and a coarse, checkered shirt, his father— then in his mid-70s—fit in perfectly. With conversation flowing easily among the close-set tables, one of the patrons looked over at the muscular, paint-splotched hands of the man in the beret. “Working on a place around here?” he asked companionably. “Yeah,” replied McNeil’s father, the artist Marc Chagall, as he tucked into his appetizer of hard-boiled egg and mayonnaise. “I’m redoing a ceiling over at the Opéra.”

Chagall, the Russian-born painter who went against the current of 20th-century art with his fanciful images of blue cows, flying lovers, biblical prophets and green-faced fiddlers on roofs, had a firm idea of who he was and what he wanted to accomplish. But when it came to guarding his privacy, he was a master of deflection. Sometimes when people approached to ask if he was that famous painter Marc Chagall, he would answer, “No,” or more absurdly, “I don’t think so,” or point to someone else and say slyly, “Maybe that’s him.” With his slanting, pale-blue eyes, his unruly hair and the mobile face of a mischievous faun, Chagall gave one biographer the impression that he was “always slightly hallucinating.” One of those who knew him best, Virginia Haggard McNeil, David’s mother and Chagall’s companion for seven years, characterized him as “full of contradictions—generous and guarded, naïve and shrewd, explosive and secret, humorous and sad, vulnerable and strong.”

Chagall himself said he was a dreamer who never woke up. “Some art historians have sought to decrypt his symbols,” says Jean-Michel Foray, director of the Marc Chagall Biblical Message Museum in Nice, “but there’s no consensus on what they mean. We cannot interpret them because they are simply part of his world, like figures from a dream.” Pablo Picasso, his sometime friend and rival (“What a genius, that Picasso,” Chagall once joked. “It’s a pity he doesn’t paint”), marveled at the Russian’s feeling for light and the originality of his imagery. “I don’t know where he gets those images. . . . ” said Picasso. “He must have an angel in his head.”

Throughout his 75-year career, during which he produced an astounding 10,000 works, Chagall continued to incorporate figurative and narrative elements (however enigmatic) into his paintings. His warm, human pictorial universe, full of personal metaphor, set him apart from much of 20th-century art, with its intellectual deconstruction of objects and arid abstraction. As a result, the public has generally loved his work, while the critics were often dismissive, complaining of sentimentality, repetition and the use of stock figures.

A major retrospective of Chagall’s unique, often puzzling images was recently on view at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, following a highly acclaimed run at the Grand Palais in Paris. The first comprehensive exhibition of Chagall’s paintings since 1985 brought together more than 150 works from all periods of his career, many never before seen in the United States, including cloth-and-paper collages from the private collection of his granddaughter Meret Meyer Graber. The exhibition, says Foray, the chief organizer of the show, “offered a fresh opportunity to appreciate Chagall as the painter who restored to art the elements that modern artists rejected, such as allegory and narrative—art as a comment on life. Today he is coming back strong after a period of neglect, even in his home country.” Retrospectives are planned for 2005 at the Museum of Russian Art in St. Petersburg and at the State Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow.

Movcha (Moses) Chagal was, as he put it, “born dead” on July 7, 1887, in the Belorussian town of Vitebsk, near the Polish border. His distraught family pricked the limp body of their firstborn with needles to try to stimulate a response. Desperate, they then took the infant outside and put him in a stone trough of cold water. Suddenly the baby boy began to whimper. With that rude introduction to life, it’s no wonder that Marc Chagall, as he later chose to be known in Paris, stuttered as a boy and was subject to fainting. “I was scared of growing up,” he told Virginia McNeil. “Even in my twenties I preferred dreaming about love and painting it in my pictures.”

Chagall’s talent for drawing hardly cheered his poor and numerous family, which he, as the eldest of nine children, was expected to help support. His father, Khatskel-Mordechai Chagal, worked in a herring warehouse; his mother, Feiga- Ita Chernina, ran a small grocery store. Both nominally adhered to Hasidic Jewish religious beliefs, which forbade graphic representation of anything created by God. Thus Chagall grew up in a home devoid of images. Still, he pestered his mother until she took him to an art school run by a local portraitist. Chagall, in his late teens, was the only student who used the vivid color violet.Apious uncle refused to shake his hand after he began painting figures.

