liveyun

[liveyun]

i have notif from u!!!! and i want to read that close to you and!! and!! and!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 bro... what happened.... 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

anon i’m sorry the story got accidentally posted HSHFJSNC it wasnt even fully pasted there, let alone edited. i’m so sorry! besides, i think i will post it within a week or the next month because i dont have time to write much as of now 🙁

[liveyun]

3 years since...🥹

[liveyun]

oh this just made me smile so damn wide🥹 twt ; article

[liveyun]

BTS SOCIAL MEDIA SERIES → Google Overview (insp) // (detailed breakdown: PLEASE READ!)

HAPPY 12TH ANNIVERSARY, BTS! June 13th, 2013

[liveyun]

250613 - namjoon on weverse: “Hello everyone, Happy Birthday, BTS.

So 06/13 has come again.

It's 06/13 once again Last year’s 06/13 was really tough… But now, June 13th 2025 is truly here. Honestly, I waited for this even more than all of you. I waited & waited & waited—truly.

12th anniversary… twelve years old! It’s like you’re the nephews/nieces of my multiverse. I’m glad you’ve grown up so well. Listen well to your parents—wait, no, listen just a little. These kinds of silly thoughts keep coming to me this evening.

Since it’s also my younger sibling’s birthday today, I spent time with family, and before showering, I broke the tip of my pencil pressing too hard, writing down these strange/bizarre thoughts. Honestly, I never thought this day would come. (T_T..)

Looking back, It always felt overwhelming. Every album, every project, every comeback— How dare I create like that and confidently hand out my business/name card? They say this is love, that this is us.

After resting for a year & a half, I can hardly remember it. Even now, the path still isn’t clear (to me). Each time, I just try desperately to find it.

I love the book called 'The Precision of Love' . Being loved precisely and loving precisely— That seemingly impossible task, I always wanted to try and achieve it. Although ironically, I myself know the least of all how accurately my love reaches.

I think I’ve lived my life trying to interpret & meet your love, to receive it as precisely as I can. I’ll try to go somewhere again—somewhere unknown (to me).

Although I still don’t know well how many people, of what kind and where, are by my side now, I want to walk romantically with you all. Will you come with me?..

Let me ask one more time.

Althrough days of fatigue & sleepless nights, through incomprehensible people and thoughts that cling like tails— I’ll push through all those obstacles once more, & venture bravely into the tomorrow.

At every overwhelming crossroads, it’s because of you that I endured, because of you that I moved forward. I’m grateful, so grateful.

When I try to keep it short, it always ends up long. Guess I’m still too young & immature to be concise. But talkativeness is also proof of clumsy love, so please look on it kindly.

We’ll really do better this time. Thank you for giving us another chance. Once again I love you. It’s a beautiful day. Good night!

- From Free Citizen Namjoon” (trans. cr. dalbitbangtan)

[liveyun]

[liveyun]

We don’t appreciate the fact that Bruce Wayne is a Kardasian level celebrity enough. Everyone knows him. I want more one shots and crack fic moments where the League (Pre identity reveals) just openly talk about Bruce Wayne in front of Batman.

Just imagine them playing fuck, marry, kill with famous actors and such and throwing Bruce into the mix. And Batman just sits there, silently suffering as he listens to the reasons why Flash and Lantern would marry, fuck, or kill him. He prays they choose kill. They don’t.

[liveyun]

250601 - 2025 BTS FESTA Timeline

[liveyun]

pausing all of my WIPs to cook a personal favourite i decided to take off the Fics Collecting Cobwebs In My Google Doc shelf 👩🏽‍🍳

[liveyun]

POLAR NIGHT for @yooboobies | cr. jung-koook

[liveyun]

ALMOST, ALWAYS

You love him first. You love him hardest. He never loves you at all.

pairing. jeon jungkook x oc (no gender specified)

genre. mature, angst, hurt/no comfort

warnings. jungkook and oc are both adults here! unrequited love (like... real bad), toxic fwb kinda situationship, overthinking, jungkook is emotionally unavailable, hints to insecurities/self image, toxic attachment, yearninggg, a lot of quiet heartbreak, no fluff :,)

wc. ~1.2k

────────────────────────

He always came to you when the sky was gloomy.

