#How many have I ever drawn. It doesn’t make sense

[inkuboa]

Even more tiny alefs. I keep finding more and more of them.

[nereidprinc3ss]

no sweeter innocence (than our gentle sin)

in which spencer reid is gentle with overwhelmed fem!reader after sex

18+ (fluff, implied intimacy) warnings/tags: it's just aftercare, but like psychological aftercare, implied intimacy duh, vague descriptions of sex but nothing explicit, hurt/comfort without the hurt, allusions to postcoital dysphoria, reader cries but its not really sad, spencer reid is so kind i wish men were real, i think that is all a/n: guess who wrote an entirely different thing instead of touching her wips..... AGAIN...... this bitch cant do anything omggg!! but this was based on a request so go me also what a strange time to be posting but it's only 1k words and nobody can stop me

“Hey. Are you with me, angel?”

You blink your eyes open in the dark room—reorienting yourself to the tangle of your bodies. How many minutes has it been?

“Hm?”

He chuckles—a quick huff from his nose as he brings a hand up to push hair from your face. 

“I asked you if you’re with me.”

It takes you a moment to answer. You’re still trying to make sense of where you are in space, each sensation coming back to you one by one—the weight and pressure of him against you, the slip of cotton sheets and a cool breeze from the cracked window over your heated sticky skin. 

“Oh.”

It’s not much of an answer and your voice is small. For a moment he lets it sit, cupping your warm cheek. Your eyes flutter shut again. His voice comes gentler, dipped in concern. 

“You okay?”

This time you don’t try to speak. Your tongue is like a lead weight in your mouth and your brain is running on dial-up. The best you can do is to cling to him, hiding your face in the curve of his neck and hoping he’ll understand that your firm hold on him is a request for him to tighten his own arms around you, until you’re sure you won’t float away. He reciprocates and it makes you feel more secure immediately. 

“Can you answer me?” He murmurs, all sweet solicitation, lips brushing the top of your head in this new airtight position. And then, a moment later— “Baby. I wanna hear your voice.”

“Mhm,” you manage. 

Spencer rewards you by rubbing your back in slow circles. His hand feels nice on your bare skin. The way you love him is too big for words. It could make you cry. 

“Wasn’t too much? You’re not hurting anywhere?”

You shake your head and try to ignore the ache in your bones when you can’t seem to get him close enough. 

“Mm-mm.”

It’s not entirely true—your legs are sore, but it’s nothing that needs tending to, and your lower back is a bit crampy, but he’s already working on that. 

He hums. “You’re pretty out of it, sweet girl. What’s going on with you?”

Spencer is always careful with you. He’d never hurt you, or sacrifice your comfort for his pleasure. That said, he’s just as passionate as you are. The stretch of your arms above your head is still fresh in your mind—the ghost of his grip, pressing your wrists into the mattress, or pushing your leg up, or pulling you exactly where he wanted you by the hips. It’s all wonderful, and you never feel safer than you do when you’re with him, but it doesn’t make you feel any less vulnerable, any less raw, after all is said and done. Maybe it’s precisely because you trust him so much that you’re so sensitive afterward. But he never, ever makes you feel bad for having an intense reaction to an intense experience. He always meets you where you’re at. That in itself makes you emotional. Spencer is different than any of the partners you’d had before. 

Again, he’s patient as you try to process his question and work up a response. Maybe a minute later, you’re breathing out something that feels true. 

“Overwhelmed.”

The word is a tap against glass you didn’t know was there until it’s fracturing like a spiderweb. With no warning, and for no good reason, you find yourself choked up. 

“Oh,” he says, sympathetic and drawn out as understanding sets in. “Do you need me to back off for a minute?”

You squeeze him even fiercer and shake your head, unable to stop the tears from drawing their shiny paths down your cheeks and sinking into the weave of the pillow case. 

“Shh. You’re okay,” he murmurs, quiet and slow and almost sing-songy as he smooths your hair, though you know he doesn’t really expect you to stop crying. “You’re okay, pretty. Remember what I said about all the hormonal shifts in your body after you come?”

Once more you nod against him with a small, shuddering sniffle. 

“And how sometimes your body regulates by crying? Kind of like a… a reset button?”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm.” He shifts from rubbing your back to tracing light lines in shapeless patterns with the blunt edges of his nails, and your breath catches before you’re melting in his hold. “It’s okay to have big or confusing feelings after sex. It’s actually really common. I just want you to be honest with me about those feelings, right? So we can keep you safe?”

“Right.”

“Would you tell me if you were hurting, or if something I did or said was bothering you?”

“Yes.”

If you were looking at him you know he’d be smiling ever so slightly at your monosyllabic responses, charting an upward path with his hand and pushing it through your hair at the nape of your neck. “You can just nod, baby. You don’t have to talk. I know you’re tired.”

You make a small noise of gratitude and nuzzle closer, feeling better as the tears slow, quickly as they’d come. 

“Do you want a bath in a little while?”

Another nod. He scratches at your scalp. “Okay. We’ll do a bath, and then dinner, and then I’m finally going to make you watch that documentary about Helvetica. It’s a little outdated, and there are a few basic errors about the origin and development of the font as well as misinformation about the typeface subgroup in general, but I can amend those as we watch and afterward we can read the director’s tenth anniversary statement. I was waiting to read it until we watched it together.”

Spencer knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ll fall asleep ten minutes in, curled up on the couch under a blanket in your biggest hoodie with your head on his lap and his hand in your hair, just like this. 

He’s actually really looking forward to it.

[saebs-index]

⚡︎ astrology observations

⟡ sags have the biggest egos out of anyone i’ve ever seen. everyone always talks about leo’s but underdeveloped sags are much worse. they will get so defensive if u even disagree with them once. evolved sags are really smart though and some of the kindest most optimistic people

⟡ people with strong neptunian energy have a major star-like quality to them and tend to be multi-talented especially in the arts. they naturally attract lots of attention toward themself and admiration from people but sometimes it can be in a dangerous way. many of these people attract stalkers. i hear people say plutonian people do as well which i agree with but neptunian people attract the scariest stalkers i’ve ever seen. much more calculated ones

⟡ eighth house venus’ genuinely love the toxicity of relationships. they say they don’t but then they’re the type that can’t fall in love with someone who’s a good person or that treats them well and just repeatedly goes back to someone that treats them awful

⟡ i’ve been iffy about whether i find tropical or vedic astrology to be more accurate but recently i was thinking about how certain things make more sense in sidereal astrology than they do in tropical. like how tropical scorpios and geminis are the most hated signs but in sidereal they would be libra and taurus ruled by venus which is associated with jealousy. aphrodite (venus) was always hated on quite a bit because she was known as the most beautiful goddess in mythology which naturally inspired jealous and envy in others so it makes sense

⟡ i’ve noticed that most commonly the people i have a crush on have placements that conjunct or oppose my venus and the people that have a crush on me have placements that conjunct or oppose my mars. i’m not sure why (i’m a boy btw. idk if gender has anything to do with it but i never agreed with the gender astrology stuff)

⟡ i’ve always found relationships to be better when you’re dating your fifth house sign rather than your seventh house sign, but i think people are definitely more drawn to their seventh house energy. honestly when it comes to both romance and friendship

⟡ i’ve heard people say the fifth house is fling type energy but i disagree. the third house is definitely more so associated with flings/hookups than any other house. any kind of short term relationship in general honestly. short term friendships too

⟡ virgo men have the sass of a literal teenage girl when they’re unevolved and they complain about everything. they always are extremely controlling over weird stuff that just doesn’t matter

⟡ i would argue that the house of your placements are more impactful than the signs. both are crucial but i resonate the most with the houses my planets are in. i also resonate a lot with the degrees. sometimes even more than the sign, but that could just be me idk

i’m a realist and extremely honest, sorry not sorry.

[simpforsolas]

You ever think about how Cole, a literal spirit of compassion, seems to care so much for Solas? Yes, he tries to connect with others and help them as well, but what they have is not the trust and affection he holds for Solas. Cole stands up for Solas on various occasions:

Vivienne: You should not encourage that thing. Cole: Solas is not a thing.

or

Cole: Solas doesn’t want to hurt people! He’s not that kind of wolf!

or

Cole: You didn’t do it to be right. You did it to save them. Inquisitor: Solas, what is he talking about? Solas: A mistake. One of many made by a much younger elf who was certain he knew everything. Cole: You weren’t wrong.

Or how about the fact that after Solas left, Cole went looking for him in the fade out of compassion, and Solas had to tell him to forget?

Cole's entire being is based around a single attribute: compassion. Because of this, he's drawn to a) people with pain for him to heal and b) people who are kind. He can sense that Solas has much hurt to heal, though Solas is able to conceal it from Cole in ways others cannot, but I think he also cares for Solas because he understands who he is at his core. He understands that despite what Solas has done or plans to do, he doesn't want to hurt people. He doesn't care about being right, he cares about helping. In truth, analyzing Cole and Solas's relationship is extremely revealing of who Solas really is. If the spirit of compassion who can read minds and emotions has so much affection for Solas and sees his motivations as coming from a place of goodness, that seems much more honest and true to me than someone making a judgment of him based outward factors.

The more I play inquisition, the more I use Cole as a moral compass. He may not understand the world, but one thing he understands is compassion, and every decision he makes is rooted in love for others. So if Cole cares for Solas and doesn't see him as a monster, then I believe that no matter what he ends up doing, this is proof that Solas is someone worth caring for. Someone with good within him.

[goldfades]

HOTTEST COUPLE IN THE ROOM ───JB⁹

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | requested! -> "Joe x Dallas cowboy cheerleader reader"

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | reader is kinda perceived as bitchy, and not a cookie-cutter dcc. lots of a banter, leads to relationship.

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | my new fav thing EVER

The bass shakes the floor beneath your heels, the scent of top-shelf liquor and expensive cologne thick in the air. The postgame party is exactly what you expected—too many people, too much noise, and a lingering sense of competition that doesn’t quite fade even after the game’s final whistle. Cowboys and Bengals players mix like oil and water, good-natured jabs tossed between sips of whiskey, the occasional laugh laced with something sharper.

You don’t want to be here.

But when the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders make an appearance, it’s not optional. It’s PR. It’s “team camaraderie.” It’s smiling through gritted teeth while some dude in a suit with more money than personality tells you how impressive it is that you can do a perfect high kick in full glam.

You adjust the hem of your dress, shifting against the leather couch tucked in the VIP section. It’s not that you’re bad at playing the part. You just don’t fit the mold the way you’re supposed to. The other girls—prim, polished, always camera-ready—glide through the room like they were born for this. You, on the other hand, are already toeing the line of “too much.” Too opinionated, too unpredictable, too unwilling to be anything other than exactly who you are.

And yet, you’re still here. Because when you dance, they shut up about the rest.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” a voice drawls beside you, cutting through the music.

Your gaze shifts, locking onto the last person you expected to seek you out tonight. Joe Burrow.

His suit jacket is slung over his arm, the sleeves of his crisp white button-down rolled up just enough to give him that effortlessly put-together look. He’s got that half-smirk that’s made him a social media obsession, and yet there’s something else in his expression—curiosity, maybe. Amusement.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t think you knew who I was.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” His eyes flicker, something sharp and knowing in them. “Hard to miss the cheerleader who doesn’t play by the rules.”

You tilt your head, feigning offense. “I play by the rules.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. You don’t. You just make it look like you do.”

And there it is. The first crack in the game, the unspoken understanding settling between you like a drawn line in the sand.

It should be nothing.

But somehow, it doesn’t feel like nothing.

You lean back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other toying with the rim of the drink you don’t actually want. The ice clinks softly as you swirl it, eyes flicking back to Joe, unimpressed but not entirely disinterested.

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Joe Burrow knows my reputation. I guess I can retire now.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that barely shakes his shoulders. “Just saying, you don’t blend in.”

You lift a brow. “Neither do you.”

His smirk deepens, just a little. “Difference is, I’m supposed to stand out.”

You roll your eyes. “God, you’re worse than I thought.”

Joe blinks, feigning offense. “Worse?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your head, taking him in. “I figured you’d at least let me get a word in before pulling the ‘I’m Joe Burrow’ card.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The smirk on his face falters just a fraction, like he’s recalculating his approach. He came over here thinking he’d charm you with minimal effort, just like he probably does with every other girl in this room. You can’t blame him. You’re used to guys like him—ones who assume that a few smooth lines and a good jawline will be enough to win you over. It’s exhausting, really.