For all his subsequent pictorial reminiscing about Vitebsk, Chagall found it stifling and provincial—“a strange town, an unhappy town, a boring town,” he called it in his memoirs. In 1906, at age 19, he wangled a small sum of money from his father and left for St. Petersburg, where he enrolled in the drawing school of the Imperial Society for the Protection of Fine Arts. But he hated classical art training. “I, poor country lad, was obliged to acquaint myself thoroughly with the wretched nostrils of Alexander of Macedonia or some other plaster imbecile,” he recalled. The meager money soon ran out, and although he made a few kopecks retouching photographs and painting signs, he sometimes collapsed from hunger. His world broadened in 1909 when he signed up for an art class in St. Petersburg taught by Leon Bakst, who, having been to Paris, carried an aura of sophistication. Bakst indulged Chagall’s expressive, unconventional approach to painting and dropped names, exotic to the young man’s ears, such as Manet, Cézanne and Matisse. He spoke of painting cubes and squares, of an artist who cut off his ear.

“Paris!” Chagall wrote in his autobiography. “No word sounded sweeter to me!” By 1911, at age 24, he was there, thanks to a stipend of 40 rubles a month from a supportive member of the Duma, Russia’s elective assembly, who had taken a liking to the young artist. When he arrived, he went directly to the Louvre to look at the famous works of art there. In time he found a room at an artists’ commune in a circular, three-story building near Montparnasse called La Ruche (The Beehive). He lived frugally. Often he’d cut a herring in half, the head for one day, the tail for the next. Friends who came to his door had to wait while he put on his clothes; he painted in the nude to avoid staining his only outfit. At La Ruche, Chagall rubbed shoulders with painters like Fernand Léger, Chaim Soutine, Amedeo Modigliani and Robert Delaunay. True to his nature as a storyteller, however, he seemed to have more in common with such writers as French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who described Chagall’s work as “supernatural.” Another friend, Blaise Cendrars, a restless, knockabout writer, penned a short poem about Chagall: “Suddenly he paints / He grabs a church and paints with a church / He grabs a cow and paints with a cow.”

Many consider Chagall’s work during his four-year stay in Paris his most boldly creative. Reconnoitering the then-prevalent trends of Cubism and Fauvism, he absorbed aspects of each into his own work. There was his Cubist-influenced Temptation (Adam and Eve); the disconcerting Introduction, with a seven-fingered man holding his head under his arm; and the parti-colored Acrobat, showing Chagall’s fondness for circus scenes. At La Ruche he also painted his explosive Dedicated to My Fiancée, which he tossed off in a single night’s feverish work and later submitted to a major Paris exhibition. It took some artful persuasion on his part to convince the show’s organizers that the topsy-turvy mix of hands, legs and a leering bull’s head was not, as they contended, pornographic.

Returning to Vitebsk in 1914 with the intention of staying only briefly, Chagall was trapped by the outbreak of World War I. At least that meant spending time with his fiancée, Bella Rosenfeld, the beautiful, cultivated daughter of one of the town’s wealthiest families. Bella had won a gold medal as one of Russia’s top high-school students, had studied in Moscow and had ambitions to be an actress. But she had fallen for Chagall’s strange, almond-shaped eyes and often knocked on his window to bring him cakes and milk. “I had only to open the window of my room and blue air, love and flowers entered with her,” Chagall later wrote. Despite her family’s worries that she would starve as the wife of an artist, the pair married in 1915; Chagall was 28, Bella, 23. In his 1914- 18 Above the Town (one of his many paintings of flying lovers), he and Bella soar blissfully above Vitebsk.

In 1917 Chagall embraced the Bolshevik Revolution. He liked that the new regime gave Jews full citizenship and no longer required them to carry passports to leave their designated region. And he was pleased to be appointed commissar for art in Vitebsk, where he started an art school and brought in avant-garde teachers. But it soon became clear that the revolutionaries preferred abstract art and Socialist Realism— and how, they wondered, did the comrade’s blue cows and floating lovers support Marxism-Leninism? Giving up his job as commissar in 1920, Chagall moved to Moscow, where he painted decorative panels for the State Jewish Chamber Theater. But ultimately unhappy with Soviet life, he left for Berlin in 1922 and settled in Paris a year and a half later along with Bella and their 6-year-old daughter, Ida.

In Paris, a new door opened for Chagall when he met the influential art dealer Ambroise Vollard, who commissioned him to illustrate an edition of the poetic classic the Fables of La Fontaine. Chauvinistic French officials cried scandal over the choice of a Russian Jew, a mere “Vitebsk sign painter,” to illustrate a masterpiece of French letters. But that blew over, and Chagall went on to do a series of resonant illustrations of the Bible for Vollard.