The first night it happened, it was raining. The kind that sounded like the universe was pouring their cosmic heart out to the earth, a dull roar that drowned out your thoughts. You were wrapped in a blanket on the couch, scrolling past the fourth rom-com you didn’t have the energy to watch, when your phone lit up.

[00:28]

jungkook 🤍 : u up?

Of course you were. You always were.

You told yourself it was just casual. He made that clear the first time he kissed you — soft and slow and like a promise he never meant to keep.

But still, you let him in. Let him take you. Let him moan your name, let him hold you after the highs of the pleasure subsided.

You let him do it all.

────────────────────────

You met him at a friend’s party, pop music thrumming through the floorboards and lights blinding your soul. Drunk bodies mingled with eachother, and the whole place reeked of booze. He was laughing at something someone said, wearing a denim jacket with nothing underneath, and you could hear girls chatting about him like they were the paparazzi.

You weren’t the girl who caught his attention at the first glance. But he did, almost when it was the end of the party.

“You’re quiet,” he’d said, when you were nursing your drink in the corner. You were surprised you were approached at all.

“You’re loud,” you’d replied.

He grinned like you’d just told him a secret.

That was all it took. One smile. One night.

One text that said come over, and you did.

Like always.

────────────────────────

You tried to be smart.

You swore to your friends it was nothing. “We’re just hooking up,” you’d say. “It’s not a big deal.” But you knew it was a lie the second you let him inside your apartment like you always do. The moment he pulled your sweatshirt over your head and called your name like it meant something.

He never stayed the night. But sometimes, if you asked quietly enough, he’d stay just a little longer. And that was enough for you.

For a while.

────────────────────────

It was once in a blue moon when he was in your apartment and you two weren’t fucking.

His body warmth was so close to you — your thighs brushing his knees as he sat beside you, slurping up some udon noodles which you were having for dinner. It was raining outside, and everything — him — had you feeling soft for some reason. It felt domestic, it felt warm.

The conversation was light and easy going, till he told you that he wasn’t “built for relationships.” Said it like a joke, like he wasn’t breaking something when he did.

“I’m just not good at that stuff,” he’d said as he’d switched between tv channels mindlessly. “Too much pressure.”

You nodded. Said you understood.

But in your chest, your heart whispered, I could be easy to love. If you let me.

If only he would.

────────────────────────

The first time he disappeared for days, you stared at your phone like it owed you an answer. He hadn’t blocked you.

Just. . . . gone quiet. Vanished.

When he finally came back, all he said was: “Sorry. Things got messy.”

You didn’t ask what things. You just opened the door and let him in.

As always.

────────────────────────

There were others, as obvious they were and as oblivious you pretended to be. You never had proof, but you didn’t need it. The late-night texts, the half-lies, the lipstick on his collar that wasn’t yours, the mixture of overwhelmingly sweet perfumes which he smelled of — they were enough.

Still, when he touched you, you forgot. That was the problem.

You remembered everything until he kissed you — and then you remembered nothing but him.

You let yourself burn in the flames of a man named Jeon Jungkook.

────────────────────────

You loved him first. You loved him hardest.

You remembered his favourite character being hello kitty, the name of his childhood dog, the way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was nervous. You noticed the scar on his cheek, the way he was terrible at goodbyes, the way his whole body twitched when he was just about to fall asleep.

He remembered your apartment code. That was about it.

────────────────────────

You finally said it on a Thursday night. Not I love you. You weren’t that reckless.

But you said, “I think I like you.”

Jungkook looked up from your bedsheets, blinking slow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t say it back.

He didn’t say anything at all.

Just leaned in, kissed you, and made you forget why it hurt so much.

As always.

────────────────────────

You stayed anyway.

Because sometimes, he held you like he didn’t want to let go. Because sometimes, when he looked at you, it felt like the air shifted. Your heart raced, like the idiot it was.

You told yourself that meant something.

It didn’t.

────────────────────────

At a party, months later, you saw it for what it was. He was laughing with a girl you didn’t know, arm draped lazily around her shoulders. She giggled like she’d already memorized the sound of his voice.

She was beautiful. Drop dead gorgeous. He was handsome. And somehow, he looked happy. Happier than you’ve ever seen him to be.

You stood in the kitchen, plastic cup trembling in your hand.