Joe, to his credit, seems to pick up on it quickly. He shifts his stance, dropping the easy arrogance just a notch, watching you like he’s trying to figure out a new play mid-game.

“So, you don’t like football players,” he guesses.

“I never said that.”

“You don’t seem impressed.”

“I’m just not easily impressed.”

Joe clicks his tongue, shaking his head like he’s been personally challenged. “Tough crowd.”

You let out a short laugh, finally taking a sip of your drink. The warmth spreads through you, smoothing the edges of your already sharp tongue. “Look, I get it. You’re Joe Cool, media darling, golden boy, future Hall of Famer, blah, blah, blah. But none of that tells me who you actually are.”

Joe’s quiet for a beat, like he wasn’t expecting you to cut through the bullshit so quickly. Most people don’t.

He studies you. “You wanna know who I am?”

“I wanna know if you can hold a conversation that doesn’t involve your highlight reel.”

Joe grins, shaking his head like you’re more trouble than he bargained for—but not the kind he wants to walk away from.

“Alright,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Let’s make it fair. Since you’re so uninterested in my career, how about I ask about yours?”

You narrow your eyes. “Go for it.”

He tilts his head. “You always wanted to be a cheerleader?”

You pause for a fraction of a second. It’s not a bad question, but it’s not the usual small talk either. It’s got an edge to it, like he’s actually curious.

“No,” you admit. “I wanted to be an astronaut.”

Joe snorts. “Serious?”

“As a heart attack.” You smirk. “But apparently, NASA frowns upon people who talk back to their instructors.”

Joe laughs now, really laughs, and it does something to his face—makes it lighter, less perfectly put-together. It’s a nice look on him.

“So, you settled for the next most intense program?” he asks.

“Something like that.” You glance around the room, at the Cowboys players, the other cheerleaders, the high-profile guests all schmoozing and clinking glasses. “DCC is its own version of NASA. Just with more hairspray and stricter calorie counts.”

Joe hums, considering that. “And yet, you don’t seem the type to take orders.”

You shrug. “I don’t. But I’m really, really good at what I do.”

His gaze lingers for half a second too long. “Yeah,” he says, low and thoughtful. “I bet you are.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your breath catch for just a second—not because you’re flustered, but because it feels like he actually sees you, past the sequins and forced smiles and PR obligations.

You tap your nails against your glass, breaking whatever was starting to settle between you. “Well, congrats,” you say, all light and teasing again. “You managed to hold a conversation without bringing up your own stats.”

Joe grins, lazy and triumphant. “And?”

You take a slow sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. “You’re not completely insufferable.”

Joe laughs, leaning back into the couch. “I’ll take it.”

The first date wasn’t supposed to happen.

At least, not in your mind.

But Joe had this way of slipping through the cracks of your carefully built walls, catching you off guard in a way that wasn’t annoying, but intriguing. So, when he had looked at you across that crowded party and said, “One drink. No football talk,” you had rolled your eyes, but ultimately, you had agreed.

One drink turned into three. A post-midnight drive through downtown. A completely ridiculous bet over who could name more obscure 90s songs (you won, obviously). And then, somehow, a second date.

And that was the real surprise.

Because by then, you figured you had him pegged. Star quarterback, smooth operator, probably used to women falling over themselves to impress him. But the Joe you saw away from the cameras, when it was just the two of you in a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall bar or sprawled out on his couch, eating takeout straight from the boxes, was different. He was easy in a way that felt familiar, like a song you hadn’t heard in years but still knew all the words to.

And he got you.

Most guys would tense up when you made some sarcastic comment, unsure if they should be amused or offended. Joe just smirked and shot one right back, quick and sharp like one of his passes. The banter was effortless, the chemistry undeniable, but it never felt forced.

It felt like you’d known him forever.

Which was dangerous.

Because you weren’t supposed to like him this much.

But a few months flew by before you could think too hard about it.

One minute, you were rolling your eyes at him in a Dallas bar. The next, you were sneaking glances at your phone in the middle of DCC rehearsals, trying not to smile at whatever nonsense he had just texted you.

Then came the flights.

You found yourself booking tickets to Cincinnati more often than you’d ever expected, trading in your Texas sunsets for the sharp chill of Ohio air, showing up in his city like you belonged there. And the crazy part? It never felt inconvenient. You had never been the type to rearrange your schedule for a guy, but with Joe, it was different. He made the effort too—catching flights to see you between games, showing up unannounced just to grab dinner, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It should’ve been overwhelming, but it wasn’t.

Because nothing about Joe was ever boring.

You’d expected the excitement in the beginning—the flirty back-and-forth, the teasing, the lingering looks that stretched longer than they should. But what you hadn’t expected was the way he made everything feel lighter. How he made you laugh when you were dead on your feet after an exhausting game day. How he somehow always knew when you needed to talk and when you just needed to sit in comfortable silence.

And yeah, the tension was there. Always.

You weren’t blind, and Joe sure as hell wasn’t either. There were moments—when his hand lingered on your lower back a second too long, when you caught him watching you with that unreadable expression, when he pulled you into a hug that felt like it meant something more.

But neither of you pushed it. Not yet.

For now, it was enough to just exist in whatever this was.

And, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t in any rush to define it.

The New York City skyline stretched high above the venue, lights twinkling like they were in on the secret that tonight was something different.

Joe didn’t hide you.

He hadn’t from the start, really, but there was a difference between showing up for each other in private and standing next to him now, his hand resting low on your back, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress like he wanted everyone to see exactly where you belonged.

And you?

You looked good enough to ruin a man’s career.

Your dress was the kind that turned heads—sleek, with just enough edge to remind people that you weren’t the typical quarterback’s girlfriend. Joe wasn’t intimidated by it, wasn’t the type to shrink when his girl demanded attention. No, if anything, he was thriving on it. Walking into the party with you on his arm, chin high, like he knew for a fact that you were the hottest couple in the room.

And you were.

It didn’t matter that the place was full of some of the most famous athletes in the league, that models and influencers and A-listers milled around with expensive drinks in hand—no one looked as good as the two of you together.

Joe left you only once, leaning down to murmur, “Gonna get us a drink, don’t go too far.”

You weren’t worried about being left alone. You’d been in these rooms before, could handle yourself just fine.

But apparently, someone didn’t get the memo.

The moment Joe was out of earshot, a presence settled beside you—too close, too confident.

“Damn, haven’t seen you in a minute.”

You already knew you were going to hate him before you even looked.

And sure enough, when you turned, there he was. A Cowboys player, one you’d interacted with just enough to know he was exactly the type you had no patience for. Cocky in a way that wasn’t charming, self-important in a way that made your skin itch.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he bulldozed on.

“So, what, you finally got tired of playing in the kiddie pool and upgraded?” He grinned, not even waiting for you to respond. “Figured it was only a matter of time. The whole ‘untouchable cheerleader’ thing was getting old.”

You smiled. Smirked, really. Because this? This was amusing.

He thought you were flustered. Thought you were scrambling for a way out.

Like you hadn’t been shutting down men like him since the first time you ever put on that DCC uniform.

“Oh, yeah,” you said, voice smooth as silk. “Joe’s an upgrade, alright.” You tilted your head, eyes dragging over him in an exaggerated once-over. “But considering what I was working with before, it really didn’t take much.”

His smile flickered, but he was too stubborn to let it go. “C’mon, you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you, remember? Back when you were just another Dallas girl trying to play hard to get?”

You actually laughed at that.

Not a fake, polite one. A real one. Because this was just sad.

“Wow,” you mused. “I’ve gotta give it to you, you commit to the bit. Most guys would’ve tapped out by now, but you? You’re still going. That’s dedication.”

His jaw tensed just slightly. “I’m just saying, no need to act all high and mighty. We both know you used to—”

“Used to what?”

Your voice was still sweet, still playful, but the underlying steel was there. And when you took a slow sip of your drink, watching him over the rim, it was clear you were letting him dig his own grave.

Before he could figure out how to claw his way out, a shadow loomed beside you.

Joe.

But not in the swooping, Oh no! My girl is in distress! way.

No, he was calm. Casual. Like he had all the time in the world. His presence alone was enough to shift the energy in the conversation, but you didn’t even acknowledge him yet. You wanted to see just how long it would take for the guy in front of you to realize he’d lost.

Turns out, not long.

Joe didn’t say anything, just leaned slightly against the bar, watching with mild interest. But the weight of his presence alone did something to your uninvited guest—made him shift uncomfortably, made his easy confidence crack just a little.

And that? That was satisfying.

“I was just catching up with your girl,” the Cowboy muttered, backtracking so fast you almost wanted to laugh.

Joe didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah?” He glanced at you, finally acknowledging you with a knowing smirk. “You having fun?”

You took another sip, grinning. “Oh, loads.”

The guy beside you tensed. “I was just—”

“Leaving?” you supplied helpfully.

His mouth opened. Closed. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Joe chuckled, finally handing you the drink he had left to get. “You were having way too much fun with that.”

You shrugged, taking a sip. “Can you blame me?”

He shook his head, draping an arm lazily around your waist, pulling you in just slightly. “Guess not.”

And the night went on.

Just you and Joe. The hottest couple in the room.

[marsian-tango]

Yandere Cowboy

Ah, the countryside…

It’s such a contrast to the messy and hectic scenery of the city—flickering lights from the streets, which shine manages to cover the inside of your bedroom, even with the curtains drawn; loud voices that echo against the quiet of the neighborhood at night; the constant fear of getting robbed while you’re walking home from the grocery store, or at the bus station, or while you’re taking a nice stroll in the park.

You chose to live in the city. It inspired you at the time. It made you feel like a complete star, living in a cosmopolitan environment, breathing the air filled with potential and dreams, sending new chapters and drafts to your editorial almost everyday. You wanted this, so why does it seem so annoying now?

Maybe it’s because you drank a little bit too much tonight, but the idea of leaving your entire life behind and starting again doesn’t seem so bad all of the sudden…

Imagine. A pretty farm, lots of animals, creating a new routine, meeting new people, expanding your horizons. It’s perfect! Plus, you can still do your job, this shouldn’t be an impediment. In fact, this is gonna get you the inspiration that you’ve been lacking lately!

Oh, a whole new life waiting ahead of you. The intoxicating calmness and the pretty landscapes are bound to make you feel right at home. You just know it.

It’s been two months since you arrived at this place. The Campbell farm. You’ve gotten pretty used to the whole country life—if you may say so yourself.

You walk through the farm after eating breakfast, heading to the barn like you usually do. Waving and cooing at the animals that you passed by, making sure to bathe in praise every cute animal that you see.

You take in the morning sight, the one that always takes your breath away, no matter how many times you see it. It remains just as beautiful every single time you look at it.

Lush green plains covering the landscape, as well as fields with different kinds of vegetables and cereals, and a few small creeks here and there that seem to shine in an ethereal glow when the sunlight hits it. The breeze caresses your face softly, bringing the faint smell of mud with it. It’s all just like the stories you always read, or the Hallmark movies you sometimes watch—the ones you take a guilty pleasure from.

It’s all a new routine, different from the one you had in the city. Wake up at 7:44—even if the Campbell ladies scold you for ‘waking up late’; collect the eggs from the chicken coop; make yourself breakfast; clean the chicken coop; feed the animals—except the cows, they may look cute and soft, but they haven’t warmed up to you yet; and lastly, find Flynn to see if he needs any help.

Ah, right. Flynn.

“Hey! How’s it goin’, sweetheart?” A deep voice resonates in the old barn, pulling a knowing smile from your face.

“Nothing much.” You say dismissively. “How are you? Anything I can help you with?”

Flynn Bennet. The golden boy of these lands. Son of a well respected landowner, who passed away when he was just a kid. Popular amongst the other landowners for his helpful nature and charming presence—and that’s exactly why he’s here, helping out at the Campbell’s farm out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh, I’m doin’ just fine on my own, sweetheart.” He says as he lifts a square bale and puts it amongst others in a corner. He steps towards you, standing in front of you. “But I actually have some business in town, wanna come with?”  Your face lights up at his offer and you nod eagerly.

He chuckles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to bring you closer as you two start walking to his truck. “Mhm, knew you’d agree.”

Ever since you got here, you’ve felt a sense of comfort every time Flynn’s around. He’s your only friend here apart from the owners of the farm after all. He’s just such a country sweetheart, and you don’t want to stereotype him…but he’s a living stereotype himself! He’s a true gentleman. He’s helpful, caring, respectful, handsome. You like being around him, and—in all honesty—who doesn’t?

