#First Post of Lo Fi

[mechazushi]

Watercolor Memories

"And where are we at on the budget for the Research and Development Department?" Jozu Nogizaka, the Chief of Staff for Ariaka base asked from his seat at the conference table.

All the higher ups for the First Division were settled in one of the larger meeting rooms for the bi-monthly debriefing where everyone with an important job title get together to make sure everyone is on the same page. Not only was the Chief of Staff and his fellow associates there, but the Head Director of the Defense Force, Isao Shinomya. His assistant as well as Narumi Gen were there as well, with all three of them in different states of mental presence. The Director was listening as intently as he could, seeing as he had the most to gain or lose from a lack of communication from inside his cabinet members. Ebira looked to be following along for the most part, but any light that would normally be in one's eyes had dissipated considerably early into this drool meeting. Narumi, openly picking his nose with his feet up on the table, had certainly lost any and all interest in this communal interaction a while ago.

Which made it a good thing that he had enforced his decision to bring Kafka Hibino to the meeting with him. Not being one for paperwork, much less anything not related to the active takedown of kaiju threats, he usually got dragged along to these meetings by his second in command, Eiji Hasegawa. Recently however, the base had acquired the biological enigma that was Kafka and once they had deemed him not an immediate threat, they had run out of ideas as for what to do with him. They still weren't comfortable with him traveling outside of base, but had decided that he could at least wander around a few select buildings on the grounds as long as he had supervision. Not one to miss out on exploitative labor, Narumi weaseled his way into letting Kafka act as essentially a personal secretary.

Kafka didn't give it any second thought once he heard the offer since it let him outside of his small, barren closet he had to call a room. It became clear that he should have since most of what Narumi made him do had him chained to a desk piled with paperwork or had him running endless fetch quests for food around base. Still, Kafka went about it without complaint. It was either this or working out his room all alone, losing his mind from worry and baseless fear. Hasegawa wasn't too thrilled about this new arrangement since it meant that the strongest division officer to date just got to laze around more often, but he couldn't deny how Kafka's presence streamlined the paper processing and left him open to pursue actual second-in-command duties. It even worked out better in meetings.

All Hasegawa had to do was drag Narumi with Kafka in tow and go off to finish more important tasks. Kafka turned out to be incredible at note and record taking, so all he did during meetings was make an abbreviated list of important facts that he could rattle off to Narumi when he actually had the capacity and care to acknowledge them. All Narumi had to do was show up and look like he was interested... which was turning out to be the hardest task of all. As the First Division captain continued to look at anything else besides those in the room, Kafka just slid glances in his direction and sighed heavily at the patheticness of it all. Everyone here had made several attempts to correct his behavior, all to no avail. If anything, they've been letting him get away with it more now that Kafka was here to cover his attention deficit ass.

But even Kafka had to admit he was with Narumi on this. These meetings were soul-sucking. It took everything he had in him to keep a running tab in his mind about everything that was being decided on. Even then he didn't have to think that much harder as to how to frame his notes in such a way to make it easier for Narumi to understand at a glance. This left him with plenty of free time in between important bulletins for his mind to wander, and in turn his fingers as well. Kafka didn't get a seat at the table during these meetings and was forced to stand behind Narumi the whole time as he cradled a small tablet to write on.

Holding it in one arm meant he had to type with one hand, which he got impressively good at as the days went on. But since the sentences he wrote were so short, it left him standing there inactive for long periods at a time. Something that would eventually garner judging sneers from the other board members. To avoid these leering glances and an ever present fear of reprimand, he had taken up doodling in the margins of his digital notes. The notes app he wrote in had surprisingly adequate artist's tools that he could pull up and use alongside his typed notes. He, of course, deleted everything before he handed the tablet over to Narumi to read later, but the habit at least made him look busy during the more dull sections of the meetings.

It wasn't his first rodeo in dealing with digital media, but it had been a hot minute since the last time he could only work with a lower standard of equipment. He grew up playing around with the School's built in paint programs, but had eventually gone on to dabble in more advanced programs built specifically for mobile. Really, it just started as a way to kill time at work until he could go home and get a hold of his sketchbooks. What started off as glittering fantasies of being the best warrior known to man being put to paper, shockingly warped itself into anatomical studies of the monsters he butchered apart for most of his life. Once a pastime turned teaching tool had now reverted back to a simpler time. One of daydreams and recovering of memories not yet lost. Kafka drew the faces of those he shared the room with as warm ups, but would quickly find himself trying to draw those he wished to see again more prevalently.

It was a dangerous mindset to find himself in. He had a nasty habit of getting too caught up in how Reno would hold his head or how Haruichi would hold a drink to remember to focus on the words being said around him. To be stuck in the past was never good, especially when keeping your job meant concentrating on the present. In a sick sense of bartering, his mind came up with the solution of instead bringing attention to his past relationship to his ex-vice captain, Soshiro Hoshina. It didn't feel like they were together long, but the memories of their connection burned the brightest even in the darkest recesses of Kafka's mind. Their circumstances had changed drastically from the shrouded image of domesticity that they had gathered for themselves ever since the reveal of what lay dormant in Kafka's chest.

Hoshina was mad about it, that was for sure. Kafka had become so wrapped up in the idea of being loved by the last person he ever thought he deserved it from that he actively shoved his biggest secret under the rug. All just to feel one more day of tender warmth from his lover. Recent events had forced everyone's hands and fresh wounds had to be quickly patched with no real healing touch behind them. Hoshina still came to base every two weeks to train Kafka in Squadron Style hand-to-hand, but neither one made any move to bring up how the reveal seemed to cut down the trust that had been built between them. With the looming threat of another coordinated attack looming over everyone, it had been silently decided that it would have to be put to the side for now.

Kafka was desperate to say he was sorry, in any way he could. That he knew he should have said something earlier, damn the fact that their budding attachment to each other was about as stable as a newborn deer's legs. You don't hide the fact that you have an alien entity buried in your chest just because you want to see how far you can get away with courting above your military station. It wasn't just to see if he could either; He never viewed their love as something so empty and vain. Kafka more than looked up to him. Hoshina was the pinnacle of everything he ever wanted to be growing up. And that same person was looking back at him and telling Kafka that he had a chance; that he believed in him no matter how small that chance was. He wanted to be anything and everything that Hoshina could ever want to see in a partner, in someone that could stand by his side as well as Mina's. Hoshina loving him back was just a bonus.

Kafka just had to hope there would be a moment where he could put it all into words.

"Narumi, if you keep bouncing your heel against the table, I will not hesitate to assign you to janitorial duty for a year." Director Shinomiya gruffly commanded from his seat at the head of the table.

"It's not my fault you geezers are talking about dull shit. Losing my mind over here." Narumi groaned as he moved the offending foot off of the table, the movement snapping Kafka out of his spiraling misery.

"This "Dull Shit" as you so put it is critical for the defense of the nation!" Jozu declared as a fist bounced firmly on the boardroom table.

As Narumi began to engage in a battle of differences with the Chief of Staff, Shinomiya stole a brief look at the wall clock, "Tell you what. If you can tell the group what the last subject we were discussing was, I'll dismiss this meeting early."

"Uhhh... okay. Yeah, sure, I can do that." Narumi drawled as he was caught unaware by the proposition.

"The last thing we were talking about was..." Narumi chewed on his lip as he tried his best to think back to what the conversation was about in the first place. He threw several pleading glances back as a distracted Kafka before leaning back in his chair.

"Psst! Help me out here!" He harshly whispered, his lips almost curling into a snarl from how long it was taking Kafka to answer him.

Kafka fingers flew frantically over the screen as he tried to find the last place he left off in his notes for the meeting. As soon as he found it, he leaned down to Narumi's ear to whisper the answer back.

"We were about to move away from talking about the budget for the R&D department!" Narumi claimed with as much confidence as he could muster.

As everyone in the room glared disapprovingly for a moment longer than comfortable, Narumi began to direct the collective brunt of the glare back towards Kafka, who was visibly sweating buckets. A loud and disappointed sigh soon broke the uncomfortable silence before a creaking of a chair was heard from the head of the table.

"Meeting Adjourned." The director ordered as he stood up, the toll of the meeting now seen more clearly in the lines of his usually impassive face.

While everyone there would have gone on record stating that these meetings were important and necessary to have, it wouldn't have taken a trained eye to see just how fast everyone was leaving the board room. Even the Director let out a low gasp of relief, his sinking shoulders betraying his stone visage in the smallest way possible. Not waiting for more people to leave the room, Narumi didn't hesitate to drag Kafka out by the collar and pulled him out into the connecting hallway. Hoping to corner Kafka somewhere a little more private, he dropped his hand and sauntered away knowing his subordinate would follow closely behind. Narumi had long since caught on to Kafka's tactic of playing around with the tablet to give the appearance of being busy, but hadn't cared about it before now. Having almost been humiliated by the potential distraction made him wonder what could Kafka be doing that garnered so much divided attention. Once they had made a more comfortable distance away from the board room did Narumi start his investigation.

"Mind handing me the notes since you're still here?" The captain requested, starting his attack early. The sudden question made Kafka shake himself out of his fog of thoughts and fumble around with the prematurely dismissed tablet.

"Yeah, sure, give me a second." He answered back as he woke the screen back up.

"A second?" Narumi pressed harshly, leaning in to the irritated energy he developed back in the meeting.

"I-I just want to check for spelling mistakes." Kafka casually lied as a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, betraying his nerves.

"That's bullshit and you know it." Narumi countered as he made a swipe for the device in Kafka's hands.

"What's up with you, Mr. McGrabby Hands? Usually I have to print these out and staple them to your forehead in order for you to read them." Kafka retaliated as he had to dance around his commander, making painstakingly sure the tablet didn't fall into the wrong hands.

"Maybe I just wanna see what kinda shit you're doodling on company time." Narumi growled with determination as he tried every trick in the book to knock the tablet out of Kafka's hands.

"Pfffft, w-who me? I-I'm not doodling! I wouldn't do that!" Kafka sputtered as he cradled the device close to his chest while trying his best to erase all of the artwork he had scrawled in the margins of the pages.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Kafka. I would too if I could." Narumi continued to goad as he pressed himself as close as he could over Kafka's back, still in a battle for dominance over the hotly desired device.

"Here, here! Take it! Jesus..." Kafka shouted defensively as he tossed over the tablet into Narumi's surprised hands. Narumi took a moment scrolling excitedly, hoping that Kafka had missed a piece somewhere on the digital pages. His eager grim dropped quickly into a disappointed scowl once he was sure there was nothing incriminating to be seen.

"Told you." Kafka confirmed breathlessly, "Busy with spell checking, like I said."

Narumi eyed him distrustfully through his bangs as he stayed hunched over the tablet. His suspicions over his officer's habits had yet to be dissuaded, but he relaxed his shoulders and took ownership of the device nonetheless.

"Whatever. Anything you draw probably looks like dogshit anyway." Narumi teased maliciously, wondering what kind of reaction he would get if he did.

Seeing the ploy for what it was, Kafka made sure to keep himself looking unshakeable as he tried to stare down his current captain. Soon, the two of them heard a pixelated popping noise that was synonymous with the act of receiving a call over their government issued ear buds. Hasegawa's authoritatively dull tone soon filtered in with a slight crackle.

"Narumi. I request Kafka's presence outside in the West Quadrant. Is he available to do so soon?" The commander's right hand man asked, the sound of the wind unmistakable under his request. Narumi sighed irritably as he gave a long, hard stare right back at Kafka.

"Yeah. Meeting's over so he should be there soon." Narumi answered before he nodded Kafka away, signaling he could go.

Kafka silently bowed back and turned sharply on his heels. Narumi watched as he lightly jogged away at a clipped pace, clearly wanting out of his company. Making sure Kafka didn't come running back for any unknown reason, Narumi picked up the disregarded tablet once again and gave the note screen a thorough once-over. Biting the inside of his cheek, his eyes glanced over the back and forward arrow at the bottom of the screen. He took a chance and tapped on the button several times. His eyes grew wide as he watched the margins of the notes become jarringly splashed in broad strokes of color. Giggling manically to himself, Narumi ran off back to his office so he could study Kafka's colorfully intricate secrets in peace.

Fall in Tachikawa had brought a bitter chill along with the changing of the leaves. It came slicing in on those pervasive and penetrative winds, the kind that makes old men say "It wouldn't be so bad if not for the wind". Soshiro's brother often compared him to this type of weather, saying that if it wasn't for his blades, he would be easier to ignore and that it's more regrettable that he isn't. It was the type of weather that made every fiber of your body run for warmth despite it not being life threatening. Hoshina would have dove for a more welcoming form of warmth, one he had become intensely attached to shockingly quickly, but was forced to supplement it with one cheap glass of beer after another.

He wasn't normally a heavy drinker, not unless you counted coffee. Lately the nights after work had started to require something stronger than coffee and after dark training. Everywhere he walked, it was just another reminder of what he lost. Crumbling walls, cracks in the foundation, it all reminded him of Kafka. It almost felt like it was all taunting him. The cracks and crannies mutating into leering jeers, mocking and slandering him, saying he wasn't strong enough. That if he had taken Number 10 down faster, that the base would still be here, that nobody would have been forced to transfer, that Kafka...

Thus the alcohol. At least with something fermented running through his system, there was a chance Hoshina could redirect his brain to something less soul-sucking. When it was just mug after mug of coffee, all it did was make the thoughts churn faster and bring up every little problem he didn't feel like dealing with right now. With the alcohol, the thoughts were slower. Sure it was the same thoughts, but he could at least buy himself enough time and fake plausible excuses to make himself feel better. His first and most recurring thought being about his current coldness towards his most treasured cadet.

Kafka was a Kaiju...apparently. And he had somehow managed to hide any indication of this affliction during the six months they had been together. Hoshina was beyond mad about it -he was furious- but that feeling did nothing against what he already knew to be self evident about the both of them. Given a second to open his mouth, Hoshina knew that Kafka would spill apology after apology, be on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness. He would probably go so far as to say that he would understand if Hoshina would prefer to never see him again after breaking his trust so demonstrably. It wouldn't stop Kafka from trying anyway, just so he could have a chance to help Hoshina understand that he didn't do it out of maliciousness or genuine distrust. Hoshina had an idea of why he did it, but he didn't want to tear himself up over it any further by jumping to conclusions.

All he knew was that if he was given that same second, he would have cut Kafka's throat before he had a chance to speak. Yes, it was partly because that would be his sick idea of a fitting punishment for not saying anything about it sooner (It's not like he would die from it). But the bigger reason was that Hoshina wouldn't be able to hear Kafka even suggesting they separate over something so trivial. Well, it felt trivial to Hoshina anyway. Soshiro loved Kafka. Even as Kafka was being loaded into the transport, Hoshina had to dig into everything he had not to cut down anyone that would be in his way and drag his dopey partner off over the horizon to whatever sense of safety they could carve out for themselves. He wanted to forgive Kafka just as much as he wanted to forgive Hoshina, but God he was too damn prideful to let this go so easily.

It's not like they had any time to hash this out properly anyway. Not with the attack of Tachikawa Base acting as an indicator for worse to come. He went into his arrangement with Kafka knowing full well that what was being unsaid was going to hurt them both, but talking it out and trying to heal from what would be said would take up so much precious time that they did not have. All this arrangement was to Hoshina was a way to see Kafka one more time, to get to touch him one. more. time. This was his way of making sure that moving forward, Kafka had a chance to be safe, as well as keeping track of how he was feeling. After he explained to Mina what he was going to be doing every week, she wrote down a list of expressions Kafka makes and what they meant. Kafka wasn't just Kaiju Number 8 to the Third Division, and Hoshina had to work with what he could do to make sure Kafka felt anything but unwanted.

But by not saying anything, Hoshina couldn't get back the same treatment Kafka would return tenfold if he just asked. This was the one-sided, unspoken, understanding that sent him to the local bars most nights. He initially despised the the communal loneliness that seemed to permeated the atmosphere of these places, but soon found himself becoming a major contributor of the melancholy fog he once avoided. The dark wood walls offered a sense of artificial coziness while the bartender had a good sense of when to talk it out with a customer and when to just serve and leave. The man behind the bar never offered to converse with him, probably understanding with just a glance that Hoshina's problem wasn't something that could be solved with small talk.