He looked up. Saw you. Smiled. Grinned.

Not an apology. Nothing. Just a smile.

Later, when you found him outside, you asked, “Is she the reason you’ve been distant?”

He blinked at you like you’d said the most ridiculous thing ever to be known to mankind. “Don’t start catching feelings.”

You just stood and looked at him then, really looked.

And for the first time, you saw the truth.

He had never even tried to like you.

────────────────────────

Still, that night, you let him in.

He showed up at your door like always. No explanation. No excuses. Just the quiet but rushed knock you had memorized.

You hesitated.

But you opened the door.

...as always.

He didn’t kiss you like he loved you. But he kissed you like he knew he’d always be let in.

You let it happen. You didn’t ask him to stay. You didn’t ask him to mean it.

Later, when he was asleep beside you, you stared at the ceiling.

It was silent. Cold. Final.

You turned to look at him — this boy you had broken yourself for. This boy who had never once asked you to.

You whispered, “I love you.”

He didn’t hear it.

He never did.

────────────────────────

In the morning, he was gone.

You were still staring at his text screen, his last message being three days old.

That was the last time he texted you.

-

You sat on the floor of your apartment, his absence booming louder than his presence ever did. It didn’t feel like heartbreak. It didnt feel like anything.

You stared at his name in your phone. Stared at the thread full of one-sided memories.

There was a very weird ache in the centre of your chest. Like a barbed wire wrapped around your heart, squeezing the muscle with each moment as it splurted out the pain out of you.

It took you a second to delete his nunber. Not to forget him, but to remind yourself he was never really there.

-

You still love him. You still ache for him. You still hope that you’ll hear those three knocks on your door at 2 AM.

Even when you know the aching truth.

He didn’t ruin you. He didn’t destroy you.

He never broke your heart — he just never planned to keep it.

────────────────────────

A few days pass. Things don’t really improve, but you don’t cry. You just stop looking at the door like it’s going to open itself.

Then one night, at 2:14 a.m., there’s a knock.

Soft. Familiar. Three gentle taps, spaced just far enough apart to make your chest tighten.

You don’t move.

You stay on the floor, back against the wall, blanket wrapped around your shoulders more as a habit than a need.

The knocks continue. Once. Twice. Then they stop.

You wait another hour in the quiet, but the knocks dont return.

That drags you down the realisation, once again, that you were never his.

You were just a place he came to feel wanted.

────────────────────────

[liveyun]

the archivist.

life has bothered you enough that you end up taking a job at a forgotten archive. somehow, one of the barren books seem know too much about you, and so does he.

▸ pairing. namjoon x fem reader/oc

▸ genre. dark fantasy, liminal horror, magical realism, mature

▸ warnings. (for this one-shot) soft eldritch joon ? ? , surrealism , unreality, oc is a broke student, mentions of a toxic ex, time gets weird, mild possession ? ? . . kind of yearning ? , also — there’s erotica appearance!! namjoon is very gentle but also very intense, emotional vulnerability x10000. english isn’t my first language so pls excuse the lil mistakes ! !

▸ wc. 2.2k +

part of the “DEADL7NES” series

────────────────────────

You take the job because you’re broke.

You found the job on a half-broken bulletin board behind the convenience store, thumbtacked between a flier for lost kittens and a “no questions asked” roommate search.

The paper looked old. Faded ink. Just a time and an address.

No title, no description. No contact number. No interviews, no prior experience needed either.

Desperation has a sound — it's the growling of your stomach on the fourth day of instant ramen, the shame of unread emails with subject lines like we regret informing you.

So despite this whole ordeal sounding shady at all points, you show up.

The building looks like it’s seen some pretty tough shit.

It leans into a pocket of space between two concrete towers like a secret. Ivy coils up its bricks like veins, there are signs of ageing and neglect, but there’s a certain vibe which just screams vintage is undeniable. There’s no signboard, only a brass doorknob that’s too cold for your touch.

You step in. Dust sighs under your shoes. The air is still, too, like it’s listening.

The timing was listed at 7:00 PM sharp. A quick glance to your wrist watch tells you it’s 6:56, and you let out a small exhale of relief through your nose.