He always seems to appear out of nowhere when you need him the most, or when you’re coincidentally looking for him. He’s just always so within reach. Every time you have a problem—as minuscule as it may be—he’s there. Like when the bathroom door got stuck after you came out of the shower, or when your curiosity got the best of you and you tried to hand feed the cows, or that time when you thought it’d be cool to ride a horse—without really knowing how to ride a horse. 

But that’s only what you perceive, isn’t it?

You don’t notice his lingering gaze tracing every curve of your body when you’re not looking. You don’t notice the way his polite smile seems to tense—like it always does when he’s lying—when he says that the Campbell’s asked him to do the laundry for them, but he only ever picks up your clothes. You don’t notice the heavy breathing coming from your wardrobe when you’re about to go to sleep.

To you, he’s your knight in shining armor, ready to help you whenever you need. But to the omniscient presence following your story? Well…it’s complicated.

“I don’t wanna sound like a jerk, but both look the same to me.” You deadpan, shrugging at him.

Flynn rolls his eyes. “C’mon, darlin’! They’re two completely different colors—oh, whatever. Just tell me which one you like best.” He slightly lifts the two hangers with the shirts, so you can see them better. The only aspect that helps you tell them apart is an almost imperceptible shade difference. You don’t seem to be a very helpful shopping-buddy.

Before you can give your answer, a sudden voice startles both of you.

“Well, look who we have here, if it ain’t the Golden Boy himself!” You turn your head to look at the stranger, which makes him drift his gaze to you. A smirk stretches across the stranger’s face before he acknowledges your presence. “And…a cute lil’ angel too.”

“Ah…” You laugh awkwardly, unaware of the hard glare Flynn was giving the man. “Uhm, you guys know each other?”

Flynn huffs under his breath as he sets the shirts he was holding on a nearby table. He hates being interrupted, and he especially despises being interrupted while he’s spending time with you. Don’t people know that intrusions like these are impolite? Ugh! He just wishes he could bang this guy’s head against the wall over, and over, and over, and—

“Boy, do we know each other, huh, Bennie?” The man chuckles, patting Flynn’s shoulder with a bit too much force, but Flynn’s broad body doesn’t flinch. “We’re like cousins, we went to school together!”

Flynn lets out a sigh, clenching his fist in exasperation until his knuckles turn white. “Yeah, good to see you, Harvey, but we’re actually a lil’ busy here—”

“Oh, don’t kick me out like this! I still need to get to know this lil’ sugarcube right here…” His eyes slowly wander down your body, his tongue running along his lower lip as he does so.

Your eyes widen slightly in response to his overwhelming—and kind of off putting—attention, making you turn to Flynn for support. His features soften as his gaze collides with yours, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

“I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, Harvey,” You say politely, but unenthusiastically. “But Flynn’s right, we were actually about to leave, so…” You lie, feigning an apologetic look.

“Oh, well that’s quite alright! You see, I can tell you’re not from ‘round here, and I’ve heard that the Campbell’s got a little guest on their farm,” Harvey takes a step closer to you, invading your space, and making you back away until your back touches the wall behind you. “You don’t happen to be said guest, do ya’? Cause if you are, then I could—you know—drop by and…pay you a lil’ visit.” He smirks at you, and you grimace.

Next thing you know, Flynn’s pulling you to his chest, away from Harvey. You welcome his comforting touch with open arms, letting him hold you against him, and ignoring how tight his grip is on you. You pretend not to notice the sharp tension hanging in the air, and you also pretend not to notice how the man’s face turns from arrogance to something close to fear.

“We’ll be on our way now, Harvs. It was…nice seeing you.” His voice sounds just as easy going as it always does, but there’s something in the way he says it. Something…fake. Restrained. Controlled. As if he was holding back from saying something entirely different.

You two leave the shop without sparing him a single glance. Flynn’s grip on your arm remains tight, he seems to have forgotten to let go, but you don’t dare remind him. You’ve never seen him act like this, and it unnerves you.

You get in his truck, sitting in the passenger's seat, and he buckles your seatbelt for you before turning the car. Even in a state of wrath, he remains a gentleman.

The ride back to the farm is quiet, disturbingly so. You choose to leave him be and let him cool off instead of questioning his behavior—no matter how intrigued you are. Throughout the whole journey home, you stay in your head, daydreaming about everything and anything.

And while you wonder if the cupcake that you left in the fridge disappeared, was stolen, or you simply ate it and don’t remember—Flynn is scheming.

Lost in his head, his mind going 100 miles per hour, he plans how he’ll punish that bastard for shamelessly harassing you in front of him. He plans how he’ll make that vermin pay for even attempting to woo you. He plans where he’ll hide the body. He plans if he’ll even leave a body.

He’ll gauge his eyes. He’ll skin him alive. He’ll chop off every limb of his body. He’ll make sure to give him a slow and agonizingly painful death.

Flynn Bennet has never killed anyone. Why would he? He’s the Golden Boy after all, the knight in shining armor, the prince charming. But now that he has you. Lovely, sweet, innocent, God-sent you. What is he supposed to do?! Let that parasite…live? NO!

C’mon! ‘Sugarcube’? CREEP ALERT!

Someone as precious as you shouldn't have to deal with morons like that.

He needs to protect you! You’re from the city, you don’t know how disgusting these people can be—how nauseating they are! They’ll try to take advantage of your naivety and hurt you!

Not him though. He’s the exception, he’s the only one you can trust.

Sure—he may or may not sniff your dirty clothes until he falls asleep, and he may or may not watch you while you change…and sleep…and shower…and just overall exist—but that’s just a bad habit! He’ll quit once you become his, he swears!

He will take great care of you. The second you become his, you’ll never have to worry ever again.

He’ll take care of everything, so don’t worry about a thing. He’ll make sure to romance you how it’s supposed to, like a true gentleman. Trust him. His mother and older sister have taught him how to treat a darling like you.

So, just you wait. You just keep writing your stories, playing with the animals, getting to know yourself. He’ll take care of the rest.

After all, what better way to live the country life than with a cowboy by your side?

I did it! I finally did it! I finished what i was supposed to finish a month ago! Are you guys proud of me? I know you're not, you must be heavily disappointed, especially the person who requested this. I'm sorry. But I did it, at last, the prophecy has been fulfilled and I can finally write whatever I want guiltless... I know it's not very good nor very long, but at least it's here (Which is the bare minimum, I'm sorry) I love you all, I hope everyone is having a good day or night. Remember to point out any mistakes that you see. Ps. @c4cyk4 I'm really sorry, my sweet N4N4, I owe you. I shouldn't have taken this long. I love you, don't leave me, wifey <3

[dollishmehrayan]

I feel like a reason why jason todd will always be misunderstood as a character and person forever is because his emotional side of his character is so deep like genuinely it’s so deep where’ll you will think to yourself, he has plenty of sides as a character to a point it’s so pointless to try to capture his emotions in a movie or a simple writing, like genuinely imagine being tortured for 6 months - 2 years for doing good for your own city and when you come back you see someone has taken your spot and your death didn’t change anything, joker running free, batman with a robin and etc and nothing impacted on the city at all, as if you were never born and when you finally confront the closest thing you have to a father he just says “I can’t, I’m sorry..” when you poured your heart out so your emotions and pain doesn’t cloud your mind and feeling like you just born to be nothing, from coming from a semi abusive household in poverty and a trying biological father who can’t make ends meet and a addict mother to fending on the streets to resort to stealing car tires not knowing how long you’ll make it until your next meal to then becoming the mantle of robin and having pressure to live up to the past one too, it genuinely cannot be captured jason Todd’s character is so emotional and deep honestly I can talk about it for hours, and especially seeing no mourning stage ── .✦ if double perspective were two people it would be Bruce and jason, it’s a problem when you have the same hearts and different minds as some say double edged sword. Characters can be so fucking deep even then how we can compare to humanity, I genuinely wonder how deep his character goes, it’s part of the reason why so many people feel drawn to him I genuinely cannot express how much I feel that I think the whole ‘red hood’ confession was super shorten too because what do you mean that was it!?!?, like I genuinely get Bruce’s point he can’t kill because he’ll never stop once he starts but I feel like it just wasn’t right and how he expressed why he couldn’t to a “I can’t, I’m sorry (a bit of etc)” knowing jason would’ve killed anyone for bruce in a heartbeat but when the table turns bruce just couldn’t and if one think hurts it definitely loving someone but knowing they wouldn’t do the same for you, it a pistol. To. Your. Head. It’s the worst kind of love one can handle ever I think but in the interactive movie you could see jason about to do it but yk ofc Tim and etc but it just doesn’t make sense how jason fulfilled Bruce’s wishes/ morals but bruce couldn’t fulfill Jason’s. -dollish

[fastandcarlos]

My Little Graduate : ̗̀➛ Max Verstappen

summary: you're all prepared to graduate with your family by your side, and an unexpected extra sneaking into the crowd

“There she is...my little graduate!” Max cheered as he watched you walk through the crowd of people, opening his arms up and inviting you straight into the room. 

You were lifted up of your feet as soon as Max’s arms wrapped around you, your hand reaching up to keep a hold of your cap that was on the top of your head. Max pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek before pulling away, studying you closely. His hand slipped into yours as he twirled you around, his eyes drawn to the wide smile on your face. 

It was everything that Max wanted to see, after watching you stress and suffer for so many months, he was finally seeing the proper you in front of him again. 

“You’ve got no idea how proud I am of you,” Max smiled, taking both of your hands into his, “you’ve worked so hard to get that moment today.” 

He was in awe of how hard you’d worked, relentlessly researching, typing, proofreading, whatever you needed to do in order to get yourself your degree that you’d dreamed of for so long. Max was hardworking himself, but nothing could compare to how hard you’d pushed yourself. 

Little did Max know the part that he had played though. The constant late night visits, dashes to the shop to help you, offers to read over what you’d written to make sure that it made sense in your sleep state.  

“Graduation suits you too,” Max complimented, taking a closer look at you. 

The slight breeze blew your gown up slightly, showing off the dress that you wore underneath. The finishing touch for Max though was the cap that you wore on top of your head, the one thing you’d talked about wanting to wear for so long, and at last it was finally yours. 

“I can’t believe I’m dating a graduate,” Max smiled, keeping his eyes firmly on you. “How does it feel to finally receive the recognition that you deserve?” 

“This is the moment I dreamt of when I sent that application in all those years ago,” you chuckled, smoothing down your gown. “There were plenty of moments too when I was sure that I wasn’t actually going to see the end of this degree.” 

There had been many conversations between you and Max when you felt like giving up. He was there every time though, reminding you of how hard you’d worked and how rewarding it would be if you saw it through to the end. 

He wasn’t sure at the time whether you truly believed him, but now as you celebrated your moment, he was relieved that you had listened and stuck it out, no matter how many times you wanted to turn around and say no. 

“I always knew you’d get here,” Max shrugged, as if it was the easiest thing in the world that you’d achieved. “There was no doubt in my mind with that incredibly smart mind of yours.” 

Your hands rested against Max’s chest, tilting your head back to look up at him. “I don’t think I’d have got to this moment without you, you’ve always been my biggest cheerleader.” 

As your eyes met Max’s, you couldn’t help but smile, reaching up and taking your cap off. You twirled it in your hands before placing it on top of Max’s head instead, taking a step back so that you could admire how well it suited him. Although your degree was yours, Max had played a huge part in it too. His smile turned up as he positioned the cap so that it was straight, allowing you to pull your phone out and take a picture of him. 

Once he had it, Max didn’t want to take it off, finding himself quite comfortable with a graduate cap on his head. He knew it was never going to be his, but he didn’t take for granted how appreciative you were of everything that he had done for you over the past couple of years. 

“You deserve to wear that for a moment,” you told him, handing it back as Max went to take it off. “It probably doesn’t compare to all those fancy trophies that you win on a podium, but that to me is probably the biggest trophy I’ll ever earn. So, I want you to hold it, like you tell me to do with yours.” 

“This is all yours,” Max protested, taking the cap and popping it back onto the top of your head. “I’m just enjoying the fact that there’s so many graduates around here today, and yet I’m dating the best one.” 

“I’m emotional enough as it is today without you getting soppy.” 

You hit hard against Max’s chest as his arms snaked back around your frame. He pressed a kiss against the top of your head, blocking out everything that was going on around you. Despite the hundreds of names that had been read as people walked across the stage, there was only one that meant anything to him. 