So there he sat. Nursing a third mug of light draft beer and praying that memorizing the wood grain pattern in the mahogany in front of him will be enough to distract him churning mind for one more night. With his eyes crossing and his mind still not quiet, Hoshina quickly understood that he was fighting a loosing battle. With a tired sigh, he pulled out a last ditch effort seeing as he didn't feel fit to head back just yet. He pulled out his phone and began to scroll endlessly, the motions sufficiently rendering his skull numb.

It wasn't something he ever wanted to make a habit out of. He was always going on about how there were so many other tasks that could be done that were more beneficial than doom-scrolling. It made him sound like an out-of-touch senior, but he always stood by that sentiment. Well, before now at least. He hated to admit it but some nights it really was the only thing that could get him distracted enough to sleep. Hoshina pulled up Chatter and skipped over his For You page, preferring to look at more national headlines than anything the algorithm spat in his face. He had only scrolled for a short while before he came across a familiar account profile.

Narumi had had posted something earlier in the day and it was quickly making headway through the notarized list of most fascinating things showcased that day. Hoshina just rolled his eyes at it and quickly moved past it, not feeling like being exposed to whatever attention-whoring shenanigans that fool had cooked up for himself. A few articles later, he felt weirdly compelled to go back up and look at it with the idea that maybe he would feel better if he could glean some scathing retort to it. It might make Narumi's post more popular, but when he joined in the conversation, that just meant that it only drew in more attention because he chimed in. And some days that would be enough for him.

Scrolling back up however, Hoshina was blindsided by the subject of the post. Narumi had posted some art. Not only that, it was art that Hoshina recognized. Hoshina had spent so many hours leaning over the artist's shoulder, critiqued every little doodle that ended up on the bottom of incident reports, and had been the subject of many an artwork that it was impossible for him not to distinguish Kafka's deft hand on the digital canvas. Rounded patches of cool colors cascaded under crisp, but messy line work. Portraits were nothing more than organized scribbles, but the still life's were where Kafka really shined.

In the slim margins of what were clearly meeting notes, Kafka had managed to depict one of the managerial heads sitting across from him at the table, including the top of Narumi's head and boot in frame and in perfect point perspective. "He does not deserve to look like a Renaissance painting" was the caption of the post. Hoshina only caught the heading of the post as he accidentally backed out of observing the screen shots more closely. Looking around the edges of the post, he understood that what he was looking at wasn't even the original post. Clicking one link after another, Hoshina managed to dig around long enough to find the rest of the chain of posts, all talking about Kafka's art.

"My assistant is so cooked Dawg! Caught his ass doodling during a meeting!1!" Was the title to the start of it all. From there, it had devolved into a more serious critique of the art found. One post after another was about how accurate the details were. Occasionally, there was one about how stupid-looking a fellow defense force member appeared, but it just looped back around to the precision of it all. Hoshina wasn't surprised. After all he had the same reaction to the first time he had discovered Kafka's artistic talent. The memory bubbled up unbidden, causing Hoshina to sniff back a runny nose as he tried not to get swept away by his feelings. The memory continued to play in the back of his mind, projected onto the phantom screen hung in the back of his eyes...

It was an unseasonably warm day in March last year. Hoshina only had the new recruits for a few months now, but he was feeling like they were making lots of progress to breaking in to being the best soldiers of this generation. For a reward, the ground troops of the Third Division got to leave the base for a whole day. There was a slight caveat to this in that they were asked to turn out to a school spirit event, but none of them minded since it still meant they got to skip out on training for a day. In fact, it felt like they were more than happy to show up to the event and get the chance to inspire the next generation themselves. Some even went above and beyond, buying some cheap toys and candy to pass out. Kafka had gone out of his way as well and bought boxes and boxes of chalk.

Hoshina had been continued to be surprised by this man. Even still having only 1% aptitude for the suits, he continued to be a mainstay among the Defense Force. Once Hoshina made enough excuses for him, backed by Kafka's consistent information gathering while in the field, it started to feel like the Higher Ups just gave up and backed off. So what if one guy in their platoon only had 1% percent to spare? He was doing his best to earn his keep and with everyone else surpassing records previously held by earlier iterations of their platoons, it seemed like they could spare to have the extra hand around. Unfortunately, this did unintentionally classify Kafka as a mascot, but no one was going to offer the information up intentionally.

And it wasn't like the man wasn't doing anything to dissuade the mascot allegations. When Hoshina had finally cleared enough paperwork to come down to the school to let some of the other officers take off, he saw Kafka over in a corner of the school's lot looking like he was giving a very educational lesson. Dressed in cheesy vacation finery, that is to say an open Hawaiian shirt with a white tank and jean shorts paired with socks and sandals, Kafka had squatted down so he was eye level with his own congregation of children and was animatedly discussing something that had them all enraptured. Surrounded by buckets of chalk, Kafka was using one to illustrate something on the black top before them. Interest immediately piqued, Hoshina decided to slide on by for a visit.

Childish chalk drawings littered the lot around him as he made his way over, some appearing to have been abandoned halfway through. Looking over at where Kafka was, Hoshina could see a much more detailed drawing of what looked to be a fearsome battle of strength between a comically large Isao and a daikaiju. Just under it, Kafka had started up another illustration and was using it as a base for an art lesson in chalk. He talked in simple words, having to slow himself down in his own excitement several times just to make sure that the other kids were following along. He actively encouraged questions, surveying his grouping to make sure everyone had a chance to see and to understand. On his knees, Kafka leaned over his own makeshift canvas and was about to start demonstrating a new facet of art but suddenly stopped once Hoshina's shadow made his presence known before he opened his mouth.

"Wait! Don't move." Kafka said as he held his hand up without looking, "Don't move a muscle. Stay right where you are."

He took out a piece of chalk and began to quickly sketch the outline of Hoshina's shadow. One Kafka got all the way around his head, he started to sketch other details of Hoshina's face like his haircut and sly shaped mouth.

"I know that silhouette anywhere!" Kafka exclaimed as he finished his rough outline, "Vice Captain Hoshina! I was wondering when you would show up." He finished just as he looked up at his vice captain and flashed him the brightest smile he thought he would ever see.

The two of them exchanged pleasantries, but it was already too late for him. Once he knew of the way Kafka saw the world, Hoshina started to become more and more invested in all other aspects of him. Kafka's art was a gateway into his mind, and Hoshina didn't hesitate to walk right in. It looked so bright and hopeful on first impressions, but the more Hoshina hung around Kafka the more he would start to catch glimpses of things not being the case. Kafka stopped being just the funny man of the group to him after he found out about his talent. Much like other great artists, Kafka was as layered and as colorful as watercolor on canvas.

Thus began a months-long secret relationship with a man that was originally here off of pity and bias. Hoshina was thankful he could stop making excuses to keep him around at some point, because now it meant he could poke around at Kafka a little more. More intently, more personally. He always found Kafka fascinating from the get-go, seeing as his initial performance during the second test was surrounded with an air of secretive fascination, but that all fell away once he saw the shining facets of Kafka's mind. Hoshina felt he was no better than a crow some days, but the love and attention he received from Kafka just meant that he stumbled onto a gift that just kept giving.

Hoshina continued to scroll down the chain of posts, trying to keep himself from bursting into tears. Each new sketch, each scrawl and scratch of digital ink felt better than anything intense nostalgia could replicate. It was almost like a salve for his weary mind, an old childhood blanket that never aged a day, offering comfort and relief and sorely, much needed warmth. It had been so long since a hand-written scrap of love had graced his desk, Hoshina hadn't realized how much he needed them to continue his day. If snapshots of daily life at Ariaka made him feel bad, seeing any piece of Kafka's old life at Tachikawa made Hoshina's heart skip a beat.

Lungs hiccuping as he scrolled past happy recreations of outings long past, he wondered if he was going to be able to keep it together for much longer. It wasn't that he was embarrassed to be seen crying, it was more so with how he felt right then. He felt like he was too open, his heart becoming too exposed. Like a bonsai being harshly shaped and molded into a memoriam of what he and his division once had. A flash of blackish-purple and the side profile of someone's cheerful face finally broke Hoshina. Slamming the phone on the counter, he brought a hand up to muffle an unbidden sob. He hadn't looked long, but he knew Kafka well enough that it couldn't have been anything other than his most favorite thing to draw.

Grabbing his mug of unfinished beer, Hoshina took off running towards the restrooms, not wanting to garner attention from the smattering of people in the dive bar he was holding himself up in. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the forced drought of affection, maybe just seeing Kafka art was the last straw, but Hoshina found that he couldn't take it anymore. Hoshina had been forcing a facade every moment of every day he managed to get out of bed. Being in a shitty little bar at the end of the night might have allowed him to drop the mask a little, relieve some of the pressure that the mask had been holding back, but even the Vice Commander, Second to Mina Ashiro in power and strength, had his limits. Seeing that Kafka still thought of him as a muse was his line in the sand.

He slammed the mug down on the long row of sinks as he neared the other wall. Turning sharply on his heels, he fell back onto the teal painted, concrete brick wall as his knees gave out from under him. His brain felt warm, like it had been taken out of his skull and been manhandled under the hot sun for far too long. His chest felt like it was in Number 10's crushing grip all over again, which honestly felt preferable to having nothing to hold him in their arms right now. A part of Hoshina wondered if he was imagining his legs shaking or if he really was being that fucking pathetic; drinking alone, crying in a dirty dive bar bathroom, killing himself over his iron sense of pride. No part of him was delusional enough however to deny the boiling streams of tears falling down his tired eyes as they fell onto his tightly gripped phone.

With just one glance, the same comfort Kafka's art gave him rendered him a sopping mess. He was the one that told Kafka not to get attached to his team-mates, and now here he was, being reminded all over again as to why he should've taken his own advice. It was stupid, it was demeaning, and it was all his fault. Sitting here, on the floor of a place he never would have walked into before he met Kafka, one thought fought it's way through the tears and tinnitus and made him confront this one, now ever present fact about himself. Given the chance to start all over again, to have never been close to Kafka in the first place and had just investigated what he first considered to be a threat, Hoshina... wouldn't have taken it. Kaiju or not, Hoshina would never give that man up for anything.

And yet he did. Because if he really held true to what he wanted, Kafka would still be at Tachikawa, not halfway up the country in another base being placated with busy work because no one trusts him with anything important anymore. For the longest time, hell even to this night, Hoshina's mind continued to waver back and forth over whether or not he ever really had a chance to fight the powers that be. Whether he really could have helped Kafka to stay or if it all was genuinely out of his hands, then and now. Like any of it matters this late at night anyway. Beds had been made, but all Hoshina could do was wish to lie in the one he made with Kafka.

Well... as much as it killed him right at this moment, at least he had Kafka's art. Art was supposed to make people feel something anyway, right? This was just another check mark on the long list of incredible things Kafka was capable of. Taking slow, deep breaths until after the tears stopped, Hoshina prepared himself to look again. The pain of the memory was great, but forcing oneself to not feel anything was starting to be worse. Grabbing the glass of beer from the counter, Hoshina wiped the spilled tears off the screen and turned it back on.

It was just what he expected, really. The last two posts containing about eight images total were all just head shots of Hoshina with different expressions. "Okay, this is just embarrassing. Why is there so many pics of this schmuck?" Was the first post's title, a little rude but a genuine question for those unprepared for the full weight of Kafka's unyielding need to have Hoshina be his inspiration. He let out a small giggle as he took a sip of beer, remembering Kafka's weird obsession with scribbling out rough outlines of his face in the corners of anything paper-like he could get his hands on. Several pages of his notebooks dedicated to kaiju anatomy specifically were often signed with his face next to Kafka's name. Hoshina liked to tease him about it, calling it the new age version of carving initials into trees. Seeing the post sort of healed him inside just a little, knowing Kafka hasn't completely changed even with their undisclosed separation from each other.

The second post was where his tears started to threaten to fall again. It was still bust and head shots of Hoshina, but they all had a reoccurring theme of him in various stages of sleep. "I hate E V E R Y T H I N G about this... WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE ASLEEP?!?!??! I hope this is just some creepy stalker fan-shit on GOD." Was the title of the second half of the post. Again a... reasonable response, considering that their relationship was never public before now. Somewhere in the deep recesses in his thoughts, Hoshina had a feeling that this was going to come around and bite him in the ass, but being three beers in made it really hard to care about problems one couldn't immediately foresee. Sure made it really easy to remember the past, so it seemed. With every side angle, every illusion of light filtering over pale peach skin in every hastily drawn rendition of happy mornings past, Hoshina couldn't escape another trip down memory lane.

Kafka used to have a horrible sleep schedule, even while in the Defense Force. He was the type of person to fight every minute getting up once he heard the wake up siren due to staying up late at night studying. Hoshina was never going to admit this, but he was hoping he was going to have a chance to somewhat abuse his relationship status with Kafka and. . . encourage a slight change to the schedule. All for his own good of course. Can't continue to be a valuable member of the Defense Force if one isn't awake enough to contribute. Come to find out, Hoshina wasn't going to have to intervene at all once it was made clear that he didn't mind being Kafka's muse.

Hoshina caught on pretty quickly that Kafka was starting to get up earlier and earlier so he could sketch him at his most vulnerable. He hardly used paper medium anymore at this point, too much to drag around which made it obvious. He was the type of person that kept his illustrations close to his chest, not wanting to let others see before he was finished. Using his phone was just more convenient all around for him, checking all the boxes in all the right ways. As a birthday gift for Kafka, Hoshina went out of his way to get a hold of a phone that had a built in stylus. Every spare second Hoshina had to snag a glance of Kafka, was every second Kafka had his nose shoved in his new phone, scrawling away at it.

Which led to these precious moments they found themselves in while hiding from the world in Hoshina's room. Kafka had started to sleep with Hoshina at his place, working late enough into the night that everyone went to bed before he did just so he could book it over to his partner's room and stay with him until before morning. If anyone was to ask either of them why he went through so much trouble and risk, they both would jokingly answer that it was all for Hoshina's benefit because he runs cold and Kafka's practically a walking space heater. Really, it was for Kafka. That man would have spent all hours of the day looking and drawing Hoshina's face if anyone let him.

And that's exactly the view Hoshina woke up to most mornings. As his awareness slowly dripped back into his mind, he could feel his body was sprawled out at odd angles over his side of the bed. When Hoshina first joked about his plan to let Kafka stay over at his section of the barracks, he noted how oddly enthused Kafka was with the idea, but became visibly dismayed once the vice captain brought up how the two of them could never fit on his measly, military issued twin mattress. It wasn't long before Hoshina intervened with some supply orders and had a second twin frame and mattress smuggled up to his room. Snugged up against the wall with his pillow crammed under his broad chest, was Kafka; lying on his stomach and was most likely sketching another picture of Hoshina asleep and awkwardly positioned.

Hoshina did his best not to stir, knowing how easy it was for Kafka to break concentration when he was doodling. Keeping his eyes in that closed looking state, he continued to watch as Kafka chewed at his upper lip in deep thought as he was prone to do if he felt like he was struggling with a particular piece. Hoshina could watch him sketch his art all day if he could. The expressions Kafka went through as he worked told a story just as vibrant as his art could be. After watching his face contort from one of irritated concentration to comically restrained victory, Hoshina couldn't hold still any longer and giggled. Catching his muse awake, Kafka moved as if he was struck with a taser and instinctively tried to shield his phone from Hoshina's amused gaze.

"Come on, let me see!" Hoshina wearily droned with a smile, "I've been posing for you for hours." He sluggishly pulled his arm closer to Kafka's shoulder and gently massaged it, making it clear that he wanted to be closer.

Kafka let out a relaxed chortle as he complied and shifted just a little closer, "Uh huh, trying so hard to "pose" you started drooling for accuracy?"

"I do not!" Hoshina sleepily countered as he pushed Kafka playfully. The two of them giggled together as they liked to do, falling into that easy pattern of living that formed naturally when they were alone.