“I see that you’re quite punctual. . .” a voice as deep as sounds echoing back from vast halls startles you as you flush momentarily. you were zoned out on the small creeper plant which seems to have no roots at all, claiming the wall from the wood floorboard.

Kim Namjoon.

That’s what he introduces himself as when he steps out from behind the desk, his voice as quiet, yet raspy as the rest of him.

“I’m Namjoon. You’ll be taking care of the shelves,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the books that stretch like ribs around the room. “Call for me if you need help. I’ll be at the desk.”

You nod.

You do not speak, because his presence has stolen language from you.

It’s not just that he’s handsome — it’s that he’s unreasonably and unfairly so. Not the kind from glossy advertisements or late-night dramas, though, this. . . is different.

He is carved.

Ancient. Like a statue that forgot it was stone and decided to breathe. Like the sculptor blew the breath of life to their creation.

There’s wisdom in the slant of his eyes. Softness, too. Like an ancient, old dragon who never ages. The dragon, who believes that there’s strength in gentleness.

His hair is thick and dark, parted gently like the petals of a bloom. Dimples bloom when he smiles, but it’s rare.

You find yourself waiting for them like sunrise.

────────────────────────

You start the job.

It’s mostly cleaning — dusting shelves, sorting book returns, arrivals, fixing the labels that curl off from old spines, and sometimes even wiping, although that’s rare. Sometimes people come in, reserved and quiet, as though they too stumbled in by mistake. You suggest titles. Smile when they leave. You see the same names again and again. No one ever asks for a library card.

The place smells of paper and petrichor.

He’s always there, somewhere—at the big desk in the corner, writing into thick journals. Sometimes you catch the curve of his hand around a pen, ink smudged on his fingers.

He doesn’t talk much. But his plants are always freshly watered. You often catch glimpses of him lovingly watering his potted plant of night jasmine, admiring the tiny life with his gentle, calm eyes.

Something strange happens: your life starts to fix itself.

The rent gets paid on time. You get better sleep. An old wound on your ankle fades like it remembers how to heal. Your ex no longer harasses you over texts. Your fridge now has fresh produce instead of ancient boxes of takeout. Your stomach issues are gone, your skin is devoid of acne and hyperpigmentation, your roommate finds a better apartment and moves out, and the silence she leaves behind is warm, not cold. Your grades improve almost magically. The professor who you swore couldn’t stand the sight of you automatically starts giving you extention periods for your assignments.

It doesn’t make sense. But you don’t question it. Not when you can finally exhale for the first time in months, can buy yourself a latte without getting concerned glances from the barista regarding the embarrassingly low balance in your student card.

You feel grateful. You feel. . . happy.

────────────────────────

One evening, you’re working, as usual. You shelve a set of old poetry books and your fingers brush against a cover that looks newer than the rest. Bound in deep crimson, its spine uncracked. The pages look white instead of yellow.

No title. No author.

You pull it free.

It’s erotica. The kind that moans long and slow.

You shouldn’t read it, but you find yourself reading it. You cannot make yourself resist.

Your eyes devour the first few lines.

“Her limbs trembled like branches after rain, heavy with want.

His hands were galaxies, tracing constellations across her skin, stars burning beneath each fingertip.

She opened beneath him like dawn, and he worshipped like a man made of midnight.”

You think you’ve forgotten breathing.

“He pressed his lips to her collarbone, reverent, like a psalm sung in a forgotten tongue.

The mouth of the beloved does not ask permission.

It tastes. It drinks. It sings against the skin.

Her breath caught like a bird between palms—

desperate, fluttering, sacred.

When her eyes closed, it was not from fear.

It was surrender.

The world vanished beneath her spine.

There was only warmth,

and the memory of a name

moaned, but not spoken.

And when he took her, it was not just a body—it was a memory. It was a myth. A myth only he could unravel from her.”

Warmth pools between your thighs, unbidden, shameful, aching. You press your thighs together, hoping for a bit of relief.

“You found that one.”

You jerk. The book nearly flies from your hands.

Namjoon stands across the aisle, arms folded loosely, gaze dipped low. His eyes are unreadable—amused, yes, but something else. Like he’s expecting this of you. Like he’s seen it happen before.