A hand poked against your side, dragging you out of your daydream. “What’s the plan now that you’ve got a super official degree to your name?” 

“I guess I have to go and get a job now,” you chuckled, “I can’t study and travel the world supporting you forever, as nice as it’s been for the past couple of years.” 

“You’ll still come to some races though, won’t you? Even though you’re going to be busy?” Max nervously asked you. 

It didn’t matter how career driven you were, there was no way you were going to stop going to races completely. Depending on what direction you were about to go in, you knew every race would be impossible, but if there was any chance that you could get there, then you absolutely would. 

“Wherever you go next, I’ll be supporting you,” Max assured you, “and wherever that place is, I know you’re going to go on and do absolutely amazing things too.” 

“I should probably go and collect a few more degrees to try and match all your world championships.” 

“Yours is a lot more impressive than mine,” Max grinned. 

Your eyes narrowed back at him, “millions of people get degrees, but there’s only one champion of the world, and that just so happens to be you.” 

Although you had a point, Max was still far more impressed by what you achieved then what he had. He was at the top in his field, and he knew now that the world was your oyster that you were absolutely going to rise to the top of your field too. 

“I really am proud of you,” Max told you once again, kissing against your forehead. 

“I know you are,” you giggled, “it’s taken a lot of blood, sweat and tears to get to this moment, but I’m so happy that we’re finally here.” 

“I’m just looking forward to having you back, without the stress, the late trips to the library,” Max couldn’t help but joke, “it’s just going to be you again, with that big, beautiful smile on your face.” 

Your eyes widened as Max spoke, “are you suggesting that I’ve been stressed and stroppy over the past few months?” You challenged. 

“Love, you’ve been an absolute nightmare.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[therealmrrobinson]

THE DAY THE EARTH BLEW UP: A LOONEY TUNES MOVIE Movie Review

Let’s be honest, when it comes to movies, the Looney Tunes brand has not had a very good run this decade. In 2021 there was Space Jam: A New Legacy, which turned out to be nothing but a shameless commercial for all things Warner Bros., and then there was the infamous tale of the shelved Coyote vs. Acme movie that may never see the light of day. So it’s with all of these tragedies that it’s a miracle that this movie, The Day The Earth Blew Up, even got released. (Granted through Ketchup Entertainment and not WB. themselves.) Not only that, but it’s also incredible that the end result is undeniably the best Looney Tunes ever made.

THE GOOD

What separates this movie from something like the Space Jam sequel, is that it is made by people who clearly love Looney Tunes. Despite the fact that we only have three characters, this movie stays true to who they are. Daffy Duck is more reflective of how his was when he was first introduced and before he started being paired up with Bugs Bunny. He’s a complete lunatic, he’s overly confident, and has a tendency to cause more trouble than what they have to deal with in the moment! Meanwhile, Porky Pig is the more sensible of the two, complete with his famous stutter. Eric Bauza does a fantastic job voicing both characters and much like Mel Blanc long before, it’s incredible how many of the Looney Tunes characters he’s able to voice to perfection. Petunia Pig is also a fun character. She manages to be the most sensible of the group, while also being crazy and…dare I say looney in her own way!

The animation is spectacular. It’s great to not only see classic 2D animation, but also 2D animation that was made for a big screen experience. The last two animated movies that I can think of that look like they were hand drawn are The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim or Teen Titans Go! To the Movies. In both instances, you watch those movies and question the reason to release them in theaters. The animation in The Day The Earth Blew Up is not only smooth and well detailed, but it also amplifies the insanity and comedy. One of my favorite gags is with Farmer Jim, the adopted father of both Daffy and Porky. While our two main characters are fully animated, Farmer Jim is mostly a static drawing played for full comic effect.

The movie is not just hilarious in how it captures the spirit of Looney Tunes, but also how it works as a parody of the alien invasion movies of the 1950s. From mind control, alien goo, 50s style flying saucers, and the title of the film itself, this movie is a perfect homage to those old school science fiction movies. However it’s mixed with that very chaotic tone that you expect from Looney Tunes and features enough twists that make the movie feel fresh and funny! The big masterplan of the alien invader is ridiculous but makes sense within the nature of the film!

OVERALL

This is about as good as a Looney Tunes movie can get and the flaws it has, aren't worth mentioning! I never got the appeal of Space Jam, and this is coming from a kid of the 90s. That movie should’ve been my childhood, but it just doesn’t work for me. As for Looney Tunes: Back in Action, I have a soft spot for that movie, but even then I can’t deny that The Day The Earth Blew Up blows that one out of the water. It’s got spectacular animation, it’s fateful to the source material, the characters are fun, and it’s jam-packed with jokes that made me laugh hard! Not to mention it has a lot of heart when it comes to Daffy and Porky’s friendship. It’s a reminder of what made Looney Tunes work in the first place and why they will endure until the end of time despite David Zaslav’s hatred for them!

RATING

GET OFF YOUR ASS AND GO SEE IT NOW!!!

[hollandsfavbabe]

Not So Storm Chaser

pairing: tyler owens x reader

synopsis: in which tyler takes you on his favorite past time not knowing that it's your biggest fear

warnings: establish relationship, tornadoes (obviously), panic and anxiety, sorta hurt/comfort, I tried

request: ooo tyler request i had a brain rot😭 id love to see protective tyler maybe reader usually doesn’t go on chases with him because she’s afraid of storms but then the one time she does she panics and tyler’s all sweet and there for her <3

word count: 2.1k

masterlist

a/n: I’m so sorry for the wait on this one. School has given me had such bad writer’s block, but I’m starting to get motivation back so here you go! I hope everyone’s having a great weekend!

“Are ya ready?”

Tyler’s voice is a sudden brief break from all the anxious worries running through your head. While there’s no part of you that would ever willingly volunteer to participate in this, you’d never pass up the opportunity to make your favorite cowboy smile. So instead of screaming like someone lodged a knife in your thigh and jumping out of the passenger window, you muster up your sweetest grin and shoot him a nod.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you agree, feigning excitement. If only he knew how tight you were squeezing the hand rail above your window as you gazed out into the open field from the passengers side of his big red truck. The same one he’d picked you up in on your first date and now he was delivering you to what you were sure was certain doom.

When you had first met your boyfriend, you’d commented on how familiar he looked. You theorized he was an average country boy and that perhaps you’d seen him in one of the local rodeos you loved to frequent. But even in the wildest of dreams, you had never imagined falling in love with a storm chaser, especially not with the Tyler Owens. He was inarguably the most popular chaser in decades, exploding on social media as the Tornado Wrangler and now, he was yours forever. And of course as expected, from the moment you two were bound, he relentlessly begged you to join him on a chase.

And therein lay the only crack in your paradise of perfection, the only wrinkle that posed a problem in what otherwise would be a flawless match. You were terrified of tornadoes.

You’ve never explicitly told Tyler about your fear of the extreme weather that he was so drawn to, but after years of turning down every chase he’s ever invited you on (opting to instead watch his live streams or creating another excuse) you figured the message would’ve gotten across. But alas, after a week of wearing you down, he finally got you to join him under very strict conditions: no streaming and no spectators. If you had to suffer through a storm chase, you’d rather do it without the peering eyes of an audience.

Luckily, Tyler was so devoted to you, he was more than happy to comply with your terms. All he wanted was his girl by his side and a grey sky of potential.

Attuned to you after years of being a couple, he could sense your nerves to some extent.

“Hey,” Tyler speaks softly, moving one of his hands, calloused from riding so many stubborn bulls, off the smooth black leather of his steering wheel to gently grip the meat of your left thigh. Instant warmth, that’s what his touch always brought you as comfort cascades through your whole body.

You turn your head to meet his gaze, piercing green eyes peering dotingly into yours.

“Everything’s gonna be just fine,” he promises in that special tone he reserves for moments when he wants his words to reach your ears only. Even now while the rest of his gang is absent he still speaks softly so that you can be sure he means every word. “I’ve done this a million times.”

A sense of tranquility flows through you as his thumb traces soothing patterns on the rough fabric of your jeans. He leans into you, pressing a kiss to the apple on your cheek. Calm before the cyclone.

“I know, I’m okay.” you assure your boyfriend, but as his hands leave you to shift into drive, you start to regret even coming at all. At least there weren’t any cameras to capture your panic. The only thing worse than freaking out was your anxiety being filmed for the rest of the world to see.

Tyler’s truck is slow to leave the grassy lot you had been pulled over in while you waited for any sign of a storm. Part of you prayed that for once, there would be no twisters in Oklahoma. Only for today.

But of course, the tornado capital of the world always had something in store.

“Look baby, see that?”

You follow Tyler’s index finger as he points to a darkening portion of the sky just outside your passenger window. To your absolute horror, the cap is quick to break as a tiny nub starts to form from grey clouds. You freeze in your seat, stifling an uncomfortable groan.

“I see it.” you wince, dreading every part of the road ahead. But all it takes is one look at Tyler’s stupid grin to encourage your silence. You don’t want to be the only thing blocking him from such happiness so against your better judgement, you force a heartless chuckle to mask your fear.

Light rain begins to patter atop the metal roof of his pick-up as Tyler maps out a route to the twister, marveling at it as if it were a brightly colored butterfly and not one of Mother Nature’s most unforgiving natural disasters.

“Looks like a small one so we should only be in a few minutes. She’s a beaut alright.” he smiles, speeding ahead as the nub twists into something you’d only imagine facing in nightmares. A textbook tornado and you’re headed straight for it.

Music starts to play as Tyler turns up the radio, a sweet gesture considering it’s the chorus of one of your favorite songs. After buckling up the safety harness, you remain still in your seat, only moving to send Tyler the most insincere of smiles to make sure doesn’t go unrecognized, but your anxiety is getting harder to manage. As soon as his eyes are back on the dirt road, you feel rigid against the cool leather as the bumpy road shields your light trembling and you start to regret ever coming along.

Your fear is a whole storm of its own, worse than the wind picking up outside your window. You feel it swirl and grow until it’s entirely unmanageable and you’re gripping the handle above the door so hard that you’re sure you’re about to rip it off as you reach your final destination.

Tyler’s pickup shakes wildly as you enter the center of the cyclone. He parks you just beneath it, whooping and hollering like a mad man. Under ordinary circumstances, you find his happiness quite contagious as it’s one of the traits you love most about him. But here, in the eye of the storm, you can’t even bear to look at him as you question whether the sensation is worse with your eyes closed. You quickly discover that it is.

“Isn’t this amazing?!” Tyler shouts with glee, finally looking over to you for your reaction, though you can't summon a fake smile this time as your breathing rapidly and tears brim in your eyes. “Babe?” he questions, the satisfaction becoming quickly replaced with concern.

“I’m fine,” you lie through a shaky breath, but he’s been yours so long now, he can’t be fooled.

Panic joins the blood rushing through your veins as the panic sets in and suddenly you’re gulping in the air like it's the last time you’ll ever be able to breathe it, trying to find a way to escape from the storm despite its impossibility. You can’t accept waiting it out anymore, not when your heart rate has elevated to levels that you feel like you shouldn’t be able to survive.

Tyler unbuckles his harness, jumping into action as the hero he is, through and through.

“Oh my god,” he utters your name, moving into your orbit as the truck starts to rock. Side to side like a carnival ride, but you’re too overwhelmed to enjoy it. But it’s your own fault for agreeing knowing you couldn’t handle such conditions.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp through hyperventilations. “I-I’m so scared.”

“Baby,” Tyler raises his voice to focus your attention, careful not to crowd you as places a grounding hand on your thigh. “Baby, look at me.”

You do as he says, desperate for any relief from the doom you’ve been encased in.

“Listen,” he meets your eyes with compassion. “This is just a small twister. She won’t last much longer, but it's not safe to drive until it is over. I want you to count with me and I promise, by the time we get to ten, she’ll be gone. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Okay,” you nod as he offers his other hand out, only if you need it as he is more than prepared for rejection. But you do as having something warm to hold is exactly what you need. You squeeze him tightly to relieve some of the panic and try to focus on his voice.

“Ready?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for you to agree. He doesn’t need to.

You start to count with him, as a team. The way in which you find it’s best to approach everything you struggle to face alone.

“One, two…”

Like magic, you feel the rough shakes of his pick-up slow to a weak wobble as the deep gray of the clouds around you thins as the clouds start to secede.

“Three, four, five…”

Like the unwinding of a ball of yarn, the clouds separate a rise back into the sky. Long strands of tall grass become suddenly visible as open land around you comes back into view and the truck finally stills.