Suddenly not content with just a shoulder touch and a warm view, Hoshina slowly stalked himself closer to his bed-mate while staying under the thin sheets. He draped his nude form over Kafka's equally naked, prone back, slotting his hips over the lower officer's round ass and burying his face into the now super heated neck. Arms were nestled under the heavy frame as Hoshina took a long snort of Kafka's natural scent. He shifted back and forth a little purely for indulging in the sensation of another's heated being underneath him. Any and all thoughts Kafka had about continuing his daily morning sketches went flying out the window as he took the wordless affection with what was hoped to be a touch of grace.

'Seriously. Is there anything other than me in there?" Hoshina placidly asked once he finished absorbing Kafka's essence

"Kinda hard to say. You're always the most interesting one in the room." Kafka answered with a slight shudder, unintentionally exposing his neck at the languid tactility overloading his senses at the moment.

Nosing at the undefended area offered to him, Hoshina wiggled out an arm and took Kafka's phone from his hand. Kafka let it happen since Hoshina was probably one of the few people in this world he would let see such personal designs. His partner never had anything truly mean to say about his work, Even some of his more critical commentary was offered up as a joke which made it all glide down more easily. Those comments were only really applied to moments when Kafka was clearly not putting all of his effort into a piece, so in the end they didn't damage anything ego-wise. Some days it felt like Hoshina was the only person Kafka could get some genuine, reliable feedback, so it made him feel all the better that there was something he could do that occasionally impressed his commander on some level. Continuing to scroll through the list of drafts saved on his phone, Hoshina let out a concerning sounding chuckle at the volume of saved images that appeared to be about him.

"Geez, it's just one after the other with you isn't it?" Hoshina commented as he pulled his head out from behind Kafka's neck to look better.

"No no, keep scrolling. I'm pretty sure I have a few pieces that are different." Kafka challenged, now just as curious as to where those images went.

"From what, last year?" Hoshina jokingly asked as he looked at his lover more pointedly.

"Noooo, hold on. There's gotta be one that's more recent." Kafka answered as he took the phone back. He quickly scrolled the page back to the top and picked one from yesterday.

"Yeah, see? Some of these have multiple images." Kafka politely informed as he moved past a sketch of Hoshina drinking coffee and instead focused on a distorted self portrait.

"What even is that?" Hoshina wondered as he tried to lean closer to the phone.

"It's supposed to be a self portrait, but I drew it from how I look in your headboard. See?" Kafka said as he held up the image to the reflective metal bars that made up the back of Hoshina's bed.

"Oh, I get it now. Distortion practice?" Hoshina observed as his eyes flickered between the image and the inspiration.

"Something like that." Kafka confirmed as he pulled his phone back to search through the rest of his drafts for more evidence that he's not solely focused on his lover.

Hoshina let out a soft hum as he watched Kafka try to defend himself, "You know, now that I think about it, there was detail missing from that piece."

"Wait, really?" I mean, I thought I was doing well with the proportions." Kafka muttered as he went back to the sketch they were looking at first.

"See? Right there." Hoshina pointed to a spot on Kafka's shoulder in the image when it was pulled back up, "There's something missing."

"Really? Not to question you or anything- you're the one with a better eye for detail after all."

"Yep, this." Hoshina interrupted and swiftly bit down on the sensitive part of Kafka's neck where it met the meat of his shoulder.

Kafka sharply gasped as he accidentally bucked into the treatment, "God, you're a menace" He muttered lovingly.

"Hmmm, you love me for it though." Hoshina groaned back after he languidly lapped at the mark it left.

Kafka returned a kiss before continuing to move through image after image. As he watched, Hoshina found his various thoughts coming back to one central theme.

"Surprised you haven't started an art blog before now." He ruminated as Kafka pulled up another sketch.

"Used to, actually. On Chatter? Back in my late high school, early Monster Sweepers days." Kafka offered openly as he tossed an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

"You're kidding." Hoshina responded with genuine astonishment, to which Kafka shook his head no with an amused smile.

"Well show me then!" Hoshina cheered enthusiastically, shimmying impossibly closer to Kafka like he was settling down to a good movie.

"I-I-I can't do that!" Kafka retorted with the blush on his face quickly creeping back over his cheeks, "I couldn't remember the password if my life depended on it."

"You don't have to log in, you still remember your username right?" Hoshina questioned, now desperate for this potential snapshot of Kafka younger in life.

"I mean... yeah?" Kafka answered shyly, "God, this is going to be so embarrassing." He muttered before he closed out of his sketching app and opened up another one.

After several retypings in the quest to remember his old high school username, Kafka eventually came across the page after backtracking from someone else's old post. It was clear from the dated visual puns in the blog banner that it had certainly been a while before he had updated anything. They both cringed a little once they saw that it had been fifteen years since he had last updated.

" 'TheBestDEFENSEIsAGoodArtist'? That's your username?" Hoshina teased with dripping malice and astonishment.

"Look it was either that or something clever with Goromon. It was the last thing Mina helped me with before... well, you know." Kafka tried to defend himself, but any move to do so collapsed under the weight of the memory.

Hoshina noticed the way his face fell just that little bit and snuggled up closer as reassurance, "Probably for the best you didn't go with the second one. Probably would have confused a lot of people to come to your page and not see anything related to it." He mentioned as he squeezed his arms around his partner's chest.

"Well, it wasn't like there wasn't any Goromon fanart from time to time. Maybe if I did, I would have had a chance to be more popular." Kafka countered dolefully.

"What did you draw anyway?" Hoshina politely asked with both curiosity and gentle encouragement.

Kafka slowly scrolled down the page to let Hoshina take in the art. It was set to show from most to least popular, making it clear that a lot of people liked his funnier depictions of kaijus. Every once in a while, something drastically different broke up the timeline. There were several anatomical pencil sketches of kaiju bodies with various layers peeled away from them. From the skin to the veins, down past the muscle and right through the core of the bones, it was a study of raw power poised in a deathly still life. There were even notes and arrows that littered the borders of the page that pointed out something that couldn't be depicted through graphite lines alone. There were several and they all varied in quality, clearly bringing to light a growing talent.

A flash of color snapped at Hoshina's attention as Kafka continued to scroll past. Shooing his finger away, the vice captain took back partial control of the phone so he could see what that last image was. It was a digital rendition of one of the larger kaiju skeletons that continued to rage through the streets of Japan. What made this one different from all the rest was the fact that it wasn't just showing the skeleton, but the damage done to the surrounding buildings as well. Over all of it was a plush blanket of foliage, lacing its way over and under the long broken rubble and the now ancient looking remains of the gargantuan threat. It had set itself apart from the other productions of Kafka's mind, not only from its content but also from a still-fresh feeling of inexplicable melancholy. Such a bright picture should have told a story about new beginnings, but the only thing Hoshina could feel from this particular work was an odd sense of desolation.

"This one is quite different." He commented as he looked at it intensely, absorbed into the alien terrarium on the other side of the digital glass.

"Yeah." Kafka scratched the side of his head and sighed with bitter sounding heaviness, "Believe it or not, that is a vent piece." he continued as he pointed a quick accusatory finger at the screen.

"A vent piece?" Hoshina questioned.

He found it was an odd subject matter to use to depict intense negative emotion. Not only that, he had a hard time picturing Kafka illustrating something so calm and serene as an outlet for whatever turbulent emotion that could be concocting inside that thick skull of his.

"Yeah." Kafka sighed again as he took back ownership of the phone, "I drew this one after my... sixth? Attempt at joining the Defense Force."

He scrolled back up a little so Hoshina could read the caption over the attached picture.

"Just got out of the Defense Force testing lab again. Just gotta wait for an answer now, but I can already tell this isn't going to end well. Got a job interview with a kaiju cleaning department in a few days since I'm leaving High School at the end of the month, so lets hope that goes better!"

"Don't you think you were jinxing yourself a little with that caption?" Hoshina tried to jokingly ask, but it was clear that Kafka was stuck relieving his childhood blues.

"At that point you get a sense of what the instructor was looking for in their recruits. They don't really hide their preferences well, even when they're just glancing in your direction." Kafka answered dejectedly as he moved away from the image.

"After that, I had stopped captioning them. I didn't even bother giving them names." Kafka continued to scroll down his page, every once in a while another, similar piece of art made itself known.

He was right. None of them were captioned. He didn't know if it was intentional, but with none of them being named it seemed to add on to the sense of grief. It almost made it feel like these pieces were abandoned, which was not like Kafka at all. Failing time and time again in such a predictable manner would obviously break anybody's will, but the outcome of such torment had created these pieces. Now with context, these illustrations had ingrained themselves into Hoshina's mind. This was the first instance of him ever learning what a broken Kafka looked like.

"Here." Kafka quietly announced, "This is the last thing I ever posted to this account." He pulled up what looked to be the roughest sketch Hoshina thought he would ever see.

This looked more like a vent piece than any of the others he had seen along the way. Quick, harsh, and dark lines were strewn all over the limited space of the sketchbook this was depicted on. From what Hoshina could deduce, it was one of the larger kaijus with nothing remarkable about its appearance. The details would have come in later for sure, but it was clear that this piece never made it to that stage. From what he could tell however, was that this one had the potential to be one of Kafka's more disturbing artworks.

Buildings were flattened all around the corpse, cracked and broken apart like several city blocks had undergone a devastating explosion. The body was lying on its back, its limbs at unnatural angles. Its stomach looked more than exposed, more so that the explosion that leveled the buildings around it had been caused by whatever was inside the beast. It didn't look flayed, more so shredded and mangled- almost beyond recognition. While the others had been depicted with at least some sense of grace among the dereliction, this was far from it. This was agony and misery made pure and raw. Hoshina was almost glad that Kafka didn't finish this one. He hadn't known that his officer had such an ability to express such pain from just a bare-bones sketch, and he hoped that Kafka would never have to again.

"Told myself if I made this final test, I would finish it." Kafka's cold and stoic words broke the trance the image had held over Hoshina at that moment. "Not hard to guess what happened."

"You finally did make it though, haven't you?" Hoshina offered as a small token of relief against the unintentional strife he didn't know he would be causing that day.

The Kaiju Alert system went off before Kafka could give back an answer.

There wasn't a day that hadn't gone by where Hoshina had wondered if there was anything better he could have said in that moment. What even was there to say? Better late than never? You made it anyway, despite everything? He knew Kafka wouldn't take any of those as consolation. After all, Kafka still hadn't made it, per se. He wasn't by Mina's side like he promised all those years ago. It didn't help Hoshina was technically standing in the way of that, and that wasn't even getting into their unapproved relationship or the whole "Defense Force's New Kaiju Pet" situation. Even if it wasn't expressed through his art, Hoshina knew that it was probably still chewing Kafka up inside.

At least their current situation hadn't caused Kafka's art to revert back to his earlier standard of subjects. That meant that there was still something he was holding onto, some semblance of hope or light that managed to drag Kafka through each day. Which was more than Hoshina could say for himself. He couldn't show it, but he had long since lost any hope for a sign that things had a chance to go back to normal. That was just the case some days, having to adjust to what could potentially be a permanent change in schedule.

Hoshina really didn't want that to be the case. If he had any true, real power, he would tell the directors to shove it and have Kafka back at Tachikawa by morning. But he couldn't. The best he could do was arrange these weekly visits under the guise of training and nothing else, and that "Nothing Else" clause was what was truly killing him on the inside. Despite the pride, despite the resentment, he wanted to see Kafka again- really see Kafka again, Not just for training but to hang out and have dinner together again, to wake up together in the morning and rush out the door before anyone could question them again. The only thing stopping it all from continuing was time...

...Or was it? Looking back through the drawings showing moments from before everything went to shit, Hoshina started asking questions he had thought he had already answered but only gave slapdash, shoddy excuses as a stopgap for the emotions he wasn't ready to deal with. Yes, they didn't know how much more time they would have together, but most normal people would take that as an excuse to do everything they could to spend more time together. The real fact of the matter was, it wasn't Hoshina using a lack of time as an excuse to hold off having the one conversation that was the key to fixing his lack-of-a-relationship-woes. It wasn't just keeping up the excuse of not wanting to further complicate their already uncertain future. At the core of it all, Hoshina just didn't want to admit that he was a petty, prideful man.

Kafka being a Kaiju didn't bother him in the slightest. If anything, he would have probably have been milking that excuse dry to weasel his way around any potential hiccups that would be stemming from his technically inappropriate relationship to his subordinate. What really bothered Hoshina the most about this whole unfortunate situation was the fact that it felt like Kafka didn't trust him enough to tell him about his situation before now! It boiled his blood some days when he remembered that Reno and Kikoru both knew about Kafka's condition before he did. He was also aware of the circumstances surrounding how those two ended up finding out, but he always felt like he was dealt a similar opportunity and somehow that information was denied anyway. They were dating! They were serious! What do you mean Kafka never felt like telling him?

It wasn't until about a month into their awkward separation treatment that Hoshina stopped and thought about why Kafka held it back from him. Even if Kafka did trust him completely, there was no guarantee it wouldn't have made things worse. Kafka could have proven seven ways from Sunday that he could be trusted to fight alongside others, but there would always be doubt. Hoshina wouldn't have been able to offer any certainty to Kafka that the captains or the directors could be trusted with his unusual situation. Hell, if Kafka had told him in the earliest days of their relationship, there might have been a chance that Hoshina would have been the one to give his partner a reason to never trust again. Solely because of the pressure from his job, of course, but if push had come to shove then... Hoshina had a feeling that things would not have ended up as passively as they are now.

In the end, Hoshina had no right to blame Kafka or hold anything against him. At this point, the silent-not-silent treatment was purely because Hoshina's pride was wounded from the insinuation. Now that fire that kept his ruefulness going was practically down to the embers. Even the resolve to not be the first to apologize was dwindling. It became clear all of a sudden that Kafka was never going to be the one to apologize for withholding information because he follows Hoshina's initiative. If he's the one acting like it's not a good time to hash out one's feelings for each other, then Kafka will sit tight and hold his tongue until Hoshina makes any sort of indication that he's ready to listen. Kafka's just as good at respecting boundaries as he is following orders, but it certainly makes it harder on Hoshina when he knows he's the one at fault for perpetuating this purgatory he didn't mean to drag Kafka into.

Screw pride and screw pettiness, Hoshina was truly missing his man tonight and if the price of having him back in his was the cost of losing face, then fine. Having to eat his own words would definitely be a step up from wallowing in a shitty bar drinking shitty beer night after night. The beer would taste better with company, but in order for that to happen he'd have to find a way to open the door to a proper apology. He didn't want to make it feel like he was only apologizing because he was lonely, he really did want to be sincere about it. Problem was, he couldn't remember a time where he sounded genuinely sincere. In his line of work, if he was found to be wrong on something it would have cost him his job. And as far as being wrong in his friendships went, well... when everything comes down to a matter of opinion, one doesn't tend to care who's right or wrong then. This really would be the first time he would have to admit that he was both sorry and wrong.

As his hand unconsciously brought the near empty beer mug to his mouth, Hoshina came to understood that he wasn't even in the right head-space to come up with anything sincere, let alone sound like it. Looks like this was just going to have to be another problem for Morning Hoshina to work out among the other million problems he usually had to deal with. Most of those problems might just end up getting shoved to the side tomorrow. Once he figures out a way to get his Kaiju boyfriend back in his arms, a lot of those problems aren't going to seem so big after then. For now though, Hoshina just felt like milking whatever time he had allotted for himself in the bar, just savoring the crappy drink and watching the shit show Narumi dug himself into tonight.

By accidentally refreshing the page, he had discovered a fresh trail of posts linked to the chain he had already made. Turns out Narumi had started an argument with another professional artist over the quality of Kafka's boredom doodles, and in retaliation had tried his had at a self portrait. It looked no better than a child's pre-school scratches, but Narumi was trying to say that there was a basis for a new, hidden talent somewhere in the mess of scribbles on their screens. Hoshina just chuckled as he saw Kafka's fiercest supporter come to his defense in near-real time. He took a couple screenshots of the conversation with the plan to hold it over Reno's head later as blackmail. Might also become a teaching tool as to when and how not to feed internet trolls, who knows?