Increasingly alarmed by Nazi persecution of the Jews, Chagall made a strong political statement on canvas in 1938 with his White Crucifixion. Then 51 and in his artistic prime, he por- trayed the crucified Christ, his loins covered with a prayer shawl, as a symbol of the suffering of all Jews. In the painting, a synagogue and houses are in flames, a fleeing Jew clutches a Torah to his breast, and emigrants try to escape in a rudimentary boat. Not long after, in June 1941, Chagall and his wife boarded a ship for the United States, settling in New York City. The six years Chagall spent in America were not his happiest. He never got used to the pace of New York life, never learned English. “It took me thirty years to learn bad French,” he said, “why should I try to learn English?” One of the things he did enjoy was strolling through Lower Manhattan, buying strudel and gefilte fish, and reading Yiddish newspapers. His palette during these years often darkened to a tragic tone, with depictions of a burning Vitebsk and fleeing rabbis. When Bella, his muse, confidante and best critic, died suddenly in 1944 of a viral infection at age 52, “everything turned black,” Chagall wrote.

After weeks of sitting in his apartment on Riverside Drive immersed in grief, tended to by his daughter, Ida, then 28 and married, he began to work again. Ida found a French-speaking English woman, Virginia McNeil, to be his housekeeper. A diplomat’s daughter, and bright, rebellious and cosmopolitan, McNeil had been born in Paris and raised in Bolivia and Cuba, but had recently fallen on hard times. She was married to John McNeil, a Scottish painter who suffered from depression, and she had a 5-year-old daughter, Jean, to support. She was 30 and Chagall 57 when they met, and before long the two were talking painting, then dining together. Afew months later Virginia left her husband and went with Chagall to live in High Falls, New York, a village in the Catskills. They bought a simple wooden house with an adjoining cottage for him to use as a studio.

Though Chagall would do several important public works in the United States—sets and costumes for a 1942 American Ballet Theatre production of Tchaikovsky’sAleko and a 1945 version of Stravinsky’s Firebird, and later large murals for Lincoln Center and stained-glass windows for the United Nations headquarters and the Art Institute of Chicago—he remained ambivalent about America. “I know I must live in France, but I don’t want to cut myself off from America,” he once said. “France is a picture already painted. America still has to be painted. Maybe that’s why I feel freer there. But when I work in America, it’s like shouting in a forest. There’s no echo.” In 1948 he returned to France with Virginia, their son, David, born in 1946, and Virginia’s daughter. They eventually settled in Provence, in the hilltop town of Vence. But Virginia chafed in her role, as she saw it, of “the wife of the Famous Artist, the charming hostess to Important People,” and abruptly left Chagall in 1951, taking the two children with her. Once again the resourceful Ida found her father a housekeeper— this time in the person of Valentina Brodsky, a 40- year-old Russian living in London. Chagall, then 65, and Vava, as she was known, soon married.

The new Mrs. Chagall managed her husband’s affairs with an iron hand. “She tended to cut him off from the world,” says David McNeil, 57, an author and songwriter who lives in Paris. “But he didn’t really mind because what he needed most was a manager to give him peace and quiet so he could get on with his work. I never saw him answer a telephone himself. After Vava took over, I don’t think he ever saw his bank statements and didn’t realize how wealthy he was. He taught me to visit the Louvre on Sunday, when it was free, and he always picked up all the sugar cubes on the table before leaving a restaurant.” McNeil and his half sister, Ida, who died in 1994 at age 78, gradually found themselves seeing less of their father. But to all appearances Chagall’s married life was a contented one, and images of Vava appear in many of his paintings.

In addition to canvases, Chagall produced lithographs, etchings, sculptures, ceramics, mosaics and tapestries. He also took on such demanding projects as designing stainedglass windows for the synagogue of the Hadassah-HebrewUniversityMedicalCenter in Jerusalem. His ceiling for the Paris Opéra, painted in 1963-64 and peopled with Chagall angels, lovers, animals and Parisian monuments, provided a dramatic contrast to the pompous, academic painting and decoration in the rest of the Opéra.

“He prepared his charcoal pencils, holding them in his hand like a little bouquet,” McNeil wrote of his father’s working methods in a memoir that was published in France last spring. “Then he would sit in a large straw chair and look at the blank canvas or cardboard or sheet of paper, waiting for the idea to come. Suddenly he would raise the charcoal with his thumb and, very fast, start tracing straight lines, ovals, lozenges, finding an aesthetic structure in the incoherence. Aclown would appear, a juggler, a horse, a violinist, spectators, as if by magic. When the outline was in place, he would back off and sit down, exhausted like a boxer at the end of a round.”

Some critics said he drew badly. “Of course I draw badly,” Chagall once said. “I like drawing badly.” Perhaps worse, from the critics’ point of view, he did not fit easily into the accepted canon of modernity. “Impressionism and Cubism are foreign to me,” he wrote. “Art seems to me to be above all a state of soul. . . . Let them eat their fill of their square pears on their triangular tables!”