You stammer. “I, uh, — I was just—”

“Curious?” he offers, head tilting slightly. The sleeves of his khaki cardigan are folded up to his elbows, showing the delicious, golden skin of his arm.

The silence thickens. Your throat works. He doesn’t approach — he just watches you. Eyes slow, deliberate, knowing. You feel exposed, naked, like the words you read clung to your skin and spelled your desire in script only he can decipher. Shame crawls down your neck like branches of a tree, swirling with the desire which bloomed in between your legs.

He smiles. One dimple appears.

You close the book and try to breathe.

That night bothers you enough to have you squirming in your bed, aching with need.

That night, you dream of slender hands roaming in between your legs and sending you to the clouds of heaven.

────────────────────────

You don’t speak of it again.

But it lingers.

The air between you two crackles differently. Some days he looks up when you pass, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Some days you catch him watching you through the reflection in the glass door. He never stares.

Just. . . observes. Like he’s waiting for you to notice something you haven’t yet.

Weeks pass.

One night, you’re working late again, alone among the shelves. The rain taps the windows in a quiet but soothing rhythm. It feels warm. Cosy. You don’t feel sleepy working late anymore, and you feel this library has become your small world. You’re humming under your breath, dusting the top of a shelf, when a heavy book slips from its place and falls with a thud. You reach down—

—and hear a click.

There’s something behind the shelf. A panel has loosened, just barely. You dig your fingers in and pull it open.

A drawer. Hidden, because you swear that you come by this shelf almost everyday and you’ve never once caught a glimpse of it.

Inside there’s a stack of thick, leather-bound books. The top one slides forward and you stumble to catch the fat book.

You lift it.

And on the first page, you see your name.

Your full name. Handwritten in that same smooth ink you’ve seen on his desk. In the same, smooth drawl you’ve seen countless times.

You flip through it. The first pages are mostly empty, and you feel like this is some sort of a very cruel joke. Frustration touches you, and soon you’re vigorously flipping through the pages untill you reach the middle of the novel, the text written in a muted shade of blue.

I. Childhood

She was a girl with small hands and wide eyes.

She knew how to be quiet,

the way others knew how to dance or sing.

Or maybe because she was often told she spoke a lot.

When no one looked, she tucked her hands in a sack of grains, finding comfort at how the grains brushing against her soft palms felt home. No one answered her questions of wonder when she asked how did butterflies learnt how to fly, or how did they get such beautiful colours in their wings.

She was always waiting for something —

not a person, not a thing.

Just . . . something.

Maybe it was kindness. . .

Or maybe a door.

II. Adolescence

At night, she’d trace the ceiling with her gaze,

as if searching for a skylight no one had built.

There was a fire in her,

but she hid it well—

tended to it like a secret she couldn’t afford to burn.

She’d try to figure out the changes she’d went through, trying to understand if she willed them, or they just happened.

And when her tender heart was thrown away by someone insignificant, she didn’t cry.

She just curled up in her bed and stared at the light

leaking in through the window

like it was your last friend,

wondering what was wrong with her,

Or if she could ever be good enough.

III. The becoming.

There is no single word for surviving.

You did it by half.

One shift. One skipped meal. One train. Years away from home.

You stitched rent money and broken dreams

into something like hope.

No one clapped.

But you kept waking up.

That was the miracle.

—

The letter that never came,

But you expected it the most.

You checked the inbox like a ritual, a routine.

It was summer—

the air sticky and humid with waiting.

That one line, that one school—

you had braided your future around its name.

But the screen stays blank.

You laughed.

Then you cried until your chest hurt

and your throat forgot how to make sound.

You touch your stomach when no one looks.

You cross your arms when you speak.

You fear being too much,

but worse — being not enough.

You pretend you don’t see the way people look past you.

But you do.

And it breaks you.

Quietly.

But you still keep going.

—

You were cleaning,

thinking of bills and bus rides.

You find a nameless book,

But the texts inside named a different spark inside you.

You tremble, not out of fear.

Your thighs press together,

slickness blooming between them like honey under sun.

You gasp when the thought touches you—

of lips against your collarbone,

of fingers ghosting down your spine,

of someone saying your name

like a prayer without God.

You are not shy.

Only aching.

—

Your days are brighter.

And your nights are peaceful.

The wind touches your cheeks gently and you don’t question it anymore.