It appears that several other members of the Third Division also couldn't sleep tonight as the likes and reblogs of more, familiar accounts began to trickle through the now popular chain of posts. A lot of them had begun to openly theorize over whether or not Kafka actually knows his Vice Captain that closely or it's all just some imagery practice. If Hoshna wasn't under the influence, he normally wouldn't have started to develop this intense feeling of being out of the loop. If Hoshina wasn't under the influence, he wouldn't have started thinking about how funny it would be to stir the pot a little. If Hoshina wasn't under the influence, he would certainly have never acted on such invasive and impish thoughts.

Picking himself off of the bathroom floor and feeling like there was nothing to loose, Hoshina took a long look at himself in the mirror. Instead of reflecting upon himself and reconsidering how damning this could turn out, he defaulted to being the one thing he and Kafka understood all too well-

-the joy of becoming a class clown.

Taking inspiration from Kafka's continued use of his image and depicting it in any way, shape, or form, Hoshina decided to shed both his jacket and shirt and tossed them carelessly onto the bathroom counter. Chugging the last of the beer, he intended for some of it to leak down the sides of his mouth and spill slightly over his chest. Twisting and shifting under the bright florescent lights, Hoshina managed to find a pose that felt vaguely suggestive enough to his likeness and still looked tasteful enough to look like something an artist would use as a reference pose. Pulling up his camera and hovering it by the side of his head, Hoshina gave himself one more once-over before he took the photo. At the last second, he remembered some of the faces Kafka had sketched out earlier at the meeting, with one in particular being a portrait of him with his tongue playfully sticking out. A face he was sure done before as far as he remembered. Replicating the face, Hoshina took the photo and posted it directly to one of Narumi's older posts from this morning, one that was more directly related to Kafka and his obsession to his Vice Captain.

He posted it with the caption-

"Tell your "Assistant" that he can have his Muse back if he can promise not to cry into his sketchbook over it."

@margoteve <- felt only right to tag you since it was your headcanon about Kafka being an artist that caused this to spiral out of control.

@iceclew <- just letting you know I posted another story. I'll port a copy over to Ao3 later tonight.

@kafkahibinomybeloved<- you were probably going to find this on your own anyway, but I just thought I'd cut out the middle man.

[liveorganism]

what

[dakusan]

N O   S A I N T   I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | He tattoos like an artist and eats like a god. You're ruined. Congratulations.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.���

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then��

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

[thatbadadvice]

Help! I Just Got Identified As An Absolute Creepo Rip-Off Artist!

The Bad Advisor deals with a lot of Wrong Shit; it's pretty much what I do here! Bad Advice trades in People being Wrong, and doing Wrong Stuff. But the most consistently Wrong-est thing that the Bad Advisor has dealt with on this blog lo these 11 (!) years of Bad Advice is the wholly incorrect perception that Neil Gaiman is its author.

I used to find this flattering, even charming, because Neil's fans (among which I counted myself since I started reading the Sandman series in the late 90s) incorrectly perceived his reposts as evidence that this blog was his work, not mine.

This blog is not now, and has never been, the work of Neil Gaiman.

It feels weird to spell it out, but also necessary. Occasionally I have responded to some posters who thought I was Gaiman (there truly have been too many over the years to respond to all of them). But Neil never did so, even in comments on his reposts that praised him for being the Bad Advisor, which he surely knew he was not.

Backstory: the Bad Advisor posted her first Bad Advice almost exactly 11 years ago today. In ensuing years, Bad Advice Nation has been a space of camaraderie and education and mutual support. The Bad Advisor herself (me, Andrea, the person writing this post) has generally shied away from affirmative self-identification; it was more interesting, I thought, to let the Bad Advisor exist as an idea rather than as an individual, even as Bad Advice existed elsewhere (RIP The Establishment) and was in some places attributed to my government name.

One of the first champions of Bad Advice, and arguably the reason Bad Advice originally went viral and garnered the audience it has, is because the sci-fi/fantasy author Neil Gaiman often reposted the blog. I was, initially and at length, flattered and enthused by Neil Gaiman's attention, because I was a near life-long fan of his creations, and thought that his affinity for my writing signaled something important about my talent and creative capacity.

Years ago, because Gaiman knew I was the Bad Advisor, Gaiman even invited me to meet him -- and then failed to deliver on that invite. I wrote it off at the time as a bummer but inevitable experience with fame.

I now suspect I dodged a bullet, knowing what we know about Neil Gaiman's predatory behavior toward women younger than him.

I posted a Bluesky Thread about this whole shebang, and the tl;dr is that it now seems obvious to me that Gaiman would never have even thought to correct posters who attributed my work to him, or credit me my for Bad Advice work, even when he knew people wrongly perceived him as being the Bad Advisor.

Neil Gaiman does not appreciate, celebrate, or lift up women's writing and intellectual work, despite his ill-earned reputation as a feminist man. If you love Sandman, as I once did, the Bad Advisor implores you to avail yourself of the work of Tanith Lee, who Gaiman never credited as inspiration for the story.

It's hard to have heroes. Some of them will fail us, inevitably. We are all broken, fallible people who will fuck up now and again. Some harms are beyond repair, while some harms bring us closer to each other as we persevere through them, together.

But we do not need to entertain fuckery.

Do not entertain fuckery.

Signed, The Bad Advisor (Andrea Grimes, not Neil Gaiman)

[norrisidous]

Hii do you think you can write lando x reader where the reader works as a data person for f1, along side with lando and she goes back to thier shared hotel room after a long day, but lando has a bunch of fun surprises planned for them? Tyy

Telemetry & Touch

summary: where lando shows y/n how much he loves her warnings: slight smut

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, followed by the dead silence of the hotel suite. You dropped your data pack and badge on the side table, the heavy thump echoing how your body felt after twelve hours of chasing telemetry glitches and running simulations that Lando didn’t even end up needing in FP2.

Your muscles ached. Your brain buzzed. All you wanted was a hot shower and unconsciousness.

You hadn’t even noticed the lights were off until soft amber flickers lit up your peripherals.

“Welcome home,” came a familiar voice—warm, smooth, and laced with just a hint of mischief.

Your tired eyes found Lando standing near the center of the room, wearing a loose black tee and joggers, barefoot, surrounded by the soft twinkle of fairy lights and LED candles scattered across furniture. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and something... comforting.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” you murmured, blinking. “Did someone drug my post-session espresso?”

“Nope,” he grinned. “I just decided my favorite data girl deserved a night off.”

Your lips curled into a slow smile. “You’re really trying to make me fall for you again, aren’t you?”

He walked toward you, hands slipping around your waist. “Again?” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear. “I didn’t realize you’d ever stopped.”

You melted.

Lando could be a menace in team briefings—sarcastic, sharp, impossibly fast with a rebuttal—but here, in private, he was something else entirely. Gentle. Warm. Attentive in a way that made your walls crumble faster than telemetry under oversteer.

“I set up something for us,” he added, leading you gently by the hand. “No laptops. No timing sheets. Just you, me… and some very unprofessional behavior.”

“Oh?” you teased, exhaustion suddenly taking a backseat. “Are you planning to breach FIA regulations?”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Only the ones about team personnel fraternizing. Repeatedly.”

Dinner was easy—pizza from your favorite place, probably ordered halfway through his media obligations. You ate curled up together under a blanket in the middle of the room, surrounded by the soft hum of lo-fi music and Lando’s low laughter as he recounted a ridiculous story from the paddock.

It felt like being inside a snow globe of peace, sealed off from tire temps and wind tunnel specs.

When the plates were pushed aside, he reached for your hand.

“Come here,” he said softly, tugging you toward the bed.

You went willingly. The lights dimmed lower. The city outside was a blur of neon and shadows through the window.

He looked at you as if seeing you for the first time again—his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, reverent. “You really work too hard, you know that?”

“Someone’s got to make sure your telemetry isn’t lying.”

“It could scream red alerts and I’d still trust you over it.”

Your breath hitched. He always did that—said things that should be throwaway flirtation but hit you right in the center of your chest.

Then he kissed you.

Slow at first. Lazy. The kind of kiss that promised there was no rush. That tonight, he was taking his time.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, and he took the hint, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

“You sure?” he murmured against your jaw.

“I need you,” you whispered back. “Not just a quick thing. I want you.”

His gaze darkened, eyes searching yours like he needed to feel every word before he acted.

“Then you’re getting all of me tonight,” he said, voice low. “Every last part.”

What followed was slow—deliberate.

He undressed you one layer at a time, treating each exposed inch of skin like something sacred. He whispered things: how brilliant you looked behind your screens, how proud he was of you for nailing the race strategy model last weekend, how he noticed when you skipped meals or got that crease between your brows.

Every word sank into you deeper than his hands.

By the time he laid you back against the sheets, you were trembling under the weight of being truly seen.

And then he touched you like he knew every nerve ending by heart. Fingers tracing fire down your sternum, over your hips. Mouth pressing worshipful kisses lower and lower until you were a tangled, desperate thing under him.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You don’t have to hold anything together tonight.”

And when he finally sank into you, slow and deep, it wasn’t about urgency. It was about anchoring. Being claimed and cradled all at once. Like the room didn’t exist outside of the places your bodies met and moved.

Moans and soft gasps tangled with the hum of the city beyond the windows. You clutched at his back, his hair, anything you could reach, and he stayed with you through every crest and crash.

When it was over, you lay curled against him, breath mingling, your heart syncing with his like a clean set of synchronized laps.

“You always this romantic after quali?” you teased breathlessly.

He kissed your forehead. “Only when I’m in love.”

You stilled.

He didn’t take it back.

And you didn’t want him to.

[mythmash]

LA Wildfire Resources

this is a collection of all of the information and resources i've found to help those affected by the los angeles count wildfires. this is not a completed list, and you are welcome to send me an ask with any additional links, fundraisers, information, or other resources that you know of and i will update this post accordingly. if there are any missing or incorrect links, please let me know. stay safe out there 💜

──────────────────────────────────────────

Live Updates on the Southern California wildfires & Evacuation Orders

LA Scanner - Coverage of Pursuits, Crimes, Wildfires and More.

2025 Los Angeles Fires - Resources for Californians impacted by Los Angeles Fires.

LA Wildfire Resource Center - Resource navigator for finding emergency resources and support services.

──────────────────────────────────────────

Mutual Aid Los Angeles & their Fire & Wind Storm Spreadsheet - An ongoing spreadsheet of resources such as shelter info, animal boarding info, addresses for distribution centers, volunteer opportunities, etc.

LAFD Emergency Funding Alert & Fire Zone Map - Donations to help support the Los Angeles Fire Department.

The Partnership for Inclusive Disaster Strategies - Lists of evacuation shelters and hotlines for those who are disabled and in impacted by the fires.

Los Angeles Regional Food Bank

Thread of mutual aid groups assisting through Los Angeles

CleanAirLA & MaskBloc LA - Mutual aid project to distribute free masks and respirators in the so-called Los Angeles area. They are currently taking donations for masks.

MaskBloc LA & their Mask Requests and Volunteer Interest - A form to fill out if you need masks or want to volunteer.

List of shelters, animal boarding, distribution hubs, and free items

Pacsun providng clothes and listing organizations to donate to

World Central Kitchen - Donate to support their efforts in Southern California to support first responders and families impacted by wildfires in the Los Angeles area.

Thread of organizations to donate to - Thread including links to disaster relief, firefighter aid, food banks, first responders, etc.

SoCal Wildfires: How You Can Help - Article including links and info for Californians. Links are also included in the Thread of organizations to donate to above.

Pete and Thomas Foundation supporting Pasadena Humane & LA Animal Care - How to support, injured wildlife hotline, and listed shelters for large and small animals.

Thread of GoFundMes to support people affected by the wildfires

What to keep in a grab & go bag - List of things to keep in a easily accessible bag in case of emergency evacuation.

Displaced Black Families GoFund Me Directory - Spreadsheet dedicated to black families devastated by the Altadena fires.

Advice from a survivor of the 2017 Thomas Fire on insurance, rebuilding, etc.

California Volunteers - Donate, organize, and volunteer for wildfire recovery here.

Baby2Baby Disaster Relief and Emergency Response Program - Donate to help distribute supplies to children impacted by the wildfires.

Guitar Center is replacing instruments lost as a result of the LA wildfires

Sunny Optometry is offering support to those in need of glasses, contact lenses, eye drops, face masks, and wi-fi

Stratia is offering a free place to work if you need a work space with wifi right now, and donation drop off/sorting + storage site for people who organize.

Seconds Market & their Match Donation Program - A program designed to directly connect donors with individuals affected by the LA fires.

Anti-Recidivism Coalition & their donation page - Donate to help support the incarcerated fire crews, including the 30 young men from Pine Grove currently out fighting the LA fires.

Spreadsheet of Free Mental Health Services for the LA Wildfire Crisis

Tips from an attorney on dealing with insurance companies

County of LA Vital and Property Records Access - LA County residents directly impacted by the fires can request property and vital records free of charge to help with recovery efforts.

Azay in Little Tokyo, LA - Donate to help provide free meals to evacuees, first responders, volunteers, folks who can’t leave their homes, and their houseless neighbors.

[divinewxrld]

Zodiac Sign's Energy 🤔

✨ (remind me of) ✨

Aries Energy : Firetrucks, First responders, military captains, toddlers, nascar, thunderstorms, spicy food, Just Do It (Nike Logo), color red, ww2, bruises, the one who raises their hand first, lighters

Taurus Energy : Blankets, sitcoms, luxury brand names, the color brown, fast food runs, mukbangs, singers, bathtubs, hot tubs, massages, Hawaii

Gemini Energy : Social media, siblings, cook outs, imessages, tiktok, rappers, writers, poets, post offices, mailmen, libraries

Cancer Energy : The moon, color white, homecooking, chefs, kitchens, cows, mother figures, grandmas, rain, childhood homes, childhood shows, baking

Leo Energy : The sun, beaches, Los Angeles, the color gold, gold jewelry, curly hair, lions, instagram, actors singers, entertainers, theaters, influencers, Miami

Virgo Energy : 9 to 5, vegan food, green tea, gyms, stanley cups, directors, comedians, avocado toast, coffee shops, to-do lists, water, "clean girl aesthetic, the color olive

Libra Energy : The color pink, Barbie, fashion shows, fashion designers, interior designers, judges, mediators, counselors, valentines day, artists, couples, LA

Scorpio Energy : The color black, Birth, Death, Sex, Divorces, Dark chocolate, snakes, butterflies, black coffee, cemeteries, blackout curtains, leather jackets, candles, sunglasses, tarot readings

Sagittaurius Energy : The color orange, professors, travel agents, flight attendents, airports, encylopedias, zoos, religions, horses, passport, bonfires, afro beats, camps, bohemian styles, hair locks

Capricorn Energy : Bosses, corporate businesses, suites, banquets, award shows, wall street, stock brokers, banks, government, politics, Navy blue, The color black, oldest sibling, parents, SUV''s, contracts

Aquarius Energy : LGBTQ community, the color silver, Anime, Japan, protests/rallies, DIY creations, alternative music, underground artists, celebrity interviewers, hypemen/women, cameramen, artist, anime conventions,

Pisces Energy : Actors, musicians, painters, therapist, the color teal, tie-dye shirt, hippies, late 1960's, celebrities, mansions, poetry, thrift stores, dream journal, incense, lo-fi music, oversize clothes, artists, ballerinas, ballet, writers

[hannie-bees]

Pieces of you || c.hs

Pairing: Vernon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, domestic, romantic, comfort

WC: 1.9K

Theme: Its your 2nd anniversary and you gift your bf a jar of 100 reasons why you love him. 

Song Recommendation: 10000 Hours

Two years.

You’d been with Vernon for two whole years.

And yet, somehow, when your anniversary rolled around, your brain decided to take a vacation. The “what to get him” panic had set in early—weeks of browsing, scrolling through Pinterest boards titled “Anniversary Gift Ideas for Your Lowkey Emotional Musician Boyfriend", and endless Etsy deep-dives later, you caved and bought him a Rolex.

Now…

You were this close to a breakdown.

It was two nights before your second anniversary with Vernon, and you were dramatically sprawled across the living room carpet, surrounded by Google tabs, half-finished card drafts, and a fancy black velvet box from the Rolex boutique that now made you want to scream.