Notes veteran art critic Pierre Schneider, “Chagall absorbed Cubism, Fauvism, Surrealism, Expressionism and other modern art trends incredibly fast when he was starting out. But he used them only to suit his own aesthetic purposes. That makes it hard for art critics and historians to label him. He can’t be pigeonholed.”

When he died in Saint Paul de Vence on March 28, 1985, at 97, Chagall was still working, still the avant-garde artist who refused to be modern. That was the way he said he wanted it: “To stay wild, untamed . . . to shout, weep, pray.”

#art #images #biography #marc chagall #jewish artists #painting

[fountainpenguin]

Could you tell us more about the Reedfilter AU? What makes it different? Any favorite parts or ideas in mind?

Reedfilter Rules AU is basically as opposite as I can be from my Riddleverse Classic headcanons without contradicting the actual FOP canon (and without overlapping my other AUs, such as my “King Me” AU).

I like to think of it as “the AU that might have been my canon if I hadn’t found Wolbachia pipientis.” Delving deeply into Wolbachia was the thing that forced me to make ALL my FOP worldbuilding deep to balance it. Reedfilter Rules AU is somewhat deep, but sticks very close to show canon. It’s more detailed than the show, but not chaotically deep.

In Riddleverse Classic, there’s a pretty even balance between animal DNA and human-like DNA. In the “Little Imperfections” universe, animal DNA is played up and human-like DNA is played down. In Reedfilter Rules, human-like DNA is played up and animal DNA is barely acknowledged (the Fae in RR are pretty much just small humans with wings). These Pixies don’t have Wolbachia, so H.P. is not the Pixie holotype. He and Sanderson are just friends.

The RR AU is named after the Head Pixie who preceded our H.P. (Rani Reedfilter) since most of the pieces I’ve written for it are told from her point of view. Pixies are a long-established species in this universe, and are considered the oldest and most advanced of the Fae races instead of the youngest.

Certain aspects of my worldbuilding (such as gyne and drone biology, the Refracts, and the honey-lock) don’t exist in the R-Rules verse. The Anti-Fairies don’t have their zodiac culture. Again, the Rules-verse sticks close to show canon and isn’t too complex; you get evil Antis and busy Pixies while Fairy World is just as fluffy and air-headed as ever, haha.

[More under the cut]

The inner workings of Pixie World are the most fleshed out part of RR AU. The Head Pixie position is even more powerful here than it is in my Classic works due to the sheer number of Pixies in existence (we’re talking a hundred companies united under a single boss- Head Pixie XXXVI, Rani Reedfilter).

It’s a blatant dictatorship where the Head Pixie’s rules always go, no questions asked. Marriages are arranged, jobs are assigned, and you can only reproduce with permission. Laughter is practically outlawed because the image of a crisp, intelligent pixie is so important to their brand. Extremely cold, strict place. This is the world Fergus grew up in before he took over from Reedfilter.

Classic!Fergus is blatant with his manipulation. He’s loud, proud, stubborn, and would NEVER stoop to the sucking up that RR!Fergus does. In RR, Fergus Whimsifinado - or Head Pixie XXXVII - rises through the ranks of Pixies Inc. by flirting with Rani Reedfilter in a universe where all pixie marriages are arranged and the Head is forbidden to have a spouse. R-Rules Fergus ain’t as averse to kisses as his Classic counterpart.... If seduction gets him what he wants, he won’t hesitate. And he didn’t.

Obviously, my ‘fic Origin of the Pixies isn’t canon in the R-Rules universe. Fergus was born and raised in Pixie society as one of many instead of being raised in Fairy World as an oddball with a wing mutation. Ambrosine was never matched with another woman after he had Fergus, so he never had Emery. Instead, I allowed this version of Fergus to follow through on his childhood dream of naming his daughter Emery.

And a daughter he indeed had, following his fling(s) with Reedfilter. Little Emery has Rani’s green eyes, so it’s pretty dang obvious that Rani is (was) her mother, but who’s going to protest? There ain’t no Pixie Council to balance power. Gossip all you want, but the Head Pixie’s word is law.

(Looks a lot like his father in this ‘verse, doesn’t he?)

Classic!Sanderson is H.P.’s sassy, egotistical, easily-made-jealous firstborn. However, in the Reedfilter AU, they aren’t related at all. RR!Sanderson - AKA Ennet - is extremely high-strung. He has low self-esteem, constantly thinks himself a failure, and on top of that he’s a HUGE gossip.