“Six, seven, eight, nine.”

At once, the clouds retreat into the sky and dissolve into nonthreatening, normal white furries as peace is restored. It’s wondrous how the world is left undisturbed as the twisters leave no evidence that it was ever there at all.

“Ten.”

You feel the panic dissociate throughout your body, leaving just as the tornado did only moments before. Only your unsteady breathing remains as you try to shift back into equilibrium. You nod as Tyler asks if you’re okay, knowing that as long as you never agree to go storm chasing again, you’ll be just fine.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” he starts, guilt ridden. “I should’ve known. I should’ve never forced you into this.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure him. “Really Ty, I should’ve told you the truth.”

“You know you never owe me an explanation,” he lifts the hand at your thigh to tuck away some of your disheveled strands of hair. “But can I ask what triggered that response?”

You shrug, trying to remember what made you so afraid in the first place.

“I really don’t know,” you admit. “Long as I’ve lived here, tornadoes have freaked me out and until you I’ve never had to face them. I wasn’t sure what would happen, but I really should’ve come clean about it.”

“I’m sorry.” he tries again.

You catch Tyler looking down ashamedly, upset that he put you in such a bad situation, but you catch his face before it can become too crestfallen and summon up a real smile. One of comfort and earnest regard. You can feel his regret almost as strongly as he can, but it’s misplaced. He has no need to feel ashamed of his passions.

“Hey, Tyler,” you utter his name softly, though it’s enough to command his attention again. “Just because I can’t handle tornados doesn’t mean I don’t love what you do.”

“Really?” he questions, instantly perking up.

“Oh totally. I love watching you go out and love what you do with so much of your heart. And you help so many people everyday, even people who will never face this stuff. All just by being you. And I’m glad I got to experience this with the person I feel safest with.”

“Thanks baby,” he grins, planting a kiss on your forehead. One that you lean into with a giggle.

“Just never make me do this again,” you assert. “Like seriously, I love watching you through your lives, but I can’t do the real thing.”

“Yes ma’am,” he nods as he rebuckles, starting the drive back to your house as he returns to the main road. “Sounds fair enough.”

“You hungry? We could go get some diner food when we return to civilization.” he offers once you’re well on your way.

“I could eat. On you of course.” you tease, though Tyler always paid no matter the occasion. Only when you fought tooth and nail would he let you take the bill.

“I can’t imagine any alternative.” he laughs, his hand sliding over to grip your thigh once more as the two of you head in the direction of the sun.

[mochii0park]

Don't speak; pjm - Memories; 02

Title: Don't speak

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: angst I fluff

Pairing: doctor!reader x businessman!jimin

Word count: 15.7k

Author's note: Initially it was supposed to be written in 2 parts but I decided to make it a 3 part story because I feel like the built up would make more sense. I hope you like it ^^

Taglist: @haru-jimiin, @maruuchann, @graydolan12, @fancypeacepersona, @jiminismine4ever, @talgiminmin, @ukndtwme, @purplebeebs, @wobblewobble822, @jjkluver7, @polnaraffsrack, @santhimariyanbu, @bangtan4lifetypeshit, @lanyia @granataepfelchen @sassy-snassy @thelilbutifulthings @mochi-mochhh @strawberryujamm @ownthesunshine @mar-lo-pap @nbjch05 @chimmy-licious @kajsksnsjsnns @beotkkotlover @ennvfv

Chapter list: ONE - TWO - THREE

You unlock the door and push it open, stepping aside so Jimin can enter first. He hesitates, eyes immediately looking around, searching for familiarity. With a small exhale, he steps inside drinking in the differences, confusion present in his irises, his eyes ever the mirror to his soul.

You take your time watching him carefully. His movements are slow, not just because of his healing ribs, but because he’s taking in every detail of the apartment. His gaze moves like someone expecting everything to be the same, like a man returning home after a long absence. You instinctively reach for his arm as he shifts forward, steadying him without a word. 

He glances at you, his lips curving just slightly. “Y/N, I can walk.”

“I know.” You don’t let go immediately.

He exhales, but he doesn’t pull away either. His brows knit together as he stares at the window. His gaze settles on the curtains. Thick, heavy material now, drawn shut, swallowing the room in a muted shade of dusk. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if something doesn’t quite sit right.

“What happened to the see-through ones?”

You stand still, the emotions turning inside of you.  It’s such a simple question, but it knocks the air from your lungs. He remembers that those curtains were his choice, ones he picked specifically because you loved sunsets. Because he knew how much you liked the way the colors bled into the sky at the end of the day. 

He turns to look at you then, waiting for an answer, but all you can do is stare at him.  Of all the things time could have erased, all the memories that could have faded into nothing he remembers that. Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his sleeve. You wet your lips, trying to compose your features into something neutral but you can’t stop the way your throat constricts, the way sorrow swells inside your chest like an ache you can’t soothe.

“We changed them a while ago,” you say quietly, voice steadier than you feel. The lie pierces through your heart but you felt like the truth would be open too many questions you weren’t sure how to answer.

“But you love sunsets.”

You did, but he decided to change that. He hated the light, the sunsets. Or perhaps he hated the curtains that reminded him of you. Of the warm love which had been replaced by bitterness that awoke emotions of resentment, grief. All the reminders of you irked him. The way he harshly yanked at them still rests in the back of your mind, a memory embedded with your own grief. The first piece you put together and the last you saw being destroyed as you left this apartment.

Jimin studies them for a moment longer before his lips press together. “Do you like them?”

 “The curtains?”

He nods.

You hesitate. “In a weird way I do.”

His head tilts slightly at that, like something about your answer doesn’t sit right with him but instead of pushing, he lets his fingers drop from the fabric and turns away.

“This place feels different,” he murmurs.

You step away from him as you lean against the wall. “Different how?”

“Some things are the same. Some aren’t. It’s like stepping into a memory that doesn’t fit right.”

You nod slightly, even if you wanted to you couldn’t replicate the apartment from five years ago. “Maybe that’s what happens when years go missing.”

Jimin’s lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t fully form. Instead, his gaze shifts to the bookshelves. His fingers trail along the spines, pausing on familiar titles. “We kept all my books?”

You hum in conformation, following his hand movements as he debates which one to pull out.  Jimin decides on one of his old collage micro economy textbook, flipping through the pages. “I thought you might’ve gotten rid of them.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m not that cruel.”

His lips curve. “Debatable.”

You narrow your eyes. “I literally carried you to the elevator then towards the front door so you wouldn’t strain your ribs, and you’re calling me cruel?”

Jimin laughs, warm and light. “I said debatable.”

You shake your head, muttering under your breath as you move toward the kitchen. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s still smiling but just as easily as the teasing settles in, the weight of the past creeps back in. Jimin places the textbook back on the shelf.

“When we got this apartment,” he says, “I made sure it had everything you loved. So that when you were gone for long shifts, I’d be surrounded by things that reminded me of you.”

Your hands begin to tremble, so you tighten your grip around the edge of the counter to mask it. Namjoon prepared you for the emotional rollercoaster that this task might carry, and you truly thought you were prepared for any obstacle that might be thrown at you but the second Jimin began to reminisce, causing him to unconsciously peel all the emotions you securely cocooned, you felt like you bit off more than you can chew.

“Did you get better at chopping onions?”

You blink, lost in manging your emotions that you hardly register his question. “What?”

His grin returns. “Because last time I saw you in this kitchen, you were butchering them.”

The shift in the atmosphere was another proof of how perceptive he could be, sensing your change and proceeding to lighten the mood. Your mouth falls open in mock offense. “I was not!”

“You were! I had to take the knife from you before you lost a finger.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “You’re misremembering.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Am I?”

“Maybe.”

He takes a small step, fingers brushing over the shelf once more, then the couch, then the photo frames. Jimin speaks again, his tone subdued. ‘I think I expected everything to be exactly the same.’” 

Your lips part, but you don’t know what to say and Jimin glances at you, his gaze gentle but steady. “Nothing stays the same forever, huh?”

You swallow. “No. It doesn’t.”

Another silence. “So… what’s for dinner?”

You bite your lips as Jimin throws his head back laughing at your embarrassed expression. “I might have forgotten about that?”

He swats his hands, gesturing that it’s fine. “We can cook, right? Unless you want to order. I can, you know cook for us. It’s one of the many impressive skills you’ve forgotten about me.”

You scoff. “If I let you cook, you’ll hurt yourself and somehow make it my fault.”

Jimin gasps. “Y/N, how dare you?”

You roll your eyes but turn toward the fridge as his laughter follows you. The clinking of the knife against the cutting board echoes softly in the kitchen as you start chopping the onions.  Jimin leans against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s far too amused for your liking.

“So, you lied to me.”

You pause, glaring at him. “Lied about what?”

He gestures lazily toward the uneven slices of onion scattered across the board. “You still don’t know how to chop onions, yobo.” His voice is warm, teasing, laced with the kind of intimacy that makes your chest tighten. “And here I thought five years would have been enough for you to improve.”

You try to ignore the way your heart skipped at the nickname as you roll your eyes, nudging a piece of onion aside with the blade. “I didn’t lie. I just never promised I got better.”

Jimin laughs, stepping closer. “It’s quite a shame, really.” His voice drops, playful but feigning deep disappointment. “A cardiothoracic surgeon who can handle a human heart but can’t handle an onion? That’s embarrassing.”

You repeat his words in a mocking manner, sending him a sharp look. “I don’t see how they’re even remotely related.”

Jimin hums, closing the distance between you. “Both require precision. Technique. Control.” He dips his head slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “But I see you still lack all three when it comes to this.”

Before you can retort, he glides his hands around your wrists, his touch featherlight, but firm enough to still your movements. Your fingers twitch, your breath catching as his palms mold against yours.

“Here.” His voice is softer now, guiding. “Relax your grip.”

You hesitate, but your body betrays you and your fingers instinctively loosen under the warmth of his hands. He adjusts your grip on the knife, his chest just barely brushing against your back.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his chin almost resting against the curve of your shoulder. “Now, let the blade do the work. No unnecessary force.”

You swallow, nodding. He guides your wrist smoothly, showing you how to make precise, even slices. “Better,” he praises. And then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

You freeze.

His lips linger for just a second, a whisper of warmth against your skin, before he pulls back with a smirk. “You’re still lacking a lot, though,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. “But at least you’re slightly better than last time.”

You try to steady yourself, though the sudden tightness in your chest refuses to ease. This isn’t new. This isn’t foreign. Jimin has always been like this. Always lingering close, always touching without thinking, always kissing your temple as if he has the right to. For him, it’s just another evening. Another moment with his wife. For you, it’s a relic of something lost.

You clear your throat. “If you’re so good at this, why am I the one cooking?”

“Because you wanted to prove you could do it.”

“I never said that.”

He hums. “No, but I know you.” His fingers drift along your wrist before finally letting go, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he steps back. “You’re too stubborn to let me take over.”

Refusing to meet his gaze as you focus on the onions again. “Then maybe you should leave me to it.”

Jimin chuckles, but he doesn’t move away completely. Instead, he once again leans against the counter beside you, his presence unwavering.

“Alright, alright. I’ll just watch,” he says, though the mischief in his voice suggests otherwise. “But don’t blame me when you start crying.”

You frown. “Why would I—”

Then it hits. The sting. The unmistakable burn creeping into your eyes.

Jimin bursts out laughing. “Oh no. Oh no. The mighty surgeon is about to be taken down by onions.”

You glare at him through watery eyes. “Shut up, Jimin.”

He gasps dramatically. “Yobo. Such harsh words.”

You groan, wiping at your eyes. “This is your fault. You distracted me.”

“I barely did anything.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Exactly.”

Jimin laughs again, reaching for your wrist and pulling you toward him slightly. “Come here,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye. His touch is so unthinkingly gentle, so painfully familiar, that your breath stutters. For a moment, his amusement fades. His eyes trace your face, the laughter softening into something quieter.

You don’t move and neither doesn’t he. Just as quickly as the shift happened, he pulls back with a teasing smirk. “You’re such a mess, Y/N.”

You blink, the moment slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. “You’re the mess.”

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “I am a very refined man.”

Focusing back on the cutting board you mutter. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Jimin watches you for a second longer, then reaches out removing a lash that rested on your cheek. In his ever-silly habit he looks at the lash before he blows at it. Something like a good luck omen, he used to say.