“Why did I do this?” You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face. “It’s so low-effort boyfriend-gift-core.”

To be fair, you’d panicked. Vernon had mentioned once in passing that he admired classic timepieces, and your brain short-circuited into: oh my god, fancy anniversary = man + watch = love. But the more you stared at the sleek, expensive thing, the more you hated it.

Because Vernon wasn’t a Rolex kind of boyfriend.

He was the boyfriend who saved the last bite of every snack for you even if he was starving. The boyfriend who left you post-it notes with doodled hearts on mornings he had early schedules. The boyfriend who wordlessly held you until your anxiety stopped clawing at your throat. Who remembered you liked your toast golden brown and your strawberry milk with extra ice cubes.

A watch didn’t cover all that. He deserved more.

And that's how you found yourself in your sweats, surrounded by crumpled sticky notes and a half-eaten box of cookies, trying to figure out how to tell him what he meant to you.

That’s when it clicked.

Words. Words were always the answer.

He’d once told you that you had a way of making ordinary things feel important, and maybe—just maybe—writing them down would remind him how much of your life he lit up.

You counted out a hundred sticky notes. Soft pastels in a mix of pinks, blues, and greens. And you began writing.

Your gummy smile. The first thing I fell for. It’s unfair. You smile, and I forget how to function.

The way you think. You process the world so gently and deeply—it makes me fall in love every day.

The way you love. Not loud, not flashy. Just right. Just… you. You don’t say it often, but you show it, always.

You understand me—even when I don’t make sense. Especially when I don’t.

You’re patient. With my bad days. My weird moods. You never make me feel wrong for needing time. You just… get me. You listen between the words.

You never make me feel stupid. Not when I forget things. Not when I panic. You just hold space.

You’re weird. The good kind. The dancing-in-the-kitchen, talking-to-cats, doing-a-fake-British-accent kind. The I’m-gonna-marry-you kind.

You send me memes when I’m upset. Usually cursed ones. It works.

You’re honest. Always. Even when it’s awkward or hard.

You give me the aux cord without even asking.

You laugh at my bad jokes like they deserve Oscars.

You kiss my forehead when I overthink.

You listen. Like, really listen. Like, “remembers things I said 4 months ago while half-asleep” listen.

You let me take the first bite of your food even when you’re starving.

You say, “Text me when you get home,” even if I’m just going to the convenience store.

You kept going, hour after hour. You wrote them curled up on the couch, with lo-fi playing and your legs tangled in a blanket you stole from his side of the bed. You wrote them the next morning, stirring pancake batter with one hand and scribbling thoughts with the other.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail back through your relationship. The quiet mornings. The messy fights. The making up. The comfort.

The you-and-him-ness of it all.

27. You let me warm my hands on your stomach in winter, even though you hate it.

39. You rap under your breath when you’re concentrating. I pretend not to notice. You pretend not to see me smiling.

41. You never let go first during hugs.

57. You carry my bags without making a show of it.

69. You tell me “I love you” like it’s a fact, not a performance.

72. You say “I got you” instead of “it’s okay.” And somehow it feels like both.

88. You’re just… you. And that’s more than enough.

99. You remembered I always wanted to be seen. You saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.

100. You’re my safe place. My home. My favorite person.

You folded each sticky note carefully into a tiny square, dropping them into a clear jar one by one until it was full—your love made tangible, note by note, word by word.

___

Anniversary Morning

You woke before Vernon did, still tangled up in the shared comforter. His hand was loosely curled on your waist, chest rising and falling in that steady, sleepy rhythm that always grounded you.

You turned slightly to look at him.

His features were soft with sleep, lips parted just barely, hair tousled and flopping into his eyes. Your eyes trailed down to the tiny mole near his cheek—the one he always forgot he had until you kissed it and your heart squeezed.

Happy anniversary, you whispered in your mind. To the boy who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel everything.

___

You gave him the Rolex first.

He blinked at the box, then at you. “...Babe.”

“What?” you said with a grin. “You love watches.”

He opened it slowly, then whistled. “Okay, I do. But this is—this is a lot.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You deserve nice things.”

He leaned in, kissing your cheek with a quiet, “Thank you, really,” but you could tell from the way he pulled you into his side that he knew something was up.

___

Later that Evening

The sun was setting, casting honey-colored light through the apartment windows. You stood awkwardly in the living room, the jar tucked behind your back, your stomach flipping.

He was lounging on the couch in a hoodie and sweats, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a bowl of cereal in his lap even though it was almost dinner time. He looked up when you stepped in.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly.

Then, without a word, you walked over and placed the jar on the coffee table in front of him, before diving onto the couch, grabbing a throw pillow, and hiding behind it like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

He stared at the jar. Then at you. Then back at the jar decorated with little cloud stickers and a label that simply read: 100 Reasons I Love You (and Counting)…

His brow furrowed slightly as he set his cereal aside and picked it up. “What’s this?”

Your voice was muffled behind the pillow. “Read it.”

He opened the lid and pulled out one of the tiny folded notes, unfolding it carefully.

1. Your gummy smile.

The reason I fell for you. It makes everything else feel softer.

You peeked out from behind the pillow.

He blinked. Then pulled out another.

2. The way you think.

You have such a beautiful way with words; I could listen to you talk for hours and never get bored.

And another.

 3. The way you love.

Not loud, not performative. But steady, gentle. I always feel it. You don’t need to say a thing.

By the time he’d reached the fifth one—

5. Your patience.

You’ve never made me feel stupid for not knowing something. You make me feel safe enough to ask.

—His hand had slowed.

He looked over at you, eyes glassy.

“YN… What is this?”

You hugged the pillow tighter to your chest. “I felt like a Rolex wasn’t enough, too boring. So I made this too. It’s a hundred reasons why I love you.”

Vernon stared at the jar in his hands like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

Then he laughed softly, almost breathless, shaking his head in disbelief. “You wrote me a hundred love notes.”

“Every single one?”

“Every single one.”

You mumbled from behind the pillow, “It was either that or a custom rap verse about how hot your hands are. I figured this was less embarrassing.”

He laughed, soft and disbelieving, and then took another.

 12. You send me random memes in the middle of the day, and somehow they’re always exactly what I needed.

Like, you just know.

18. You never force me to talk when I’m not ready. You just sit next to me. That’s more comforting than anything.

29. The way you rub your thumb over the back of my hand when we’re holding hands. You probably don’t even notice you do it.

He swallowed, and his voice came out a little choked. “You remembered all these things?”

“Of course I did,” you whispered. “They’re pieces of you. How could I forget? ”

38. You tell me you’re proud of me—even when I haven’t done much.

43. Your hoodie always smells like you, and I secretly steal it when you leave for the studio.

52. You once offered to watch a horror movie just because I wanted to, and you ended up hiding behind my pillow. Adorable.

 68. You once said, “You’re my favorite place to be.” I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

He pulled another one out, smiling through teary eyes.

Then he got to one that made him pause.

 73. That night you thought I’d leave you… I wish I’d told you then how wrong you were.

I’m not going anywhere. I’m always here.

He paused at number 73. His hands stopped moving. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the sound of his breath.

He looked at you then, completely undone, the kind of emotion that Vernon rarely let the world see.

Gently setting the jar aside, he leaned over and tugged the pillow away from your face.

“Babe,” he whispered. “Come here.”

You climbed into his lap with a shy smile, arms looping around his neck.

His hands cradled your waist. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

You tucked your face into his neck, grinning. “Only when it comes to you.”

He laughed, pulling you in tighter. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Like, ever.”

You pulled back slightly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I just needed you to know. In case I don’t say it enough. I love you. A lot.”

His eyes searched for yours, warm and shining. “You show it in a hundred ways every day. I just have proof now.”

He kissed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then, finally, your lips—slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

___

Bonus:

He started carrying one note in his wallet every day like a lucky charm.

Whenever he traveled, you’d get a photo—your jar of pastel notes sitting right on his nightstand.

And six months later, you opened your laptop to find a document named Reasons I Love You: Draft Version 1. He never let you read it. Not then.

But a year later, he printed it out. Bound it like a book. Gave it to you on your third anniversary.

The title?

Chapter 1 of Forever.

🌸 Masterlist 🌸

[xdhluvrs]

Only if you say yes (pt. I) 𐙚⋆.˚

Pairing: non-idol Jongseob x Reader, coworker!Jongseob x coworker!Reader Tags: coworker au, afab reader, coworkers to lovers(maybe?), reader is a busy college student, potential fuckboy Jongseob, reader is just a little stuck-up, they work at a boba cafe <3 Warnings: sfw, suggestive content, no smut in this pt. but warnings will change for pt. II Word Count: 2.8k Synopsis: Working a closing shift at a boba cafe was supposed to be routine—wipe down tables, cash out, go home. But when your elusive coworker, Jongseob, suddenly takes an interest in you, the line between professionalism and temptation starts to blur. His charm is undeniable, his confidence intoxicating, and his attention to detail dangerously disarming. You know better than to fall for someone like him… but as the night unfolds, resisting him might not be as easy as you thought.

⭐️'s note: Hi all, this is my first fic ever! Writing this was so much fun - and it is absolutely dedicated to my Jongseob-loving bestie 🍇 <3 Please let me know what you think! I hope you all will stick around for part II. Any feedback, questions, comments, suggestions, etc. appreciated! Hope you all enjoy :D

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

8:15 PM. Just a little over an hour until you’d be in your car driving home, finally able to rest your feet after a busy shift at work. The post-dinner rush had begun to ease, and despite the physical and mental exhaustion wearing you thin, you found yourself busy with pre-closing in hopes of leaving the store as quickly as possible. Working part-time at a boba cafe had to be the least demanding of your various commitments, but that didn’t make the eight hour shifts any less of a drag. Luckily, the gig paid well and was easy enough to balance with your busy class schedule and extracurriculars. You found yourself mindlessly wiping down tables, the lo-fi playlist left on by the morning crew fading into the background of your mind. Your coworker’s voice could be heard addressing a customer, obviously in the middle of a sale. Most nights you worked with just one other person, allowing one of you to manage the front while the other worked on various cleaning tasks. Tonight was lucky, because it was just you and Jongseob. Jongseob was your favorite closing partner for a variety of reasons - not that he’d have any idea, the two of you weren’t friends by any means. However, he had something that the rest of your coworkers lacked: work ethic. You knew that if you left him at the register, he’d be sure to have the kitchen cleaned in addition to taking care of any customers that stopped by. He was reliable in that sense; always hardworking, never late and he had even picked up a couple of your shifts in the past. Because of this, you respected him - but you knew the two of you were living completely different lives and therefore made little effort to get to know him. You were getting ready to matriculate into the graduate program of your dreams, and he was… well, he was a full-time employee at a bubble tea franchise. You didn’t look down at him for this, but you were more than okay with keeping him at an arm’s length - especially based on the way your other coworkers spoke of him.

“Did you hear Seob is back with Emma again? Yeah, I thought they had broken up too, but she was all over him at Stephen’s last night. Better not tell Vivian…” Even just earlier today, you’d heard the morning shift whispering about him as you were clocking in. They never spared any details in front of you, acting almost as if you didn’t exist. Not that this bothered you - if anything, you felt relieved to be spared from the drama. You were here for the hourly $18 plus tips, and that was about it. Nonetheless, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t listen when his name came up in their gossiping. Jongseob was undeniably attractive and it was a challenge to not be interested in him. He was as charming in his appearance as he was in his demeanor, and you weren’t surprised in the slightest that he had various women vying for his attention - though you did have enough self-respect to not join their ranks (or so you thought). He was confident and well-spoken, and you found his quirky sense of fashion to be unique and enticing. Even today, his perfectly-styled platinum blonde shag paired with a tee that barely covered his midriff could have him mistaken for an influencer in the wild. However, what was most attractive about him had to be his attention to detail. Jongseob never forgot a regular’s name or their order, often conversing with them about their personal lives with a look of genuine interest on his face. Despite barely talking to you, he always remembered to ask about your pets by name, and had been the only one of your coworkers to remember to ask about the status of your graduate school application. When you finally were able to tell him you’d been accepted into the program, he brought you your favorite drink from a nearby coffee shop you’d mentioned to him in passing. It was his ability to make people feel like they were special that made him so alluring and also so dangerous. Even in these small moments he had made you feel seen - and you were sure that the other women in his life held similar sentiments. 

Despite his attractiveness, you had been burned by charismatic men like him before and didn’t really feel like repeating mistakes of the past. Besides, you barely had enough time to get the proper amount of sleep each night - the last thing you needed was a workplace distraction to ruin your life. Pulling yourself from your thoughts, you check your watch after having successfully cleaned the dining room. 8:43 PM. Time flies when you’re busy thinking about the coworker you tell yourself you aren’t thinking about. You round the corner into the kitchen where said coworker was found scrubbing the emptied boba vats, his back facing you. You could see the slight protrusion of his earbuds from where you stood, and for a moment you listened to him quietly hum along to whatever he was listening to whilst scrubbing away at the sugar-crusted kitchenware. You mentally scolded yourself for staring and awkwardly snuck past him to reach the front of house, trying to think about anything other than how attractive he was when he was being a productive member of society. With the dining room all cleared out, you made the executive decision to turn off the open sign as well as the online ordering system. You couldn’t find it within yourself to feel bad for the potential customers who may have tried to come during the last ten minutes of operations - in your opinion, they deserved to be let down. Or maybe you were just jaded after having worked so many years in food service. You began to reconcile the cash drawer, thoughts drifting to what you might eat later tonight, when a familiar voice calling your name startled you.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you there,” you turned to face Jongseob, who stared at you with a polite smile, his back pressed against the counter. His posture was relaxed, and your eyes followed the curve of his arms as they crossed beneath his chest, a silver bracelet collecting at the dip of his right wrist. “I’m all done with the back now. This might be record time for us.” Even just hearing him refer to the two of you as a unit flustered you, yet you made sure to show no signs of this.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” you said curtly while handing him his share of the night’s cash tips. “I just need to finish with the register and lock up the front, then we’ll be good to go.”

“I can finish up out front. I’ll be right back,” he responded, not missing a beat. You watched as he paced back through the kitchen and then into the dining room. If only all of your coworkers had his initiative. You noticed yet again that you were staring, and it took a moment to pull yourself back into the present and return to counting the bills in your hands. What has gotten into you today? Jongseob’s always been hot; tonight was no exception. However, it seemed like now - more than ever - you were distracted by it. In all fairness, you were having a bit of a dry spell at the moment, so it’s not like there was anything wrong with a pinch of lusting over a qualified candidate. Isn’t that what girlhood is all about? Your self rationalization was successful, and sooner rather than later it was time to clock out. You flipped the lights off and grabbed your belongings, heading to the back to punch your PIN code in before passing through the rear exit. You were usually the last person to leave the building, your coworkers seldom spending any more time at the store than what was absolutely necessary. Tonight was different - Jongseob stood blocking the door, the lack of light in the building disguising his face. At first, you thought there might be an issue with the PIN pad - but you soon realized he was staring at you with an unreadable expression. 

“Everything alright?” You asked inquisitively. You felt self-conscious; it was awkward to talk with him when there wasn’t a work-related reason to do so.

“Yeah,” he said plainly, “Just thought I’d wait for you to finish up. It’s late, want me to walk you to your car?”

Well, this was weird. You’re pretty sure you’d been just fine walking to your car every other evening you’d closed. The parking lot was within sight of the exit, and even after 9 PM there were plenty of people walking around the shopping center. Why ask now?

“I’m good, but thanks for the offer,” you said as you turned from him to clumsily jam your fingers into the PIN pad, designating  the end of your shift. Just as you turned once to push the exit door open, you felt Jongseob’s hand graze the back of your arm.

“Why are you in such a rush? You almost forgot this,” he said, presenting you with the half-finished green tea you’d been sipping on earlier this evening. In complete honesty, you’d forgotten about it hours ago and were more than okay with leaving it for the morning shift to deal with. 

“Oh thanks, almost forgot to toss that,” you said, taking the drink from his hand and chucking it into the trash bin just an arms length away. Now, you could finally escape from the discomfort, and you began to push open the door –

“Wait.” 