Classic!Sanderson is arguably smarter than the other pixies, but R!Rules Sandy is VERY trusting and naive. He’ll fall for anything twice over and believes everything H.P. says (H.P. messes with him because it’s funny). Sandy didn’t come into the picture until after Fergus became Head Pixie, but as their friendship deepens he becomes H.P.’s ears in the hallways.

Rani was nice enough to pair Sandy with a wife despite his half-pixie / half-wisp blood, as she believed him loyal to the company and wanted to show her trust in him. Sandy respects her immensely because of that, and even respected her enough to attempt pregnancy with his match when instructed to (something he bailed out of doing when Fergus matched him up with a different lady). He was horrified by Rani’s death..... and extremely suspicious of his new boss.

Despite his concerns about his new boss, Sanderson envisions himself as H.P.’s loyal sidekick, oblivious to the fact that H.P. would stab him in the back without remorse if the situation required him to. But H.P. genuinely likes RR!Sanderson, probably due to the fact that he and Sandy are the only pixie/wisp crossbreeds in the whole company. He still teases him, but I like to think this version of H.P. is better at asking Sanderson’s advice for problems and his consent to being teased. He’s more likely to stop messing around if he sees Sanderson upset than Classic H.P. is. Not as big a jerk as you could have been.

It’s honestly a beloved AU of mine because... it’s really interesting to play H.P. and Sanderson as literal friends instead of the distant parent/clingy child relationship they have in Riddleverse Classic. Reedfilter Rules has female pixies, arranged marriages, and boring businessmen unapologetically plotting evil... What more could you ask for?

Anti-Fairy World is also different in this AU. Anti-Schnozmo was raised to take over Anti-Fairy World from birth until Anti-Cosmo, ah... “took care of him.” AC is even brattier in this AU than he is in my Classic universe (a lot like Foop). Additionally, the High Countess position doesn’t mean anything... No political power for Anti-Wanda in this universe :(

I thought it would be interesting if Anti-Cosmo’s Deadly Sin was still Lust, but the only reason he’s married to Anti-Wanda in RR!AU is because his mother arranged them. He tolerates Anti-Wanda, he even likes her, but he doesn’t truly love her and doesn’t care if she knows it. He has illegitimate children in this verse (this is where Eury and Talon fit in) because the honey-lock isn’t a thing. Foop is his only legitimate child and therefore the legal heir to the throne (High Count is balanced by the Anti-Fairy Council and he can’t declare an illegitimate child his heir).

RR!Anti-Cosmo and H.P. are rival rulers who barely know each other. After taking over from Reedfilter, H.P. starts flirting with AC too in an attempt to snag Anti-Fairy World from under him, blind to the fact that Anti-Cosmo is toying with him and intends to betray him right back. Or, Anti-Cosmo flirts with him in an attempt to swipe Pixie World. Who knows. I’m not sure how far that relationship goes, just that I can see the two flirting in RR universe to mirror the fact they fight all the time in Classic.

(....... Maybe they still fight)

I created Reedfilter Rules AU back in 2016, and I still write drabbles for it because I find the concept endearing despite its cliches. I love writing in this ‘verse because I love pixies, but I haven’t posted the main ‘fic due to the, uhhhhh... //Gestures at story that revolves around a creepy guy sleeping his way up the corporate ladder, probably seducing his rival on the side idk, is this really what you want to read??

Anyway, I adore Reedfilter Rules AU and think about it a lot, so if you guys want to see more, let me know. “Only an Idea” (#83 of the 130 Prompts) takes place in the R-Rules universe and tells how H.P. and Sanderson first met.

#asks #Anon #FAIRIES! #Reedfilter Rules #ridwriting #I'm wasp dad trash #We're Pixies! #Sanderson is neat #The bat with the hat #The toughest tag #apparently art #130 Prompts #screenshots #Fairy Idol #Long post #This is the third time I've tried to submit this please don't break again #If the Read More gets moved into the ask box I'm sorry; just view on blog if so

[wellhellotragic]

Absolution (1/4)

Summary: It's a tale as old as time. A princess on the run. The fastest ship in the king's armada tasked with keeping her safe. The princess falling in love with the ship's lieutenant. It's the stuff fairy tales are made of. Or is it?

A Halloween fic.

A/N: Yup, that's the title I went with, because nothing else sounded right...If a nameless goose can become an overnight sensation, then this fic can stand with no title.. or something

Also on AO3 if that’s what floats your boat.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom located deep between the land and sea, lived a king that ruled with an iron fist. A king that was feared by all that lived in his lands. For over thirty years he sat upon the throne, a widower with a runaway son whom looked little like him. The lands he owned soon fell to ruin. The ground beneath his castle turned brown, the trees died out, and all was barren. A wasteland.