Dinner pass by quickly. Jimin again teases you over how you cut the onions (despite his expert guidance), complains dramatically about the lack of meat in the dish, and makes a show of sighing in exaggerated bliss after each bite, telling you he always knew you’d make a good housewife one day.

You again roll your eyes, swatting at him with a dish towel, and he just laughs in that way that makes your stomach clench. By the time you clear the plates and remind him about his medication, Jimin was in such a joking mode you were sure you’d kill him.

“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s take care of your wounds before bed.”

Jimin groans while standing up, forgetting for a minute that he indeed had surgery but that didn't flatten the teasing mood he was in. “Ah, nurse Y/N is back on duty.”

As you walk toward the bedroom, Jimin hums thoughtfully behind you. “Didn’t realize surgeons did minor injuries too. Should I be worried you’re overqualified for this?”

You push the door open without looking back. “Don’t worry. If I get bored, I’ll find something to operate on.”

He chuckles, following you inside. The room is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow against the walls. You kneel on the edge of the bed, the first-aid kit open beside you, its contents neatly arranged.

With a casual ease, Jimin pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. He moves like it’s nothing, because to him, it is nothing. His bare skin, the familiar curve of his back, the old scar near his ribs that you once traced absentmindedly in bed these are things he doesn’t think twice about. You’re his wife. There’s no hesitation in the way he reveals himself to you.

He sits in front of you, legs slightly spread, his arms resting lazily on his thighs. He watches as you peel away the old gauze from the wound just below his ribs, the dried edges sticking to his skin. A sharp intake of breath leaves him as you work, but he doesn’t complain.

The stitch has pulled open slightly not deep enough to be serious, but enough to need redressing. You’re about to reach for the antiseptic when you notice the bruising around it. A deep, ugly shade of purple spreads across his side, blooming outward like ink in water. It wasn’t just a minor fall. This was a hard, blunt impact, something that rattled through his body. Your fingers press lightly against the skin around the bruising. Jimin hisses softly, his stomach tensing under your touch.

“This wasn’t just from the stitches pulling,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Jimin exhales through his nose. “Guess I took more of a hit than I thought.”

Your jaw tightens, but you say nothing, focusing instead on cleaning the wound. Your hands move with practiced ease, pressing fresh gauze into place, taping it down securely. You glance up, adjusting the bandage on his forehead next, making sure it sits properly.

As you do, your eyes trace the tattoos along his arms and collarbone.

The script curling over his ribs, half-covered by bruising. The delicate crescent moon near his wrist. The constellation mapped over his forearm, faint scars peeking through the ink. The phrase Nevermind etched onto his ribs, stark against the bruises, as if the words are mocking his current state. You don’t realize you’re staring until Jimin muses. “Didn’t take you for the staring type.”

You ignore him as you finish securing the last bandage. “I was checking for more injuries.”

Jimin hums, unconvinced. “Sure you were.”

You start to pull away, but your fingers graze against something unexpected. A shift in his posture, a glimpse of ink just beneath his ribcage. You still, nudging the fabric of his pants slightly downward to see it fully.

A lily.

The sight of the lily tattoo carves into you like a blade. Your birth flower. A symbol of hope. Something Jimin once considered you to be. Your breath falters. He never had this before. If he had, you would have noticed you would have known.

The weight of that realization slams into you all at once. Jimin got this after the divorce. Somewhere in the life he can’t remember, he marked his body with a piece of you..

Jimin, oblivious to the storm raging inside you, notices you stopped. His grip around your waist tightens and his warmth seeps through your clothes, anchoring you when you feel like you might collapse under the weight of it all.

He's watching you carefully. “What is it?”

You force yourself to swallow, to breathe, to keep your expression neutral but you fail spectacularly. Jimin’s gaze flickers downward, following yours. He frowns, as if trying to figure out what’s holding your attention. He looks at the tattoo, his own tattoo, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

A deep crease forms between his brows. “Did I… always have this?”

His voice is soft, uncertain. Your throat is too tight to speak. Jimin studies it like it’s foreign, something detached from him. His fingers twitch slightly against your back before smoothing over your waist again, his hold instinctive. “It’s a lily,” he murmurs.

You nod, barely.

His gaze moves back to yours, searching. “That means something to you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember why he has it. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotion from rising too fast, too visibly. But Jimin isn’t stupid. Even without the memories, he knows you.

His voice dips. “Did I get this… for you?”

You can’t answer. You should but you can’t.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, an unbearable weight pressing against your ribs. Jimin watches you, his confusion growing, his hands unmoving around your waist as if anchoring himself through you.

Seconds stretch between you. You feel his breathing slow, controlled measured, like he’s trying to make sense of all of this. The way your fingers hesitate. The way your gaze lingers on the ink like it holds something devastating.

Then, finally, softly and tentatively he speaks up.

“I got this for you, didn’t I?” It’s not really a question.

His voice carries no certainty, only quiet realization. You nod. Just once. Hi fingers flexing slightly before slipping away from your waist. He leans back a little, studying the tattoo again, trailing his fingers over the inked petals as if the touch alone might unlock something. But his expression remains blank. Empty.

“I don’t remember,” he murmurs, his brows drawing together.

You knew he wouldn’t. But hearing it out loud still feels like a sharp crack down your chest. He’s quiet for a moment, turning his hand to get a better look at the other tattoos marking his skin the ones he does remember, the ones tied to memories he still owns.

“Did I get it because you liked lilies?” he asks. “Or was it something else?”

Something else.

You force a breath past your lips, trying to keep your voice steady. “You always said lilies were a sign of hope.”

Jimin blinks. “I did?”

“You said they survive through seasons, no matter what.” A pause, “That’s what you thought I was.”

“I don’t remember that either,” he says quietly.

It’s too much. The weight of it, the ache in your ribs, the way his fingers keep brushing over the ink like he’s trying to will the memory back into existence. So, you do the only thing you know how to do, you ease the moment.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat, reaching for the antiseptic again, “it would’ve been nice if you got it somewhere that didn’t make dressing your wounds a nightmare.”

Jimin's caught off guard but manages to show a ghost of a smile. “Seriously?”

You shrug, pressing a clean bandage over his ribs, careful with your touch. “I’m just saying. Of all the places.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

You know he won’t push, won’t ask the questions that might make your hands shake again. But something about the way he looks at you tells you this isn’t over. Eventually, he’ll remember. Or maybe, he’ll ask again but for now, you tape down the bandage, press your hands against your lap.

Jimin moves to the side, his gaze landing on the closet behind you. The door is slightly open, revealing his neatly arranged clothes the same ones he left behind. Everything of his is still here, untouched, exactly as it always was but something is missing.

“Where are your clothes?”

“Clothes? “ You freeze for half a second before glancing around, only now realizing that you never moved them back from the guest room. 

“Your clothes. Your books. Your skincare stuff that usually clutters up the counter.” He frowns. “Did you move them?”

“I’ve been… rearranging stuff.” It’s a weak excuse, and Jimin sees right through it.

 “You always do that. Used to drive me crazy.” A flicker of amusement dances across his face before his gaze softens in memory. “Remember when you moved in?” , he says, “You were so organized. Didn’t even let me touch a single box. I think I gave up after the first hour.”

The memory filters in like warm light through old curtains. The first night in your shared apartment-boxes stacked high, exhaustion weighing on you both, a failed attempt at getting the bed set up.

“You were so insistent that everything had to be in its place,” he continues, grinning. “And then we ended up sleeping on the mattress in the living room because you couldn’t finish unpacking.”

A small laugh escapes before you can stop it. You remember. Jimin catches the sound. “See? Not all my memories are gone.”

You force a small smile back, but it feels thin, fragile.  As you move through the room, still shaken from the moment before, his voice breaks the silence. “Turn off the lights before you go to bed.”

You reach for the switch, but as you take a step toward the door, Jimin’s voice stops you. “Did you forget something?”

“What do you mean?”

Whenever someone would describe you the first adjective they'd use was precise-aware, however the more you time you spent with Jimin the more you felt like you're everything but that. You would stumble over words, repeat questions in hopes that the outcome would be different.

Jimin points to you then to the doors as if the answer was obvious. “Well… you’re leaving.”

You begin to feel small, unsure how to respond so you go with the option you thought was solid. “Yeah. To sleep in the guest room.”

Boy were you wrong.

 “Come on,” he murmurs, eyes already half-lidded. “You’re going to lecture me about getting proper rest, right? So just sleep here What? You need an official invitation?” he sighs dramatically, patting the empty space beside him, “Y/N, just get in bed already.”

You shift awkwardly on your feet. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jimin lifts his head slightly, his eyes telling you how much you're bullshiting. “Why not?”

You scramble for an excuse. “Your injuries. I don’t want to accidentally hit you while you’re sleeping.”

Jimin snorts, already having an arsenal of situations where you obviously didn't care about his comfort. “Y/N, don’t be ridiculous.” He props himself up on one elbow, looking entirely unconvinced. “Even on your worst nights when you tossed and turned like a possessed human tornado, you never hurt me.”

“Still, I don’t want to risk it. Your ribs are healing, and I—”

“Even when I broke my hand, you still slept beside me,” Jimin interrupts, tilting his head. “And when I got that horrible flu and was burning up? You didn’t leave my side for three nights straight.” He shakes his head, feigning offense. “Now suddenly, you’re acting like I’m made of glass?”

You try to deflect, the situation feeling like a boxing match where one waits for the knock-out . “I guess I just became more considerate over the years.”

Jimin narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You try again. “Besides, I’ve been sleeping in the guest room. The bed is already set up for me, and I don’t want to—”

“If you don’t get in bed right now,” Jimin warns, “I’m going to pick you up and toss you in myself.”

Your eyes widen in alarm. “Jimin—your ribs—”

“Then hurry up,” he sing-songs, smirking as he shifts slightly, patting the mattress once more.

You linger in the doorway for a moment before exhaling. Maybe it is better to just join him. You sigh, realizing there’s no way out of this. “Fine.”

Moving slowly, you sit on the edge of the bed before cautiously laying down. Every muscle in your body is tense, keeping a careful distance from him.

Jimin stares at you, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

You blink. “What?”

He reaches over and tugs you toward him, his arm slipping comfortably around your waist. Your body stiffens. “Jimin—”

“Shh.” His breath brushes against your temple, warm and familiar. “Relax.”

You don’t. Not immediately. Softly, Jimin speaks up. “Did we have an argument before my accident?”

Your fingers curl into the blanket. “Why do you think that?”

He hums. “You moved your stuff, you’re tense around me, and you were obviously sleeping in the guest room.”

Your throat tightens, but you force a small sigh. “I told you. I’ve just been rearranging things.”

Jimin hums again, but this time, his hand finds yours in the dark, fingers intertwining. His lips press gently to the back of your hand, the warmth lingering even after he pulls away.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Good night.”

You turn onto your side, curling in on yourself as the weight of everything crashes down all at once. Jimin’s breathing is steady beside you, deep and even completely unaware. The sedatives you gave him are working, keeping him locked in a dreamless sleep while you lie awake, drowning in the silence.

Your fingers press against your lips, desperate to muffle the sound as the first sob escapes. It’s quiet, nearly swallowed by the stillness of the room, but it shakes through you nonetheless.

Your shoulders tremble as you bury your face into the pillow, breath stuttering against the fabric. You don’t mean to fall apart not here, not now, not beside him. But the ache in your chest is relentless, clawing its way to the surface no matter how tightly you try to hold it down.

He doesn’t remember losing you and yet, he still holds pieces of you. In his body, in his skin, in the lily inked beneath his ribs a mark of something he can’t recall but must have meant everything once.

Your breath breaks again, a silent, gasping sob that you try to swallow.

Jimin stirs slightly beside you, shifting in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. He doesn’t notice the way you clutch at your own arms, the way you tremble beneath the weight of a grief that doesn’t belong in the present but lives here anyway.

You press your face deeper into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut.

Tomorrow, you’ll pull yourself together. You’ll find the right words, the careful lies, the quiet deflections that keep the truth buried but tonight, you let yourself break in silence.

And Jimin oblivious, untouched sleeps on.

_________

The next day is lighter or at least compared to yesterday.

The scent of fresh coffee is warm and inviting, mixing with the morning air seeping through the window cracks. Jimin follows it, adjusting to the unfamiliarity of movement, his feet pressing against the hardwood floor with quiet steps, careful but curious.

When he reaches the doorway, he stops. You’re sitting at the dining table, one hand curled around a mug, the other scrolling through your phone.