Jongseob placed his hand over yours on the door handle and you immediately flinched away from the contact, turning to face him instead with your back against the wall. Undoubtedly, this was puzzling behavior from him. Was he getting a kick out of your suffering? You stared at him, ignoring the newfound warmth on your skin from where he’d grazed you, waiting for an explanation. He still appeared calm and collected, but his actions suggested otherwise. He brushed a hand through his hair, fixing his posture as he began to speak.

“I feel like we’ve been working together for quite a while now, but I still know so little about you,” he said, softly smiling at you. “Let me walk you to your car.”

You had no idea how to respond to that, so you simply nodded in response and resumed opening the exit door. You heard him follow behind you, his steps increasing in volume as he joined you at your side.

“So,” he started, “are you busy this evening? I was thinking about grabbing something to eat on my way home…” 

You weren’t busy, but you also had zero intention of prolonging whatever was conspiring between the two of you.

“Yeah, I have plans,” you said, unconsciously quickening your stride. You hated how quickly your heart was beating.

“You’re not very good at lying, are you?” Jongseob was now smirking at you. “You can just tell me you’re not interested. I don’t mind.”

The two of you had reached your car at this point, and his gaze was becoming increasingly harder to meet.

“It’s not that I’m not interested, but I’m sure we both have better things to be doing,” you said, looking at your feet. You weren’t trying to disappoint him, and your interest in him was certainly present… but this was risky territory. You were no mind reader, so you couldn’t be sure of his intentions. However, if the rumors you’d heard about him held any truth, you were sure this would be a waste of time for the both of you. The only plausible reasons you could propose for his sudden interest in you were that he was A) secretly a serial killer plotting his next victim, or B) horny and reaching for the low-hanging fruit. Neither of these scenarios had an outcome you felt keen on exploring, so better to retreat as quickly as possible.

“What does that even mean?” He chuckled. “You act so preoccupied around me. Is it so unimaginable that I might be interested in getting to know you better?”

“Actually, yes.” You said, regaining some confidence. “You’ve had the past six months to do that. Why now?” 

“It’s not like I haven’t been trying,” he responded, “but you certainly don’t make it easy. You’ve never wanted to join when we hang out after closing. I kind of assumed you thought you were too good for us.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t completely off. You genuinely had very little interest in your other coworkers. All they seemed to do was get drunk and start unnecessary drama with one another. It was a little too reminiscent of high school for your liking. However, his statement insinuated that you thought too highly of yourself to spend time with them - and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t sting a bit. 

“You assumed incorrectly,” you started, “I’m just really busy. I don’t always have time to go out after work.”

“Yeah?” he said, “Busy being top of your class? Busy spending every moment as efficiently as possible?” His teasing made your cheeks flush but you held his stare. He took a step closer to you, and in turn you took a step back, feeling your car door behind you.

“I know it can’t be easy working as hard as you do,” he cooed. “You really deserve to celebrate your accomplishments, don’t you think? What’s the point of all this effort if you can’t find satisfaction in the process?” The way he spoke to you was almost condescending.

“I do find the process… satisfying.” You said, awkwardly. “What are you trying to imply?”

“I might not be as useless to you as you think I am,” he said, the same smug expression still present on his face. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good when it comes to providing stress relief, and you definitely seem a little -”

“That’s enough.” You cut him off. Yep, your intuition had been spot on. “Look, you’re hot but I don’t want to sleep with you. Can I go home now?”

“Who said I wanted to sleep with you? All I was trying to say is that you look stressed, and I’m a great listener. If you’d let me take you to dinner, I’m sure I could lend an ear to your troubles,” he replied without hesitation. 

You so badly wanted to give in, but your pride wouldn’t let you. You wouldn’t be this easy.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” You said coolly, and turned to unlock your car. Despite the lack of enthusiasm in your voice, you were sure the blush on your cheeks and the heat on the tips of your ears betrayed you. Nonetheless, you were committed to the bit, throwing your belongings in the backseat and preparing to say goodbye to the man who had gone to such lengths to pursue you. For a moment you thought that would be the end of your bickering, when suddenly you felt Jongseob gently place his hand over your shoulder. You spun around to face him, closer than you’d been to him the entire night. At this distance, you could make out the outline of each individual eyelash coalescing around his eyes and the soft freckles that decorated the bridge of his nose. His lips looked so colorful in contrast to his soft skin and platinum hair, and something about the way he held your gaze conveyed a sliver of yearning. Damn, he was good at this.

“Have a good night then,” he said, and proceeded to tuck a strand of your loose hair behind your ear. “But don’t expect me to give up so easily next time. You’re so obvious, you know? It’s cute…” He smiled at you once again before stepping back, allowing you to regain your sense of personal space. “Drive safe, Y/N.” 

And with that he turned his back to you and walked away, presumably to wherever he’d ended up parking. You found yourself still in a state of shock from the events of the past twenty minutes, trying to recalibrate and prepare yourself for the drive home. Sighing to yourself, you got in your car and began to drive, not even bothering to put on music with the current state you were in. When you got home, you noticed a text notification on your phone.

Jongseob (work): Hope you made it home safely

Jongseob (work): See you next week :)

Just seeing his name was enough to have you feeling butterflies. You left him on delivered and tried to remember what your life was like before whatever the fuck just happened with your coworker. Though it was painful to admit, you were already excited to see him again - for better or for worse.

[glowettee]

🕶 she ghosted the groupchat & built an empire

hey lovelies!! ✨

so i've been thinking about this a lot lately... like how we're all constantly connected but somehow feeling more drained than ever?? and it hit me that sometimes the most revolutionary thing you can do is just... disappear for a bit??

i literally had to turn my phone off for three days last month because my creative energy was being sucked dry by all these group chats that were going nowhere. like, bestie, why am i reading 87 messages about someone's ex's cousin's new haircut when i could be building my dream life instead??

so here's my unfiltered thoughts on strategic isolation + how it literally changed everything for me...

✧ protecting your energy isn't selfish, it's essential ✧

let's be honest - we're all just walking energy fields. and every notification, every "hey girl, you free?" text, every random zoom call is either feeding your field or draining it. i started tracking my energy levels in this little pink journal (yes, elle woods style but make it productive) and noticed that certain people and activities were literally vampire-draining me.

some hard truths about protecting your time:

• not everyone deserves access to you

• "sorry, i can't" is a complete sentence

• your dreams require your full attention

• boundaries aren't mean, they're necessary

• your future self will thank you for saying no today

i started implementing what i call "ghost protocols" where i literally just... stop responding for periods of time. not forever! just long enough to recalibrate. it feels uncomfortable at first (i literally had anxiety sweats) but then something magical happens - you remember who you are without all the noise.

✧ digital detox rituals that actually work ✧

okay so everyone talks about digital detoxes but they make it sound so basic like "just turn off your phone lol" which... no. here's what actually works:

1. schedule your disappearance (sounds dramatic but it's just good planning) - i block off "ghost time" in my calendar just like i would a meeting

2. create a hyperfocus sanctuary - mine is this corner of my room with no wifi, just candles, my journal, and a vintage alarm clock. no devices allowed within 10 feet.

3. implement the 5/1/3 rule - for every 5 hours of deep work, allow 1 hour of connection, followed by 3 hours of integration time where you process what you've created

4. batch your responses - i only check messages twice daily now (12pm and 6pm) and i use templates for most replies which sounds cold but actually gives me more energy for meaningful conversations later

5. practice saying "that doesn't work for me" without explaining yourself - hardest thing i've ever done but most rewarding

✧ hyperfocus rituals that built my empire ✧

the truth that nobody tells you is that success isn't grinding 24/7... it's protecting your focus like it's the most precious resource on earth (because it literally is).

my non-negotiable focus rituals:

• morning pages but make them strategic - i write 3 pages about my vision every morning before touching my phone

• the 90/30 method - work in complete silence for 90 minutes, then take a luxurious 30 minute break (no exceptions)

• environment switching - i have different spaces for different types of work (creative work happens by the window, admin work at my desk, planning happens on the floor with a giant paper)

• sensory anchors - learned this from a few psychology articles online, stayed w/ it foreverrr -> specific scents, sounds, and tastes that tell my brain "it's empire building time" (for me it's this fancy bergamot candle + instrumental lo-fi + earl grey tea)

i know this all sounds intense but listen... while everyone was busy commenting on instagram posts and overthinking text messages, i built something real. something that matters. something that's mine.

sometimes the most rebellious thing you can do is disconnect in order to connect more deeply with your purpose. and yes, people might get annoyed when you don't respond right away. they might even talk about you in those same group chats you left. but honestly? that's just background noise when you're focused on building something meaningful.

your time is literally the only non-renewable resource you have. protect it fiercely.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. what's one conversation or obligation you could ghost this week to get closer to your dreams? i promise the world won't end... but your empire might just begin.

⋆ psst. i made a free workbook just for you. it’s soft, dark-academia, and full of real advice. get it here: deprogramming your trauma-coded ambition

[thatgirlie-diaries]

My weekly reset routine

Hello girlies! After some days offline I come back with this blog, I will be telling you quickly my every Sunday "Weekly reset routine" which is popular among girlies like us, isn't it? For me, this is the first day of my weeks and probably the most important one, since I get relaxed, taken care of and I reflect on what to focus next. I hope it inspires you in case that you don't have a routine like this, and if you do I hope that it's working well for you!

My routine

Tidy up and clean all my space: Includes the kicthen (that's my assigned section between my family), my bedroom and my bathroom. While cleaning downstairs I listen to a podcast and in my room I listen lo-fi playlist.

Begin the laundry: Every week I do my laundry, every two weeks I also add my bedsheets.

Do my full shower routine: I use shampoo, hair mask and conditioner. After, I use my cleanser and face exfoliant. To finish I use my soap, body exfoliant and shave my legs and armpits. I listen to new albums every time while showering.

Post-shower routine: I do the rest of my skincare routine, dry my hair, apply cream on my body, get comfy clothes and check my nail polish.

Tidy up my clothes

Plan and reflect: 1.How was last week? 2. I plan next week goals and tasks 3.Add calendar events 4. Revise my routines and schedule 5. Check my budget

Digital detox: Eliminate any unnecessary data on my laptop and cellphone, mostly.

My post-routine

Light a candle and listen to frequency music: I listen mostly to heal my feminine energy and positive vibes

Practice journaling: I look out for prompts or I express my feelings, I have a new journal book and I prefer now to do it by hand.

Say positive affirmations in the mirror: I get them from pinterest! I have cried twice by now, it has helped me with my inner dialoge, concept and steem.

Practice meditation and yoga: I normally practice between 20-30 minutes, for me is more than enough and actually helps me relax and maintain my mental health. I recommend you Jessica Richburg in Youtube.

Watch a movie: I really love to watch movies! So now every Sunday I make some popcorn and get cozy in my sofa to watch one. Right now I'm into chick films, they are really funny and inspire me alot.

See you girlies, time to enjoy my sunday! 𑄽𑄺ྀ

[chadobi]

Hi! This is my first time requesting/asking anything in general so if I did something wrong please have mercy on me :')

I was wondering if you would write some headcanons for the rottmnt boys (separate) with a reader who is literally always singing. Doing dishes, making food, doing schoolwork, scrolling on their phone, a n y t h i n g. I really like all your tmnt works, I think I've read them all like twice by now 😭 if you don't wanna take this request (or hate my guts whispers the tiny voice in the back of my mind) you don't have to do anything with it, just ignore me lol :) I just wanted to put it out there

I’m so honored to be your first request! I hope you’ll like it 💜

Rottmnt boys with an S/O who likes to sing

RISE!LEONARDO

• At first, Leo assumes you’re doing it for dramatic effect. Obviously. Who wouldn’t sing while flipping pancakes like a Broadway star?

• But then he realizes you do it constantly. Cooking? Singing. Homework? Singing. Lost in your phone? You’re whispering the chorus to some random indie tune.

• Honestly? He’s enchanted.

• Joins in uninvited. Loudly. Wrong lyrics. Wrong song. Doesn’t matter.

• “You’re doing Taylor Swift? Cool, I’ll throw in a little Queen.”

• Eventually starts requesting songs, especially when he wants attention. “Baaabe, can you do that one from Moana again? I like the sassy crab one.”

• If you’re in a bad mood and not singing? He panics. “What happened?! Who hurt the melody of my heart?!”

• Proudly declares he’s your “backup dancer” every time you sing around the lair. He will literally moonwalk while you do the dishes.

• Secretly keeps a list of songs that remind him of you.

RISE!RAPHAEL

• The first few times he hears you singing under your breath, he’s confused. “Are you talkin’ to me or…?”

• Once he catches on, he tries to act unbothered, but is quietly amazed by how happy it makes you.

• He starts recognizing your moods by what genre you’re singing. Lo-fi pop? Chillin’. Broadway soundtrack? You’re focused. Evanescence? You’re angry.

• Will pretend he doesn’t know the lyrics but 100% starts picking them up over time. You catch him humming “your” songs during training and he denies it profusely.

• He thinks it’s especially cute when you sing during mundane stuff, like folding laundry or brushing your teeth.

• “You sing to your toothbrush?”

“And it sings back.”

“…Okay, that’s adorable.”

• One time you caught him recording you while you were baking and singing. He blushed so hard he tripped over his own sai.

• You become his de-stress tool. When he’s had a bad day, he’ll sit nearby and just say, “Sing something, please.”

RISE!DONATELLO

• At first, he found it mildly distracting, especially if you were humming while he was coding. But then…

• One day, you hit a beautiful run while scrolling TikTok and he just froze mid-keystroke. “What… was that?”

• Now he records you. Constantly.

• Has a whole playlist of “Reader Singing Snippets.mp3” on his battle shell.

• “Do it again, but this time in A minor. I have a new synth plugin I’m testing.”

• Will sample your singing and layer it into his music compositions. Doesn’t tell you at first—just lets you hear a beat, and your voice’s harmony hits in the background.

• When you sing something emotional, he goes very quiet and just watches you like he’s seeing art in motion.

• “I am completely and utterly ruined for all other human interactions.”

• Will 100% build you a karaoke room. Just because he can.

RISE!MICHAELANGELO

• LOVES it. Lives for it. Thinks your constant singing is the coolest, most beautiful thing ever.

• Immediately joins in every time, whether he knows the song or not.

• Turns everything into a musical number. Cooking together? Time for “Cooking with Chaos: The Musical!”

• His favorite is when you make up songs on the spot. “Ohhh I dropped the remote but it’s okay ‘cause I’m still cool~!”

• Encourages you to post your singing on social media (if you’re comfy)—thinks the world deserves to hear your voice.

• If you’re ever too tired to sing, he’ll hum your favorite song to you while snuggling on the couch.

• Will pull out a ukulele or bongos and just jam while you sing about brushing your hair.

• Keeps telling his brothers, “This is my muse. The Beyoncé of my heart.”

• If someone else mocks your habit? He’s immediately by your side with the fury of a thousand sunburned artists. “Don’t touch the melody, bro.”

[dakusan]

Y O U T E X T “ I M I S S Y O U ” O U T O F N O W H E R E

stray kids ot8 x reader | quiet confessions, sleepy chaos, and hearts that ache before they answer

🌙 synopsis: You don’t mean to send it. Not dramatically. Not with tears in your eyes. Just…“i miss you.” Quiet. Honest. Unfiltered. And suddenly—They’re not okay. This isn’t just texting. This is emotional freefall in three words or less. This is “i miss you” turned into “i love you” without either of you saying it.

💌 a/n: this was supposed to be short. just a little “what if you texted ‘i miss you’” post. and then chan said “i wanna hold you while the track renders” and everything spiraled. i hope you feel held. i hope you feel insane. i hope you text someone “i miss you” and they drop everything to say “get here. your side’s cold.” thank you for reading this 8-piece set of emotional damage disguised as fluff. p.s. reblogs = forehead kisses p.p.s. if one of them ever actually said this to me i would simply dissolve into a memory and haunt their laundry.

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "All About You" — Taeyeon

Bang Chan // 방찬

It’s 1:13 AM when you send it. No emoji. No context. Just:

i miss you.