Because you truly feels the tranquility of happiness in a very long time, so why even think about it?

The drawer.

You didn’t mean to find it.

You were lost in the puzzle of your own mind —

Dreaming of endless skies and the rain that fell.

Then the book fell.

And the drawer opened — like it had been waiting.

Inside: parchment, ink-stained and breathing.

A book too thick to belong to anyone.

Except you.

The first page had your name.

“Is this a joke?” you ponder, but it isn’t.

Now that you’ve read your story,

You taste salt. But you don’t know if it’s bitter or sweet

Because the tears which depart your eyes aren’t of sorrow, nor fear

But your heart feels heavy,

And your body trembles.

It’s because the soul remembers

what the body has not yet learned.

You didn’t realise you were on your knees now, your hands shaking as you come to an end of the novel. Your eyes burn with tears as your heart threatenes to trash out of your chest.

He is there. Right beside you.

Close enough that his warmth shouldn’t feel so cold.

Close enough that you wonder how long he’s been standing there as you slowly turn your head to look at him, kneeling down before you. Your eyes are hazy with tears, but..

His eyes— they look gentle, soft, and almost sorrowful. The kind of softness that ruins you quietly, like lullabies sung in the wrong language, tender but distant, like a poem written for someone who died too young.

But his smile. Ah, his smile. The kind which has dimples popping out, the kind which makes his eyes turn to gentle cresents.

That smile is nothing like his eyes.

The touch which brushes your cheeks is warm, but cold at the same time, as if he knew what the turmoil inside your heart was like. His fingers, his thumb, wiping away your tears.

“Now, now—don’t cry. You yourself wanted a better life, love.”

But that’s not what scares you.

It’s those eyes which don’t look as gentle as you’ve always seen them to be.

“Did you think I would do this for free, love?”

────────────────────────

[liveyun]

‎

[liveyun]

DEADL7NES | bts

seven stories. seven boys. seven endings you can’t run from.

▸ status: active

▸ rating: 18+ (dark themes, emotional horror, selective smut)

▸ genre: dark fantasy / horror romance

▸ warnings: individual per drabble — mind the tags.

▸ connection: loose canon. standalone mostly.

updates are at random.

────────────

01. the archivist

⏳ kim namjoon

status: posted april 7 ☑

tags: liminal horror, eldritch joon,, pretty men are dangerous

life has bothered you enough that you end up taking a job at a forgotten archive. somehow, one of the barren books seem know too much about you, and so does he.

read here

────────────

02. the eternal feast

⏳ kim seokjin

status: due

tags: dark fantasy, immortal royalty, subtle body horror

you’re invited to a royal banquet that never ends. the guests are beautiful, the food is perfect. but now, you can’t find the exit door.

────────────

03. the tune of your heart

⏳ min yoongi

status: due

tags: haunted love, musician au, body horror

the pianist next door plays only for you, his music wraps around your chest. turns out, the music he plays is meant for your heart — not you.

────────────

04. the man in the mirror

⏳ jung hoseok

status: due

tags: cursed object, liminal horror, mirrorverse, smut

he lives in your mirror—beautiful, lonely, kind and has a smile which defeats the sun. you want to free him from his ‘curse’, but he tells you that it comes with a price.

────────────

05. the sweetest sin

⏳ park jimin

status: due

tags: cursed bakery, indulgence, body horror, smut

his desserts taste like your wildest dreams come true. but you’re always hungry. unbeknownst to you, their cost is far beyond paper bills.

────────────

06. the masterpiece

⏳ kim taehyung

status: due

tags: painter au, gothic horror, possession, smut

it’s your first time meeting the artist of the century— but just when you’re about to meet him, you find a painting of yourself — bare. and it looks way too real to be a dream.

────────────

07. the perfect doll

⏳ jeon jungkook

status: due

tags: artificial lover, uncanny valley, obsession

he’s everything you want—until you find the room full of glass cases. each one holds his face. and now, he wants yours.

────────────

[liveyun]

J-HOPE | Diva Village Queen Gabi

[liveyun]

ABBOTT ELEMENTARY Melissa Schemmenti and Mr. Johnson -> 4x17 - Karaoke

[liveyun]

Happy Birthday, Yoongi! ♡ (1993.03.09)