The steam from the coffee rises in lazy swirls, dissipating into the soft morning glow. He stays there, watching you, feeling at home in a way that doesn’t feel earned. 

You sense him before you see him, but you don’t look up immediately, taking another slow sip of your drink.

."Did Scarlett Johansson do anything new?"

You exhale a soft sound of amusement. Not startled. Not surprised. Just… expecting. “She’s still acting.” Your voice is even as turn your screen toward him. “A few indie films, some bigger projects. Emma Watson took a break but focused on activism.”

Jimin hums, stepping further inside. “Good for them.”

He moves to pour himself coffee, his fingers wrapping around the familiar handle of the mug. His hand moves automatically toward the sugar jar, fingers resting against the lid. Without thinking, he looks at you. “You still take two spoons, right?”

“Not anymore,”

Jimin’s frown deepens slightly, and his grip on the sugar jar loosens. That doesn’t make sense. His eyes dart to you, searching for something in your expression, but you remain impassive. Before he could question the answer, you turn back toward the sink, rinsing out your mug as if the conversation never happened.

When he reaches opens a drawer, he swore was where you place the utensils only for it to be filled with spatulas does he realize how much the apartment changed. The bones of the space are familiar the layout, but then there are the differences.

The arrangement of the kitchen utensils is different. The couch isn’t the same one he remembers it’s darker, newer, missing the faint tear in the cushion he swore he’d fix. The picture frames on the bookshelf are different, some missing entirely.

He pushes off the counter continuing yesterday’s exploration of the living room He hesitates in front of the framed photographs. Some of them are the same your wedding photo, a candid from your honeymoon, a snapshot of a festival you once attended together.

However, there are gaps. Spaces where photos used to be, now replaced with generic prints of landscapes or nothing at all. He lifts a hand, touching the frame of a photo he doesn’t recognize, you with a few people he doesn’t immediately recall.

It's a photo from your first day of fellowship, standing beside Hannah and Yoongi. The three of you are smiling, arms slung around each other, a moment captured in the midst of new beginnings. 

It’s a frozen piece of time Jimin was never a part of, one of many gaps he has yet to fill. He doesn’t know their faces, doesn’t recognize the context, but something about the image unsettles him, a subtle reminder of the years that exist beyond his reach.

You debated whether to include it, but you thought it would feel natural for you to have a memory of the beginning fellowship and friends you hang out with. 

He calls out for you, and once he grabs your attention he points at the photo. "I don’t know them."

"You never really got the chance to," you say walking towards him. "That’s Hannah, my best friend and Yoongi, co-worker. We started our fellowship together."

Jimin absorbs the information. "You should introduce me to them when we go to the hospital. I still need to see who’s new on the staff."

"They work at another hospital." 

Jimin, as extroverted as he might seem, he liked to have an inner circle of friends who he rarely expanded. Therefore, you never thought he’d ask to meet them. Sure, inquire who your new friends were, but to meet them? Not really.  

Perhaps you should’ve lied or never included the photography, but it eased your heart to have portions of your life after the divorce displayed for him to see. After the memories come back maybe he’ll resent you less if he knows not everything was a lie.

"Oh? Then how’d you meet them?"

"A conference," you smile as you remember the time your hospital provided a hall which was filled with future fellows who were finding seats.

They explained it as sort of a meeting conference where you could network with people. Unbeknownst to you, Yoongi or Hannah your paths intertwined way before you started working together.

Hannah ever the clumsy one slipped as she tried to maneuverer herself onto the seat next to, the sudden commotion making Yoongi spill his coffee all over you. "One of those long, drawn-out events where everyone fights to stay awake."

Jimin chuckles. "Sounds about right. Let me guess, you were the type to take actual notes?"

"And you would’ve been the one doodling on the pamphlet."

He laughs. "Hey, don’t underestimate the art of conference doodling. It kept me awake."

As if a thought had just sprung to his mind, his eyes widen as he claps his hands together. "What about Kaya? You guys still tight?"

"No," you say, snorting at the mention of her name. "We lost touch."

Jimin frowns. "Wait. What? You two were attached at the hip. What happened?"

You exhale briefly as pictures of her teareyed face flash in front of you. "She hurt someone we both care about."

Jimin watches you for a beat before realization flickers across his face. "Wait. No. Don’t tell me—Jungkook?"

You nod. "They broke up. Three years ago."

Jimin’s lips part slightly, eyebrows raising in genuine surprise. “Kaya and Jungkook broke up? I thought they were basically glued together. When did that happen?"

"Three years ago," you say, watching his reaction. You brace for his response, knowing that disbelief is about to hit.

Jimin waves his hands for a second, gesturing for you to reverse. "Okay, hold on. Kaya and Jungkook, the couple that made us all nauseous with their cutesy texts and matching outfits, broke up? I need details."

You press your lips together, debating how to soften the blow before deciding there's no point sugarcoating it. "She cheated on him."

Jimin stares at you for a long moment before he whistles. "Damn. And here I thought she was ride-or-die for him. Turns out she was just ride-for-someone-else."

He rubs his temples as if he has a headache. "I mean, I know relationships aren’t perfect, but they were basically the blueprint of a long-term couple. What, did she wake up one day and decide to self-destruct?"

You offer a small shrug. "Yeah. We all thought they were solid. Guess not."

You loved Kaya, after all she was someone with whom you grew up with. From high school to university and a small portion of your adult life but by the end of her relationship with Jungkook she changed. Never responded to any texts, always making excuses when you invite her for drinks and after a while you just let it be. 

Jimin runs a hand through his hair, still trying to process. "Man, I wish I could’ve been there when Jungkook found out. Did he flip a table? Punch a wall? Write a whole album about it?"

You shake your head with a light chuckle. "No table flipping, but I’d say his gym membership got put to very good use. And as for the album? Well, you should check his discography when you get the chance."

He moves towards the couch, finding a comfortable spot in the middle of it. He touches the soft fabric as if he’s contemplating something. You half expecting him to fish out his phone and blast Jungkook’s I hate you as a form of belated support for the chaotic breakup however, he glances at you, lips curving into something more mischievous. 

"You know this couch has seen a lot. Heard a lot, too."

You curse under your breath forgetting how Jimin tends to drop bombshell sentences here and there just to gloat at your reaction. Your cheeks warm instantly, and you shake your head, already regretting giving him any reaction. "Jimin—"

He winks, stretching out lazily as he settles into the cushions. "No need to get shy now. We practically lived here half the time. Spent majority of it watching k-drama."

Your lips part in protest, but no real words come out. He’s not wrong. The couch had been your shared sanctuary; movie nights turning into tangled limbs, lazy Sundays melting into laughter and stolen kisses. 

"While you pretended to hate them, but actually got really into the plot?"

Jimin drops his head onto the cushions. "I stand by my criticism. But yeah, maybe I got a little invested."

Before you counter back stating how it was more then little invested, he made charts of different characters to keep up with the plot, his stomach growls.

"Hungry?" you ask, needing something to do with your hands.

Jimin nods, placing a hand over his stomach. "You still make breakfast, or did you become one of those coffee-only morning people?"

You roll your eyes. "I still eat, Jimin."

He grins, standing up. "Good. Then let me help."

You stop him with a light push against his chest. "You should rest."

"I’m not an invalid," he counters, passing by you and moving toward the fridge. "Come on, I can still crack an egg."

You watch him, debating whether to argue before sighing. "Fine. But no lifting anything heavy."

Jimin smirks. "Relax, I’m just here for moral support."

The kitchen fills with the soft sound of movement, the clinking of plates, the sizzle of butter in a pan. Jimin listens to you hum a melody he can't pinpoint but it feels nice. "You still hum when you cook," he notes.

You pause, becoming increasingly aware of the melody dropping from your lips. "Maybe."

"No maybe," he teases. "You used to do it all the time. Even when you didn’t realize."

You focus on the food, flipping an egg carefully. "Muscle memory, I guess."

Jimin hums. "Seems to be a theme this morning."

You pull the food onto the plate pushing it towards him. "Eat. Before you start analysing me like one of your case studies."

Jimin picks up his fork. "Too late."

A small smile tugs at your lips as you both settle into the moment.

Jimin takes a bite, humming in appreciation. "Still good at this. I was half-expecting you to have turned into a takeout-only kind of person."

You stab at your food with a fork. "Just because you lived off convenience stores and ramen doesn’t mean I do."

Jimin nudges your foot under the table. "Hey, those were dark times. And I survived."

He takes his final bite pushing the plate away as he wipes his mouth. "So, what’s the plan for today? Or am I just supposed to lounge around and bask in your hospitality?"

You snort. "That depends. Think you can handle a short walk without me calling Namjoon for backup?"

"I’ll have you know, I am fully capable of walking without medical supervision."

"We’ll see about that. Get dressed, then."

Jimin stands up with exaggerated effort. "Fine, fine. But only because I’m curious where you’re planning to drag me."

You don’t answer as you clear the plates. He watches you for a moment before heading toward the bedroom, leaving you standing in the quiet hum of the kitchen, collecting yourself before what comes next.

___________

The days pass by in a blink of an eye.

One of the days Jimin spends most of it resting in the room, exhaustion pressing heavy against his bones. Sleep comes in short bursts, light, restless. The remnants of a headache cling to him, dull but persistent, and though his body craves rest, his mind refuses to settle.

When he finally wakes up, the apartment is cast in the soft glow of the evening. He checks his phone before stepping out of the bedroom, his feet moving without thought. As he comes closer to the living room, he hears it. 

Your voice.

Soft, delicate, threading through the apartment like silk. The melody is unfamiliar, but the moment he steps into the living room, the words settle into his chest.

“Be my only love”

You’re sitting near the window, the gentle city lights casting a warm glow on your skin. Your eyes focused on charts, lost in the music as you sing Only by Lee Hi, your voice wrapping around each note with quiet ease. The sound is hauntingly beautiful and pure woven into it.

He stills. His vision impairs with black and blue dots, a pain pierces through him as he slowly lowers himself to sit on the stair.

A memory flashes in bits and pieces. He sees you, but not here. Not now.

You at the Han River. The night sky stretched endlessly above, the lights reflecting on the rippling water like scattered stars. The laughter of a small crowd fills the air, a speaker crackling as music hums from it.

He watches as Jungkook pulls you forward by the wrist, a grin playing on his lips.

“Come on, you have to sing at least one song,” Jungkook teases, pushing you toward the makeshift stage where a small audience has gathered. “You can’t just sit there and enjoy everyone else—you’re the best singer here.”

You resist slightly, but Jungkook is relentless, playful yet firm as he pushes you closer. Hoseok and Namjoon clap from the sidelines, their cheers blending with the laughter of strangers encouraging you.

Jimin sees himself there too, standing just behind them, watching.

You turn, shooting Jungkook a mock glare before agreeing, not like you could ever refuse the younger friend. You take the microphone, adjusting it slightly, your fingers brushing against the metal and you sing. Body do you sing.

“The words I sincerely wanted to say”

Jimin’s breath catches as the memory sharpens, the lyrics spilling effortlessly from your lips. Your voice carries over the gentle hush of the river, weaving through the night like a whispered secret. Your eyes find him in the crowd, as you smile from ear to ear. All goes still, for a moment. 

His heartbeat. The murmur of the crowd. The distant cityscape blinking like fireflies against the dark. The only thing that exists in that moment is you.

“I say, ‘I love you'”

You close your eyes, letting the song carry you, and Jimin swears he can feel the love he has for you grow deeper and deeper, to a point where it hurt. The way your voice reaches him even through time. The way the lyrics guide him back to you.

Each word makes the memory clearer, each note threading through the haze of his mind, pulling him deeper, deeper—

Until he can almost feel it.

“Be my only love”

Jimin exhales sharply, the present rushing back in, slamming into him with quiet force. He manages to get up, his fingers curled around the handrail, his chest tight.

Two days later, he helps you rearrange the bedroom - more like annoys to oblivion - watching as you fold clothes and straighten up the space, your movements fluid, practiced. A part of him wants to ask if you could postpone this and just lazily spread on the couch as you watch a movie, but he knew you. Knew you well enough to already see you rolling your eyes and dismissing him.

As you smooth down the last bedsheet, something catches his eye. A door. It’s one he barely noticed before, but now it stands out, pulling at something in the back of his mind. A faint recollection.