He sees it between takes — fingers hovering above his keyboard, cursor blinking on the same half-finished vocal comp he’s looped for 40 minutes. The studio is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of his screen and the flickering ‘recording’ sign outside the booth. His hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows. There’s a half-drunk bottle of Pocari on the desk. Lo-fi is playing quietly in the background — something soft, without words.

He stops.

Just… sits there for a second, staring at your message like it reached into his chest and gently pressed there.

Because you never say it out of nowhere. You’re careful. Thoughtful. Always timing your affection like a gift. And now, when you’re apart and quiet and distant—You miss him.

He exhales, thumb brushing over the screen. Smiles, crooked and slow, like it snuck up on him.

Then he does what he always does with feelings too big to hold: he turns to the mic. Doesn’t even rerecord the verse. Just switches on the track, leans into the mic, and softly hums something new — something with warmth, with ache, with the kind of sound that curls like a blanket around everything he can’t say yet.

When it’s done, he sends it.

[1:24 AM] (1 audio message) “miss you too. enough to put it in a song. come over if you can. you don’t have to say anything. i just wanna hold you while the track renders.”

Lee Know // 리노

You send it at 10:56 PM. No warning. No dramatic lead-up. Just:

i miss you.

He’s in bed. Not asleep. Not even trying. Just lying there in the dark with his phone balanced on his chest, a drama paused mid-episode and a cat curled up by his legs.

He sees your name light up, reads the message twice — once with his heart, once with his overthinking.

Immediately: suspicious. Out of nowhere? From you? At this hour?

His first instinct is to roll his eyes. His second is to reread it. His third is to sit up, grab his pillow, and clutch it in his lap like it’ll stop the way his stomach just turned to something embarrassingly warm.

You don’t say it unless you mean it. You don’t say it unless you need something. And suddenly, he hates that he’s not there — that you miss him and he can’t fix it, can’t hold you, can’t act all unimpressed while secretly tucking you under his arm like you belong there.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a while. He types and deletes twice. The third time sticks.

[11:02 PM] ...what happened? [11:02 PM] did someone say something? are you lonely? do you want me to come over or do you just want attention? [11:03 PM] ...because if it’s attention, you have it. idiot.

He throws the pillow across the room right after. Then spends the next hour watching your typing bubble like it holds the moon.

Changbin // 창빈 💪

It’s 8:14 PM when you send it. You don’t say anything else. Just:

i miss you.

He sees it halfway through a workout — hoodie tied around his waist, arms flushed and pumped, headphones in, breath ragged from a set he absolutely overdid. His phone buzzes on the bench. He wipes a hand on his towel, glances at the screen—

—and freezes.

There are a few people still in the gym. He barely hears them. Because something about that message punches the air straight out of his lungs.

You’re not usually the one to say it first. Not without a reason. Not unless something’s aching a little too much. And now you miss him — and he’s here, lifting weights like that’s gonna hold you together.

He grabs his phone and walks off into the hallway, chest still rising and falling like he just sprinted. It’s not even just the message. It’s the way his heart reacted — instantly. Like it’s been waiting to hear that from you all day.

His thumbs move fast:

[8:16 PM] you do?? 😭 [8:16 PM] pls tell me you’re free tonight i’ll cancel everything [8:17 PM] srsly. i miss u so bad i almost tripped doing lunges bc i started picturing ur face like a loser.

He stops, stares at his own text, groans into his towel.

And then:

(1 voice note) “if you’re free, come over. if not… call me? i’ll sit in my room like a lovesick sitcom character until you do.”

He puts the phone in his hoodie pocket after that. Heart loud. Arms sore. Entire soul? Yours.

Hyunjin // 현진 🎭

It’s 12:01 AM when you send it. Simple. Soft. No punctuation, no drama. Just:

i miss you

He’s painting. Alone in his apartment. A candle flickers beside his easel, wax dripping slowly as strokes of deep indigo curve across canvas. There’s music in the background—something orchestral, echoing, probably a little sad. His sleeves are rolled. Fingers stained with muted color.

The message buzzes through his speaker. He pauses mid-stroke. His breath catches.

Because you say it without pretense. You say it like it’s just true. You say it like you couldn’t hold it in any longer, like your heart blurted it out without consulting your pride.

And it ruins him.

He sets the brush down. Gently. Like it might shatter. Wipes his hands on a cloth. Looks at your name glowing on his phone like it’s the first star of the night. His throat is tight.

His first text is typed and deleted. Too dramatic. He rewrites it. Softer.

[12:04 AM] i’ve been aching to hear that [12:04 AM] i miss you in every quiet moment between brushstrokes [12:05 AM] do you want to facetime or do you want me to come stand outside your window with a candle and recite pablo neruda

He stares at the send button like it might bite him. Then presses it anyway.

His heart is a cathedral when you reply.

Han // 한 🌀

It’s 2:06 AM when you send it. No buildup. No emojis. Just:

i miss you

He was literally just lying there. Hoodie on. Face half in his pillow. Watching some dumb video on mute. Laughing at something he won’t remember in 3 minutes. He’s got crumbs on his hoodie and like, four unread messages in his group chat. He’s vibing. Barely thinking. Just static.

Until he sees you on his screen.

And suddenly — he’s wide awake.

He sits up like a corpse in a horror movie, staring at your message with the kind of intensity people reserve for bomb countdowns. His heart does a full Olympic gymnastics routine. His brain? Gone. Offline. In heaven. On fire.

He starts typing and deleting. So fast.

First message: too clingy. Second: too cool. Third: accidentally a marriage proposal.

He hits send before he can regret it:

[2:07 AM] What do you mean 😭😭😭 do you miss me like... miss me or like miss my memes [2:08 AM] bc if u miss ME i am currently free and emotionally compromised [2:08 AM] if u call me rn i’ll answer like it’s a drama and say ‘you finally called…’ i’m not kidding

Then, because he hates himself but also needs you to KNOW:

(1 voice note) “hi. i miss you too. like. so bad. like ‘watching our old tiktoks and tearing up’ bad. ok i’m gonna go cry into my cereal now bye 😭”

And then he rolls over, buries his face in his pillow, and kicks his feet like a 16-year-old girl in a coming-of-age movie.

Felix // 필릭스 🌻

It’s 9:36 PM when you send it. Soft. Unassuming. Just:

i miss you

He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, gaming headset half-on, controller resting in his lap. His monitor’s still glowing with the lobby screen, but he hasn’t clicked “ready” in three minutes.

Because your name popped up. And those three little words didn’t just land — they sank.

He re-reads it, smiling like he can’t help it. Like your message reached through the screen and gently cupped his face.

He’s not the type to question it. Not the type to pretend it doesn’t matter. You miss him — and he misses you too. More than he’s said. More than he knows how to say sometimes.

So he picks up his phone, pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and texts back with all the warmth he has:

[9:38 PM] angel :( i was just thinking about u too [9:39 PM] i miss u in like. the way stars miss the sky [9:40 PM] wanna call? or i can come over w snacks n cuddles n a playlist titled ‘us time’ 🫂💛

And because that’s not enough — not nearly enough — he sends a voice note too. His voice low, soft, wrapped in honey:

(voice note, 0:08) “i miss you so much it kinda makes my chest tight... but like in a good way. please come over. i’ll make hot chocolate. with the cinnamon u like.”

Seungmin // 승민

It’s 11:22 PM when you send it. No flourish. No drama. Just:

i miss you

He’s brushing his teeth. Pajamas on. Sleep playlist already playing low from his Bluetooth speaker. The apartment is still. Lights soft. Everything quiet — except his brain, which goes static the second your message appears.

He pauses, toothbrush halfway out of his mouth. Stares at the notification like it personally insulted him. His heartbeat? Loud. Chest? Tight. Eyes? Suddenly way too focused on the “i” in “i miss you.”

And of course—he has to respond the only way he knows how: with sarcasm and a mild breakdown. He rinses, spits, towels off his face, and flops onto bed, one arm dramatically over his eyes. Then, thumb to phone:

[11:24 PM] wow. desperate much? [11:25 PM] should i feel special or r u just lonely n scrolling ur contacts [11:26 PM] jk. unless.

He stares at those texts. Chews his lip. Rolls over. Sighs. Then types again — slower this time.

[11:28 PM] ...i was literally just about to text you [11:28 PM] this is annoying [11:28 PM] i miss you too

And because he knows you’re probably pouting, he sends one final message:

(photo attachment: his pillow with space beside it) get here. your side’s cold.

I.n // 아이엔

It’s 10:01 PM when you send it. Simple. Sweet. Just:

i miss you

He sees it while leaning against the balcony railing, earbuds in, hoodie unzipped, cool night air brushing against his skin. The city glows beneath him — golden windows, blinking lights, soft hum of life continuing below.

He reads your message and smiles — not wide. Just a slow, knowing curve that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You texted first. You cracked first. And he loves that.

But what he doesn’t say — not yet — is that he’d been about to text you the same thing. He’d been replaying that last voice note you left him. He’d been standing out here thinking about the way your hand feels when it’s tucked inside his hoodie pocket. He’s not cocky about it. Just… calm. Quietly wrecked.

He replies:

[10:02 PM] you miss me already? [10:02 PM] i thought u were tougher than this 🤭 [10:03 PM] ...good. i was starting to think i’m the only one losing sleep over you

Then he sends a photo: His shadow on the balcony, city lights in the distance, and the caption:

“you’d look better standing here next to me.”

And just like that — you're done for. Because so is he.

[haiwii]

୨ৎ ─── GET YOU

✎ᝰ .ᐟ Enhypen as your bf headcanon

HEESEUNG | JAY | JAKE | SUNGHOON | SUNOO | JUNGWON | RIKI

[ ✧ CW ✧ ] fluff, chaos, and a man deeply down bad, g!n reader (?) I don’t think the gender is specified

LiBRARY ## HEAD.c

This was so fun to write 😭

🧃 The Chill-Turned-Down-Bad Start

When you first met, you thought he was that calm, mysterious boy who probably journals about the meaning of life and listens to lo-fi jazz in his room with LED lights. And yeah… you were right. For like, two weeks. Then he accidentally tripped over your bag, did a dramatic “I HAVE FALLEN FOR YOU” on the floor, and you saw a glimpse of the idiot within. From then on, it was game over. He decided you were the one. He told Jay this with complete confidence while wearing Pikachu socks and a mouth full of Pocky.

🍜 Dates With Heeseung Be Like

Think: 50% actual romance, 50% utter chaos. Candlelit dinner? Sure. But he will dramatically say, “This reminds me of our wedding.” (You’re literally in your 20s and eating at Olive Garden.) Movie nights are sweet until he starts reciting the lines with the characters. Or worse guessing them and getting it right. Every. Single. Time. He makes you ramen and tells you he “poured his soul” into it. It’s literally instant ramen, but it’s somehow… better? Heeseung magic.

📱Texting Heeseung: A Horror Story

Sends you 47 memes a day. 38 of them are about ducks. You still don’t know why. You stopped asking after the duck dream he had that “changed his life.” “Good morning, my love 😚💗🌞🌸🌼🐥🐣🌸💗💞💘💓” Sent. At. 4. A.M. He has a very cursed notes app where he keeps nicknames for you. It includes: "My Little Toaster Strudel" "Cuddle Goblin" "The CEO of My Heart, LLC"

🎮 Gamer Boyfriend Heeseung

Yes, he games. Yes, he’s cracked. Yes, he forces you to play co-op games so he can “protect you.” Yells “I GOT YOU BABE” before running into a trap and dying instantly. But if anyone says anything remotely rude to you in chat? He becomes Satan. Voice lowers. Words sharp. You’ve never seen an online user get verbally destroyed so fast. He lets you win sometimes but pretends you beat him fair and square. Then gets revenge in Mario Kart. Mercilessly.

🐥 Love Language? Annoying the Hell Out of You

He pokes your cheek until you give him attention. Whispers “I love you” in the creepiest voice possible while you’re brushing your teeth. Starts fake arguments just to hear your annoyed voice. “No but like—why would you pick Charmander over Bulbasaur??” Steals your clothes. All of them. He looks better in your hoodie than you. It’s unfair.

🧸 But Also… A Secret Softie

Tells you he loves you like 16 times a day, casually. “Love you. Bye. Also bring me banana milk.” Has a folder in his phone of your candid pics. He labeled it “Proof I Scored.” You found it and almost cried because he literally labeled each photo. Stuff like: “Her smile when I said she’s my favorite person” “When she saw the puppy at the park” “The day she said she likes me more than ramen 😭” Whenever you’re sad, he drops everything. EVERYTHING. Even if he’s in the middle of gaming, he’s like: “Nope. Pause. My girl’s upset. Priorities.”

🛏️ Late-Night Chaos & Comfort

Lying in bed at night is either: You cuddling in silence while he plays with your hair and whispers sweet things like “I’m glad you exist.” Or you two laughing so hard at a dumb inside joke that you accidentally wake up the neighbors. Heeseung will tuck you in and say, “Good night, love of my life, mother of our imaginary dog, the moon to my star—” “Heeseung, shut up.” “Okay. But I still love you more than cheese.”

👨‍🍳 Domestic Heeseung Is Real

He can cook. Not like a chef, but enough to make your heart go boom. Tries to bake cookies but forgets the sugar. You eat them anyway. Wears matching aprons with you. Posts it on the group chat. Sunghoon leaves immediately. Jake sends 🧎 emojis. Does your laundry sometimes but gets distracted halfway through because he found an old shirt of yours that “smells like heaven.”

🎤 Idol Things + You

If you show up at a fansign? He breaks character IMMEDIATELY. The staff is like ??? while he beams at you like a puppy. Will 100% write your initials on his setlist or sneak a reference to your favorite color into his outfit. Fans catch on. You get a fanbase too. During live streams: “Who’s your favorite person?” “Oh, Y/N. Easy.” Silence. Confused blinks. “Wait, I mean—uh—my mom?” Too late. Twitter is exploding.

💌 TL;DR:

Heeseung as your boyfriend is the perfect mix of sweet, soft, and absolutely unhinged. He’s the type who would give you the last bite of his ramen and pretend he didn’t cry watching a Pixar movie. He’s clingy in the most adorable way, makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, and genuinely, without a single doubt, loves you like you’re his entire world. Even if he does send you 3 a.m. memes about ducks.

[dearjoons]

📚NERD!JIMIN HEADCANNONS

warnings: literally none lol. fluff, yearning, pining, slight jealousy. he has a fat freaking crush on reader 😇 he’s really cute idk what else there is to say

lulu speaks: y’all it’s not funny i ❤️ nerds. also i’ve had this bot on my page forever and i FINALLY decided to formally present him to y’all. i am VERY much considering making this into a mini series/oneshot collection. lmk if ur interested!!

✎ nerd!jimin who aggressively color-codes his notes for “practicality”, when it actually helps him calm his anxiety.

✎ nerd!jimin who talks to himself when he’s doing his math homework—muttering to himself while rubbing his temples. “come on, jimin, you know this. you’re not stupid.”

✎ nerd!jimin who collects vintage marvel comics and prides himself in bragging about them when he’s in the shop to browse for more—it’s the only time he’s not humble. “yeah, that’s a first edition. wanna touch it?”

✎ nerd!jimin who takes forever to fall asleep because his mind is a constantly-running think machine. 24/7. does he fix his mom’s laptop or the wi-fi router first? did the bidding go up for that original fantastic four comic?

✎ nerd!jimin who is a true momma’s boy at heart. not in a creepy way, but in the way where he’ll lean into her warm hugs and let her fix his ruffled hair—but also shy away from her cheek kisses in front of his classmates.

✎ nerd!jimin who subconsciously memorized your schedule. he wasn’t even trying to be creepy—he actually hated he did. he just happened to see you walk in and out of your classes, and it stuck with him.

✎ nerd!jimin who changes his route on campus to walk past you. he’s missed his bus on multiple occasions because of this.

✎ nerd!jimin who gets nervous when someone mentions your name in passing. cheeks all pink and warm, heart racing, knee bouncing up and down.

✎ nerd!jimin who owns every type of rubix cube under the sun. his favorite? his first 3x3 cube. the paint’s all chipped, but he loves it just the same.

✎ nerd!jimin who bought a copy of a book he overheard you talking about. he has yet to read it, only because he’s scared he’ll get too attached to it if he loves it. (spoiler alert: he would love anything you love).