The king blamed his subjects, decreeing that they weren’t working hard enough to maintain the crops. That they weren’t hunting hard enough to bring home meat. He threatened the peasants with higher taxes and jail. Still, the lands fell further into disrepair.

But just when all hope seemed lost, the bells rang on a dark and rainy night. The king was dead. Rumors swirled. Failing health. Poison. Murder . No one ever knew for sure.

Everyone in the kingdom gathered for the late king’s funeral. His body was wrapped in shrouds, set ablaze as the small rowboat was pushed out to sea, letting the waves carry it deeper and deeper into the great blue ocean. They came from miles away, everyone that had ever been terrorized by King George. They came not to pay their respects, but to rejoice. The tyrant was truly dead.

The most shocking part of his death, though, was the return of his estranged son. It was no secret that in recent years the tension between the two men had grown past the point of breaking. Yet there was James, standing on the beach, watching as the flames of his father disappeared over the horizon.

There were whispers about James’s return as well. That his return coinciding with George's death was suspicious, not that the people minded in anyway. The castle's official statement was that upon realizing that King George would not make it through the night, their best rider was dispatched to fetch the prince.

The prince's presence wasn't the only thing that had people talking though. No, it was the woman that accompanied him. The woman that bore a ring with the family's crest upon the side, etched into the metal that held the late queen’s wedding stone. It was clear to all with eyes that the prince had taken a wife during his time away.

At first, not much had been known about her, but as time passed, people learned her name. Snow White. Bandit and traitor to the crown of a neighboring kingdom. Yet still, the people minded not. Not after everything they'd borne witness to under the ruling of King George. Not when wealth was returning to the kingdom. Not when taxes were decreasing and crops were returning to their former glory. Not when the food and work was shared equally among all who lived in the kingdom. Not when they saw their new king beside them day in and day out willing to get dirty to plow the lands, or when they saw their new queen leaving each morning with a bow and sheath of arrows on her back, only to return each evening with a load of guards following behind with a cart full of deer for dinner.

The next time the bells rang out was to announce the birth of a new princess. A young girl named Emma. Even as a child, it was obvious that she would be beautiful. As her eyes settled into a shade of green that rivaled the emerald stone in Snow White’s ring, and when her hair turned to gold, her beauty only increased.

The princess also had the best tutors money could buy, and the best manners that could be taught. She was just as kind and smart as she was lovely.

But things can never stay as they were. Times change and prosperity ends. War comes.

As the princess's eighteenth birthday neared, what should have been a celebration soon became the day most dreaded. For the Evil Queen, known better as Regina to Snow White, ordered her troops to bear down on the kingdom, seizing the lands around Misthaven. Her armies had cut off all routes of escape. The food supplies dwindled and all hope once again seemed lost.

*************

King James looked around the small round table they used for their council meetings. Everyone had shown up, many taking great risk towards their own safety. Regina's guards were everywhere along the borders, imprisoning people they felt were close to the king and queen, and murdering the ones they deemed useless. Some of the council members had to sneak past her guards with the use of the very same magic Regina possessed.

The Blue Fairy had used a portion of what little fairy dust remained, dangerously depleting the fairies’ stockpile. Ever since Regina had arrived, she'd done what she could to collapse all of the mine entrances along the border, blocking the dwarves from harvesting the crystals needed to make the dust. Only one mine remained open, and most of the crystals had already been extracted.

Things were grim, and James worried that he and his wife might just have to surrender the kingdom to Regina. Naturally, it wasn't what he wanted to do, but if it was the only way to ensure the safety of his people, he'd be willing to set his pride aside.

Of course, there was also the matter of Emma. Regina's descension on their kingdom had been nearly eighteen years in the making. A series of calculated attacks with the sole purpose of destroying everything that James and Snow held near. He knew that if Regina won, that she'd stop at nothing to destroy Snow, and the fastest way to do so would be to harm their daughter.

“Surely there has to be something we can do? This can’t be it?” His wife may have hid behind a face of strength, but James could feel her hand shaking next to his on the table.

Snow had taken it the worst of everyone. She felt that everything was her fault. The result of a childhood indiscretion. A mistake. One that an entire kingdom and thousands would be forced to pay penance for.

James refused though. The fault laid with Regina and her alone. She was the one that let the darkness into her heart. She was the one that allowed it to fester, unchecked and unabated. And in the end, she would lose. He just wasn’t yet sure how.

“I’m afraid it is Your Majesties.” James almost missed seeing the small blue fairy floating above Ruby’s shoulder. “We’ve only one bag of fairy dust left, and it won’t be enough to hold Regina’s army off. It’s barely enough magic for one small task.”

He took stock of the room, hoping against all odds that someone, anyone, might have a plan, but no one spoke. Even Grumpy, who was usually the first to complain, was silent.

“Well that’s it then isn’t it? Regina’s won.” The defeat in Snow’s voice nearly broke James.

“Wait, do you smell that?” Ruby looked to her grandmother for confirmation. “Do you hear something?”

The old woman stood from her seat, walking to the window, looking out towards the sea.

“Come here girl. These old eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Granny moved aside as Ruby took her place, the rest of the council room crowding behind her.

“It’s a ship. A large ship at that!”

James grumbled. The last of his naval ships had been dispatched weeks ago, seeking help from any other kingdoms that might be able to provide aid. Even Glowerhaven, the closest by far, would still be another week’s journey to reach. There was no way any of their ships could have returned so quickly.

Which only meant one thing. The ship in question was no ally to the crown. It was most likely pirates, looking to seize upon an opportunity, thinking them weak and easy prey for the taking.

“We may be defenseless against Regina, but I’ll be damned if I let pirates upon my shores.”

“But Your Highness, they’re wearing your colors, flying your flag. It’s one of your vessels.”

James snatched the viewing glass from Grumpy’s hand, wanting to see for himself. It wasn’t a vessel he’d ever laid eyes on before. It wasn’t one of his, yet Grumpy was right. His kingdom’s flag waved high on the main mast for all to see.

Part of him wondered if it was a trick. If Regina had sent them in, hoping the castle would lower its defenses, only to be seized in the middle of the night by her men. But on the off chance that the ship wasn’t Regina’s, it may also have been their only hope.

For nearly an hour, James stood at the window, watching the men aboard the ship as they stood at attention, never once stepping across the gangplank that had been set out. They never sent anyone to approach the castle, nor did they made any move to make their presence known.

Eventually, the tension in the room became too much, forcing James to send a rider to the shore. He watched as the horse approached the docks, the rider dismounting and speaking with the crew, before turning back and riding hard for the castle.

The rider barely had time to knock before Snow ran and threw the doors open, eager to hear what he’d learned. The ship was named the Jewel of the Realm, and its men swore that they’d once pledged an oath to Misthaven, that she ship belonged to Their Majesty’s armada, and that they stood ready for orders.

James wasted no time in heading for the library, looking for any indication of a ship by that name in his possession. He’d never heard of her before, nor had any of the other council members. After finally locating the ledger with a detailed list of all of the ships, he looked through the last two pages, twice, letting his fingers drift over the names of each ship he owned. There was no mention of her, though. It was a trick.

Just as he was about to shut the book, ready to ride out to the ship and gut each man onboard himself, he heard his wife gasp next to him. He followed her eyes, seeing the name listed on a page, the only ship on that docket. Jewel of the Realm - special assignment. James recognized the script as George’s handwriting.

The Jewel was his, as were the men he witnessed standing at attention. But the issue of the secret mission tugged at his gut. The men had been sent out by the previous king nearly twenty years before. The men he saw were barely older than Emma, many of them clearly not original members of the crew. Could he trust them? Men that had likely never stepped foot on his lands.

Would they be willing to die for their king the way he knew his other naval officers would be? Would it even matter? What use could thirty men be against Regina’s army of thousands?

James looked to his wife, seeing the same fears upon her pale face.

The two of them returned to the council chambers, explaining to the others that the ship was indeed theirs, sharing his concerns with them about the vessel’s whereabouts for the last two decades. After much debate, it was decided that they were out of options and the Jewel was their last hope.

Everyone agreed that the ship was no match for Regina’s troops, and all were lost as to how the Jewel could help, until a small voice spoke up from the back of the room. Johanna, Snow’s oldest and most trusted confidant.

“They can take the princess. They can keep her safe, far away from the war.”

The room exploded, voices crying out against it, but it was Snow that calmed them down, allowing Johanna to finish.

“Snow, long ago, your parents instructed me to take you far away should war ever come to the castle. If anything were to happen to them, it wouldn’t matter as long as you were safe. Their council agreed, saying it was best to ensure the safety of an heir. I pleaded with them not to ask such a thing of me. But now, well, now I understand.”

Everyone watched helplessly as Snow’s eyes began to well up, a sad smile gracing her apple red lips, as she hugged Johanna. For as much as they hated the idea of sending their only daughter away on a ship full of men they’d never met before, they weren’t sure they had a choice. Emma was the next in line, the only successor, and needed to be kept safe. And to the crew’s credit, they’d come home just as they were needed most, when it was most dangerous for them.