✎ nerd!jimin who gets jealous of your male friends. he gets in his own head. like, “who even is that guy? why’s she laughing? is he funny? i’m funny. i think.”

✎ nerd!jimin who likes your posts within the first two minutes, never commenting. just lurking.

✎ nerd!jimin who wears cologne because someone said you liked guys who smelled nice. hyperfixates on it, his search history filled with things like “how much cologne is too much?”

✎ nerd!jimin who has practiced what he’d say if you ever found out he likes you. has never gotten past “so… uh.”

✎ nerd!jimin who wonders if you’d ever like him back. decides probably not. gets sad. listens to sad violin lo-fi.

✎ nerd!jimin who absolutely yaps his friends’ ears off about you. they’re sick of it, but will always be around for his one-sided girl problems.

✎ nerd!jimin who told his mom about you. that precious, cardigan-wearing, kimchi-jjigae-making lady always giving him the same piece of advice; “just go talk to her, jimin.”

✎ nerd!jimin who once got so flustered he said “I love y—you’re… you’re welcome.” then didn’t sleep for three nights.

✎ nerd!jimin who fantasizes about holding your hand. just your hand. and then he has to physically pull himself back into reality, eyes back on his chem textbook.

lulu speaks pt2: focus on school kicking my ass ❌ write another jimin au ✅

cai bot. masterlist. navigation.

[honeymilkbeez]

DO IT FOR THE VLOG | g.clarke

summary : in which you vlogged a day in your life with george starring : george clarke x fem!reader content : established relationship | genre : fluff | warning : none a/n : hiii i’m here to hand deliver you my first george’s fic! sorry it took me a while to get it out but hope you enjoy it! let me know if you want similar to this sort of vibe!? as always, don’t forget to reblog and i’ll see you on my next fic! mwah xx

YOUTUBE

yourusername just posted a video !

@YOURUSERNAME : grwm + cosy day in my life ft. my boyfriend, 10/10 toasties, & accidental chaos 🍓🧸🫧

225K views | 1 day ago 349 comments -------------------

the vlog opened with a soft, lo-fi beat rolling under warm-toned footage: sunlight slicing through the bedroom blinds, your bedside clock and strawberry scented lip balm laid neatly next to a half-burned candle, your robe draped messily over the arm of the chair and a glimpse of tangled sheets where george was still fast asleep - face half-buried in the pillow, loose curls dangled everywhere, mouth parted just slightly.

you whispered off-camera, "ok. good morning guys. he's still dead to the world, so we're starting without him,” as you panned toward the mattress. "exhibit a," you whispered as he snored once, loudly.

the camera then cuts toward you setting the lens down on the bathroom shelf and leaned into the mirror with damp skin and sleep-swollen eyes, a fluffy white towel wrapped around your chest, your hair clipped up in a loose bun. your voice came quiet and warm as you began your intro, hands waved lazily toward the reflected mirror.

"hello and good morning again, besties. welcome back to the channel - or if you're new here, i'm y/n, i romanticise everything and live with the human version of a golden retriever. today i am once again, starting the day before george wakes up because someone keeps stealing the duvet and snoring like a power drill."

then you blinked. once. twice. zoned out in your thoughts, "okay, real start to the day," you began, clasping your hand together. "today's vlog gonna be soft and slow as i'm taking you through a day in my life. it definitely involves a bit of me filming, editing, maybe a market run and dragging george out for a walk outside if he's brave enough to see sunlight. either way, i'm fresh out of the shower, and now i'm ready for my skincare routine."

you reached for your cleanser. rubbing it between your palms.

"also, if you hear any thuds, crashes, or suspicious cackling - the beast is awake."

as if on cue, there's a loud thunk came from your bedroom.

you blinked at the camera, deadpan. "there it is."

a second later, george shuffled into frame, still in his pyjama pants, shirtless and curls still slightly flattened from sleep. without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. his body was warm against your back, all sleep-heavy and needy.

"you're filming without me already?," he mumbled, nose pressing against the curve of your neck, letting out a dramatically lough sigh.

"i didn’t know you were conscious," you replied, not even turning around. “also you were snoring, very loud.”

“lies.”

“i literally got it on tape.”

he groaned, “you better edit that out…”

"i missed you," he murmured after a moment.

"george, we were literally asleep together twenty minutes ago."

he kissed your bare shoulder, "yeah, and it was a really long twenty minutes. but now you're glowy. and smell nice too. like that vanilla stuff."

"that’s called shower gel and effort."

"exactly. fresh. lovely. mine," as he tightened his hold and rocked you gently side to side, nose still nudged into your neck.

you chuckled and met his sleepy gaze in the mirror. "say good morning to the vlog."

he blinked once, then waved lazily at the camera, still half-asleep. "morning, besties. isn't she beautiful? and i am lucky enough that i get to wake up to this every day."

you flushed a little as you glanced toward the camera again, lips twitching as you tried to refocus. "so, anyways. i'm going to take you through my skincare routine- "

george lifted his head and cut in, "her skin's perfect already, by the way. just letting you know."

"george."

"she's glowing. this is unnecessary."

you turned your head just enough to give him a look. "babe, i love you. but i will eject you from the bathroom."

he smirked, eyes twinkling. "but i'm warm."

"and needy."

"and yours."

you groaned into a smile. "ok, ok, you can stay. just- can you stop kissing my neck while i'm trying to cleanse, please?"

"never, my love."

the camera caught everything - the blush creeping into your cheeks, the way george pressed a gentle kiss on the back of your ear, and the quiet smile that tugged at your lips even as you tried to get back on track.

you raised a cleanser bottle to the lens after washing off your face. "as i was saying before, this is the cerave hydrating cleanser - classic, boring, but she never lets me down. i use this every morning, preferably without distraction- "

george kissed your shoulder again, loud and on purpose. you tried not to laugh.

" -but clearly that's too much to ask."

the shot lingered for a few seconds as you both stood there, his arms around you, your body leaning back into him like muscle memory. the kind of moment that didn't need editing - soft, real, and so clearly yours.

he kissed your shoulder softly and mumbled, "i don't want to be known as a smelly boyfriend on the internet, so lemme join."

you handed him your other cleanser without a word. he squeezed it into his palm like muscle memory. you brushed your teeth together at the sink - him using your strawberry toothpaste, you stealing glances at his bedhead through the mirror. he kept bumping your hip every few seconds, like he couldn't stand not touching you.

"we do our skincare together every morning now", you told the camera, spitting gently into the sink. "it started by accident and then it became a thing. like soft domesticity. but with less aesthetic music and more fart jokes", you chuckled.

back in the bedroom, soft morning light spilled across the floor as you sat at your vanity. the camera was now on a low tripod, capturing you from the waist up, now focused on your hands as you layered your products: serum, moisturiser, then your go-to SPF.

"next up, the ordinary hyaluronic acid for hydration", you narrated, gently pressing it into your skin. "then my holy grail- la roche-posay sunscreen. non-negotiable. even when it's cloudy. even when george says 'we're just going to tesco'."

"and i stand by that", george said from the bed, now lying flat on his stomach, watching you with his chin resting on his crossed arms. "tesco is not a sunburn risk".

"you don't get sunburn", you said. "you're solar-powered".

"exactly. i need the damage."

you laughed, tapping your moisturiser onto your cheeks. "ok. light makeup today. i've got two videos to film, but nothing to heavy. we're going minimal."

you held up your base. "rare beauty skin tint, tiny bit of concealer, cream blush - i want to look like a peach but with just enough coverage to look alive, basically."

"alive and devastating," george said from the bed, stealing your claw clip and twisting into his curls like a crown.

you glance at him in the mirror. "can you not?"

he shrugs. "i'm accessorising. do it for the vlog y'know?"

you paused, tilting your head sideways to look at him. "what are you doing for the vlog?"

"giving them what they came for."

"which is?"

"me. shirtless. holding your lip gloss. whispering sweet nothings while you try to do your eyeliner."

you snorted, shaking your head as you continued on, bouncing your beauty blender along your jawline. george got up and wandered over behind you, his arms lazily slipping around your shoulders. his chin rested in your neck, lips brushing your ear.

"you always look like a peach by the way", he murmured. "sweet. soft. ripe."

i stared deadpan into the camera and let out a soft chuckle. "i live with this by the way."

"you love this. and me."

you shake your head fondly and lean back into him for just a second before nudging him off. "go get dressed. i need to do my mascara and eyeliners without being molested." '

george smirked as he leaned in to kiss your cheek right as you start on your mascara. you flinched with a loud, "GEORGE!"

"i warned you."

"do you want me to go blind?"

"for the vlog", he said seriously, then burst into a laugh. "it's content, babe."

you stare into the lens once again. "if you ever wonder why i never filmed get-ready-with-me videos anymore...this is exactly why. this is my life."

george kisses your cheek again. you let him this time as he leaves to get ready.

after managing your skincare and (mostly) peaceful makeup routine, the video cut to a cozy wide shot of the kitchen. the camera had been placed on the corner counter as the vlog capturing your breakfast moment: you moved in and out of frame making toast, slicing strawberries, lighting the candle you kept by the kettle. as for george, he well pressed up behind you like velcro, arms wrapped around your waist, swaying to lo-fi music playing from the kitchen speaker.

“george. honey, can you give me some space so i can make your toastie before i burn it?” you asks, trying to focus while he kisses the back of your neck.

“nope. never”, he says. “i’m in my golden retriever boyfriend era. you can’t stop me.”

“and by that you mean slow-dancing with me at 9am while i’m making toast?”

he grins against your skin. “exactly. vlog needs romance.”

“guys, if you couldn’t tell by now, george is the clingiest man alive”, you says into the camera, “who doesn’t know how to let go.”

“i let go last night”, he protests. “for like, an hour, while i was streaming with the boys,” he then squeezed your hips that made you yelped loudly.

“you literally texted me mid stream to say you missed me. chat clocked you on that since you couldn’t stop giggling the whole time.”

“and you replied.”

“…yeah.”

before you could even form your next sentence, george shuffled off to the side, pulled two mugs from the shelf and started on coffee.

"no idea what i'm doing," he mumbled quietly.

"yes, you do. you called yourself the coffee king, remember?"

you walked past him to get plates, and he caught your wrist mid-step, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

the camera panned to show the breakfast laid out - toast with almond butter and strawberries, coffee in mismatched mugs, the two of you standing at the counter nibbling quietly while the city hummed outside.

as you stirred your coffee that george had so kindly made, he whispered, “tastes sweeter when it’s shared,” before taking your mug and sipping it himself.

you shot him a look.

“what?” he grinned. “we’re married in everything but name.”

back in the bedroom, you had the camera angled toward your closet while you pulled out hangers and stared at your wardrobe like it personally offended you.

“i don’t know what to wear,” you said into the mic. “we’re going to tesco and then maybe to the market, but like… i want to look cute and not too overdressed.”

george peeked his head in from the door frame while eating the last of your toast. “wear that cute jeans you just bought last week and that hoodie that you keep stealing from me,” he mumbled with a mouth full.

you narrowed your eyes. “first of all, don’t speak with your mouth full of food dude. that’s gross. and secondly, that hoodie is mine now.”

“can you believe she just called me dude?” he baffled and all you could do was letting out a soft laugh before turning around and pecked his lips teasingly.

you picked the outfit he suggested - baby blue denim pants with bows on either side of the ankles, oversized hoodie, your favourite tote - and turned to give the camera a spin. “alright, stylist george in the building but now, we’re heading out.”

the vlog picked up again in the car - you filming soft footage through the passenger window, george driving with one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over your thigh.

he kept turning the music for his favourite bits, then turning it down again to point out dogs on the sidewalk or funny billboards.

at one point he looked over and said, “this is perfect.”

you raised a brow at him. “what is?”

he just shrugged. “you. me. groceries.”

in the store, he filmed you pushing the cart, adding random snacks when you weren’t looking, and narrating everything in a fake david attenborough voice. you tried not to laugh. failed.

“here we observe the rare, wild beauty in her natural habitat: near the hummus.”

“oh my gosh, stop.”

you then filmed a bit of the queue while he made up fake names for you under his breath. “tell the cashier you’re from an oat milk dynasty.”

back home, the camera was back on the shelf in the living room. pr boxes were stacked around you like cardboard towers, and you sat cross-legged on the rug with a pair of scissors and zero clue where to begin.

george flopped next to you, took the scissors, and immediately ripped open a box upside-down.

you stared at the pile of packaging peanuts now covering the floor. “seriously?”

“oopsie…!” he said with a grin.

each item became a bit — you showed the lip oil, he tried to apply it and missed your mouth; you lifted out a reed diffuser, he smelled the stick and pretended to faint. it was chaotic, but warm.

“this one’s vanilla. this one’s rose. this one smells like you after a shower.”

“you have to stop saying that,” you said, laughing.

“i’m promoting your brand,” he said innocently.

he passed you a body butter and whispered, “this one’s dangerous.”

you threw packaging at him until he flopped dramatically behind you and pulled you into his lap mid-filming.

the camera transitions in the next clips captured you tidying up the lounge after filing your pr boxes while george followed you around like a shadow. you vacuumed. he flopped onto the couch. you adjusted the cushions. he dramatically laid across them like a 19th-century poet.

“you’re meant to be helping,” you said.

“i am. i’m providing moral support.”

“you’re providing chaos.”

he jumped up and wrapped his arms around your waist again, swaying you side to side.

“alright, alright,” you laughed. “this is our cleaning routine now?”

he kissed the top of your head. “this is our forever routine.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling. “do it for the vlog?”

“do it for you,” he whispered.

as evening settled, you lit candles, filmed soft pans of the fairy lights glowing across the curtain rods, and captured the two of you barefoot in the kitchen again — this time making pasta. you stirred sauce, george grated cheese dramatically over your shoulder, and the camera caught every domestic flicker like you lived inside a movie.

you sat down with bowls in hand, side by side on the couch. george reached for your leg and pulled it across his lap like he always did, the blanket tangled around both of you.

the vlog closed with one final wide shot — the two of you bathed in candlelight, bowls empty on the table, your head resting on his shoulder as the soft sound of a movie played in the background.

george kissed your temple and whispered something you couldn’t hear.

you turned to face the camera one last time and smiled.

“alright,” you said quietly. “i think we’re going to end the vlog here. i hope this felt as soft and cozy to watch as it was to live. if you liked it, let me know below. otherwise, thanks for hanging out with us. good night besties, we’ll see you in the next video!”

you reached over, tapped the camera off, and everything fell into stillness — warm and quiet and golden.

and for the rest of the night, you stayed curled against him, your skin smelling faintly of moisturiser and candle smoke, your heart so full it ached in the best way.

and that was it — soft, quiet, full.

exactly the kind of day you always wanted to remember.

------------------- 📌 pinned by yourusername georgeclarkeey: didn't know i was signing up to be a full-time barista, outfit consultant, AND PR assistant but honestly? i'd do it again x • yourusername: you forgot cuddling supervisor and certified toast thief 💅 but yes you’re hired. permanent contract. no pay x user: i want what you two have. the brushing teeth together?? the outfit choosing?? pls 😭😭😭 ❤️ by yourusername user: why is george being obsessed with her literally the most healing thing i’ve ever seen?? user: petition for george to get his own ‘chaotic boyfriend PR unboxing’ segment in every vlog now. ❤️ by yourusername user: this vlog was just 20 minutes of serotonin and i’m obsessed. more pls. weekly vlog when?? 👀 user: not me smiling at the screen like an idiot the whole time 😭 i need more domestic vlogs pls • yourusername: coming soon xx user: you both cooking dinner together at the end??? too soft. i had to rewatch it with a blanket on • yourusername: that’s exactly the vibe 😌 comfort food + candlelight + someone stealing your garlic bread user: no bc this is what ‘soft life’ actually means. warm coffee, shared skincare, george being clingy. i love it here 🧸 ❤️ by yourusername user: george in the unboxing segment had me in TEARS 😭 give him his own channel atp • yourusername: me too bestie x

INSTAGRAM

yourusername just added to their story !

↳ george and mr teddy wants you to watch my new vlog, out now on yourusername’s channel xx 💋🫶🏼