*************

Emma pleaded with her parents as the small envoy of people headed for the docks by foot, keeping to the shadows in their cloaks, hoping to avoid detection. James and Snow had done their best to explain to her why it was the best option, the only option, but she was stubborn. A trait she'd inherited from both her parents, but James held to the plan the council had formed.

As the five of them reached the docks, James approached the ship, calling out for whomever was in charge. Slowly, from the back of the ship, a man stepped forward, his blue eyes almost ethereal in the limited lighting.

“My name is Captain Liam Jones and I command this ship and these men.”

He remained stoic, unphased by the fact that he was speaking with royalty. There was no bow, no formal titles used. The man’s demeanor had James on alert, second guesses edging their way through his mind. Until another voice spoke up from the captain’s side.

“Lieutenant Killian Jones, Your Majesty.” The young man looked back at the captain, possibly searching for some form of approval, but continued without challenge from the superior officer. “I apologize for my brother’s lack of a proper greeting. We’ve been at sea for a long time and it can sometimes dull a man’s manners. But I assure you, this is the finest crew your armada has to offer, and we are at your service.”

“Captain, may we have a word in private?” It wasn’t a question though. If James was really going to send his only daughter away with these men, he needed more than the word of a junior ranking officer.

The captain simply nodded, stepping backwards as his crew parted, leaving a walking path to what James assumed was the captain’s quarters.

The room had a strange feel about it. Everything was ship shape, not a speck of dust or mess to be found, but something just seemed a bit off. The air was thicker, harder to breathe in.

“Please, have a seat.” Captain Jones gestured to a chair across from his own at his desk. His lack of formality bothered James. On one hand, it was a breath of fresh air being able to speak with someone without them nearly cowering before him, eager to agree with everything he said. But on the other hand, he worried that the lack of respect would transfer to Emma. He knew there were dangers involved in allowing his only child onboard a ship with thirty men. Men who’d likely not seen a woman in some time. He needed to be certain that she’d be safe among them.

James sidestepped the chair, choosing to stand instead. Choosing to demonstrate whatever bit of authority he had left.

“Captain, I’ve been King of this land for nearly twenty years, yet until tonight, I’d never even heard of this ship.” The captain nodded, but said nothing. “So what exactly was this secret assignment that my father sent you on? You couldn’t have been more than a teenager when he gave you those orders.”

“Aye, I was but a boy when I joined this ship so very many years ago, but I can assure you, that in all my time, my loyalty has always been to the ship and crown. I swore an oath, one I can not and will not break. And as far as our location, I’m afraid even I cannot divulge that information. As you stated, your father sent us out on a secret assignment, and I was sworn not to speak of it to anyone, which I’m afraid includes you, Your Majesty.”

“And if I were to order you, as your king?”

“Then I would still not tell you. I take my vows quite seriously.”

That was possibly the only bit of solace he’d been given that night. That despite the man’s obvious contempt for royalty, he was a man of honor if nothing else.

“And should I give you new orders, would you follow them?”

“Yes.”

James thought on it for a minute, but the realization of his lack of choices made the decision for him. If Regina found Emma, she’d torture the girl, or worse. At least with these men, she stood a chance.

And so James gave him orders. It was simple really, to take the ship as far and as fast as possible with Emma onboard. To tell no one of who she was or where she was from. To guard her with their lives. The captain accepted, leaving to ready the ship, not even stopping to take on any new supplies.

The blue fairy used the last of her magic to disguise the ship. As the fairy dust flew through the air, covering every last inch of the ship, a transformation occurred. The flag flying high above them no longer carried his crest or colors. Instead, it was a simple skull framed by two scabbards. The ship’s wood looked worn and aged, the colors less vivid and cracked. And the men aboard, the ones who’d been wearing their finest uniforms were now covered in leather and torn linens. Everything about it screamed pirates.

The last place Regina would ever think to look for Emma would be on a pirate ship.

James and Snow whispered their goodbyes to their tearful daughter, unsure of when, or if, they’d ever see her again. The crew wasn’t to return unless they received word of Regina’s demise. It could be years, or never. They kissed her cheeks and sent her on her way, her own princess dress and cloak unchanging as she stepped aboard the ship. The fairy dust already used up.

There was no great farewell as the ship set sail back into the ocean. As Snow and James watched their only daughter leave on a pirate ship, the Jolly Roger, they didn’t wave goodbye. Instead, they stood there for a moment, clutching each other’s hands tightly, before turning and heading back to the castle, not willing to stay out in the open for too long. Hoping against all hope that their little girl would remain safe.

#cs fanfiction #captain swan fanfiction