“When we moved in, you didn’t know what to do with this room.” The memory comes in fragments, your voice, thoughtful and uncertain, as you had stood in the empty space, debating its purpose. He remembers suggesting a study. You had considered a reading nook. But beyond that, nothing. The rest of the memory remains blank.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open. The room is bathed in soft afternoon light. And in the middle of it a piano. A grand, glossy black piano.

Music sheets are scattered over the floor, some stacked haphazardly on a nearby shelf. The sight is so out of place, so unexpected, that Jimin feels the air leave his lungs because this isn’t just any piano. This is his. However, that doesn’t make sense.

The last time he touched it, he was eighteen. Still finishing musical academy, still pretending that playing could be more than just a fleeting dream before stepping into the real world. He had walked away from it, from the late-night compositions, from the melodies that once poured so naturally from his fingers. His parents made sure of that.

Jimin swallows, stepping further inside, his hand brushing the cool surface of the instrument.

“Why is this here?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

His gaze drifts to the doorway and you’re still standing there, frozen. Your fingers grip the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked onto the piano as if you’re staring at something impossible. It takes a moment, but he sees it the raw emotion flickering across your face, the dazed look in your eyes, the way your lips part but no words come out.

“You—” His voice is hesitant. “You look just as surprised as I am.”

You blink, snapping out of your trance. “I… I thought you got rid of it.”

Jimin’s chest tightens at that because that means he didn’t just forget this piano, he also forgot a choice he made about it and that realization unsettles him in ways he can’t quite explain.

“When did I buy this?”

 “You didn’t.”

Jimin steps closer, his fingers brushing the smooth surface. “Then who—”

“It was my wedding gift to you,” you say quietly.

Jimin stills, waiting for an explanation he’s not sure he’s ready for. “You loved playing. More than anything.” 

Because before he was anything else, Jimin was music.

Before his name meant something, before he was pulled into the rigid path his parents set for him, he was a boy who livedthrough sound. He didn’t just play the piano; he became it. The keys were an extension of his hands, his soul translated into notes that hung in the air like poetry. He could hear the emotions in a song before reading the sheet, could compose melodies before he could properly explain them.

But talent meant nothing to the people who raised him.

“Music is not a career,” his father had told him, dismissive and firm. “It’s a hobby. And hobbies don’t pay the bills.”

So, he studied economics instead. Sat in lecture halls with textbooks too heavy in his hands, numbers running together in front of his tired eyes. He went to meetings and luncheons with men who saw creativity as nothing more than a child’s whim. All while his piano sat untouched in his childhood home, the lid gathering dust.

When you bought him this one, when you placed the key in his palm on your anniversary day and told him, “If no one else lets you play, at least let yourself”, he had just stared at you, silent, breathless. That night he played for you, no sheet music, no rehearsed melody, jut him and the piano, filling the quiet of your new home with something raw and unspoken. That night, you sat beside him, your head resting on his shoulder as he played. That night, you had closed your eyes, listening to the way his soul bled through the music.

A gift.

A love letter in the form of sound.

And now he stands in front of the same piano, staring at it like it’s a stranger in his own home. You see the way his breathing hitches, how his hands shake, fingers itching to reach out for something, but he doesn’t know what. His frustration isn’t just from the missing years it’s from knowing that he left music behind, made amends with never touching the piano, then coming back years later only to not remember it.

And he wishes he could.

He wishes he could step into that old symphony, into the late nights spent at the keys, into the silent love confessions stuck in every note. He wants to remember the weight of them, the way music once felt like home. Before he can break apart in front of you, you take a step forward. “Make a new memory.” 

His eyes snap to yours.

“Not to replace the old one,” you say softly, “but you can make another.”

Jimin doesn’t speak, but you can see the battle, the hesitation in his stance.  “Play the first thing that comes to your mind.”

For a moment, nothing happens then, slowly, hesitantly, his fingers settle over the keys. A pause. A sound followed soon after. The first few notes are tentative, uncertain, but as the melody takes shape, something shifts in him.

Chopin’s Spring Waltz.

Your favourite.

Your eyes sting because you know what this means. Even if his memories are fragmented, even if the past is slipping through his fingers like sand somewhere deep inside, his love for you still lingers.

As the notes spill into the quiet apartment, something inside Jimin unravels. His movements grow more fluid, more certain, like he’s slipping into something familiar and safe. And for the first time since he walked through your door, he doesn’t feel lost.

You’re unaware of holding your breath until a gentle exhale escapes you. As Jimin diligently searches for something in the music, you’re gradually losing something precious because while Jimin is finding something in the music, you are losing something.

You remember watching him like this before his eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable yet open in a way only music could make him. He used to play for you late into the night, the piano’s voice an extension of his own, speaking in ways he never could.

Back then, you thought you understood every unspoken thing between you. Now, you wonder if understanding ever mattered when fate was so cruel. The melody shifts, swelling into something delicate yet achingly powerful. You’re curious if he notices that his fingers press a little harder during certain passages, as if there’s something lingering in his chest that he can’t voice.

Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t but you notice.

Jimin’s hands remain on the keys, unmoving. His shoulders rise and fall with measured breaths, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you. You don’t realize your own eyes are glassy until you blink, and a tear that you weren’t even aware of slips down your cheek.

You wipe it away quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “That was beautiful.” 

Jimin's expression is unreadable, but there’s something fragile in his gaze. “I don’t remember playing this for you before,” he murmurs

“You did,” you whisper, forcing a small smile. “Many times.”

“I want to remember.”

It’s not a demand. It’s not spoken in frustration or anger. It’s quiet. Almost pleading. You open your mouth, then close it as you step closer, hesitating for only a moment before gently placing a hand over his on the keys.

“Then let’s keep playing,” you say, voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

Jimin doesn’t move for a moment. “Okay.”

So, you sit beside him and just like that night, years ago, he plays for you. 

A week later, you needed new books specifically, ones on medical advancements and cardiovascular research. Jimin hadn’t planned on coming along, but when you grabbed your coat, he instinctively reached for his own. Now, you’re wandering through the aisles of a quiet bookstore.

He trails behind you, watching as your fingers glide over the spines of books, pausing now and then to pull one free. There’s something peaceful about it, the way you move with familiarity, completely at ease in this space.

Jimin looks around. His interest lands on a display of fiction novels near the window, and for a moment, his eyes blur again like last time, the edges of his vision softening—

A different bookstore. A different time.

He sees himself walking down a narrow aisle, fingers intertwined with someone’s. The warmth of a hand in his own. A voice, light, teasing. “You always go for the same kind of books.”

He turns his head, catching a glimpse of blonde hair, tucked behind a delicate ear. The memory shifts, a quiet laugh, the press of a shoulder against his. He watches as she reaches for a book, flipping through the pages lazily before passing it to him.

“You should read this one.”

His chest tightens. It’s you. It has to be. The warmth, the familiarity—it’s you.

Except…

Except something is wrong.

The memory begins to fray at the edges. His grip on the past wavers as he tries to focus on the details. The blonde hair. The voice—so familiar yet… not quite right.

He blinks, the memory slipping away, and suddenly, he’s back in the present, standing in the middle of the bookstore. His pulse feels uneven, his palms slightly clammy. His eyes land on you again, standing a few feet away, flipping through a textbook.

“Did you ever dye your hair blonde?” The question leaves his lips before he even realizes he’s asked it.

You stand few feet away startled. “What?”

“Your hair.” Confusion is threading into his tone. “Was it ever blonde?”

“No. Why?”

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately. His mind reels, replaying the memory again, trying to make sense of it. He could have sworn it was you. The way she held his hand, the way she smiled up at him, the way she felt so…

Familiar.

But it wasn’t you. A strange sensation creeps into his chest an unsettling mix of doubt and unease. If the memory wasn’t of you, then who?

His breath catches. Did he cheat on you?

The thought is a punch to the gut. His stomach twists, nausea creeping up his throat. Why was he holding another woman’s hand? Why did the memory feel so natural, so intimate? His heart pounds in his chest, the walls of the bookstore suddenly feeling too close, too suffocating.

“No reason,” he finally says. “I just thought I remembered something.”

You sense something is wrong but you don’t ask. Instead, you turn back to the book in your hands, flipping a page absently.

For the rest of the afternoon, he’s distant. He barely speaks as you walk back home, his responses clipped, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind replays the memory over and over, searching for an answer that won’t come.

That night, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The warmth of a hand in his. The soft murmur of a voice. A memory that doesn’t belong to you. Jimin turns onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut.

And for the first time since waking up, he’s afraid to remember.

The day you go back to work finally arrives. More than a week has passed since you two came home, and Jimin’s wounds are healed enough for him to move around without you having to micromanage every move of his. You walk through the apartment with quiet efficiency, pulling on your coat and gathering your things, preparing for your first day back at work.

Jimin watches from the couch, one arm resting on the back of the cushions, his gaze following your every movement. There’s something comforting about the routine the way you check your bag twice, the way you tie your hair up only to take it down again, second-guessing the style.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until you glance at him.

“What?” you ask, adjusting your watch.

“Nothing,” he says then after a beat, he sits up. “I’ll come with you.”

You pause, your fingers stilling on the buttons of your coat. “What?”

“I need to see Namjoon.” His voice is calm, but there’s something in his expression something unreadable. “The headaches… they aren’t going away, and it’s time for my check-up anyway.”

You study him for a moment, then nod. “That’s a good idea.”

Jimin stands, walking to the hallway and about to reach for his coat when he notices a dark bomber jacket that is hanging next it. His fingers automatically move to graze over the material before tugging at the sleeve.

"This is mine, right?" he asks, holding it up.

"Yeah. Namjoon was with you when you bought it," you say, "You saw it in a shop window and tried it on immediately."

Jimin’s fingers pause slightly before resuming their slow glide over the material. "Did I say something dramatic about it?"

"You went on about how it was 'the perfect balance between street style and functionality.'"

Jimin cringes. "Did I really say that?"

"According to Namjoon, you did. You even threw in the phrase timeless design. Namjoon was waiting for the sales rep to give you a sponsorship deal."

You weren’t there to notice this scene firsthand, but when Namjoon dropped by with Jimin’s clothes he saw the jacket and started laughing. You didn’t think too much of it, perhaps the absurdity of the situation got to him.

Or having to ask Jimin’s mother to collect his friend’s clothes at the current girlfriend’s apartment and then have him drop it, at his friend’s shared apartment with the ex-wife’s who is currently again playing the role of his wife, was top notch comedy material.

However, he pulled the jacket out of the box and told you this fond memory and the way he spoke about it left an impression that besides funny interaction at the store there was something else that made him so happy, something he wanted to keep to himself.

Jimin makes a grimace, second hand embarrassment settling in. "God, I sound pretentious. Poor guy probably had to listen to me overanalyse it the whole way home. “

"You sound like a man who owns way too much Marvel merch."

He pinches your shoulder, offended by your words. "Excuse you. My collection is a work of art. And it’s well-rounded, okay? I didn’t just collect one hero; I was fair to all of them."

You clutch your bag, one leg out of the door. "Right. Because you totally didn’t have one shelf dedicated to Spider-Man alone."

Jimin leaves the jacket, switching it with his coat as he grabs the keys. "That was for aesthetic purposes."

"Sure, it was."

“To resume the paused conversation,” he adds, locking the apartment, “it’s not fair if you get to go back to saving lives while I just sit around doing nothing.”

You're already near the lift pressing the button for downstairs. “You’ve been resting, not doing nothing.”

“Feels the same to me.”

The city moves past in a blur, a mixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar. The skyline stands like an old friend, unchanged, but everything beneath it has shifted in ways that make Jimin feel like a visitor in his own life. The streets are alive with the same energy, people weaving between each other, the distant wail of a siren swallowed by the hum of traffic, but the specifics betray time’s quiet betrayal. 

The ramen shop that once sat on the corner is gone, replaced by something sleeker, newer, detached. A boutique has taken over where a bookstore used to stand, its window displays full of things he wouldn’t know how to describe. He narrows his eyes slightly, as if looking hard enough might bring the past into sharper focus.

"That used to be a bookstore," he muses, nodding toward a sleek boutique with minimalist signage. His voice is casual, but there’s a slight tilt to his head, like his brain is struggling to process the change. "What happened to it?"

"Closed a while ago. Rent prices went up," you say, keeping your tone light.

"That ramen place is gone too and what's that? A boba shop?"

You don't need to follow his finger to know that he's talking about the colourful new signage that replaced the old family-run restaurant. "Boba became a trend nowadays, teenagers usually sit there after school. “

He exhales through his nose, lips pressing into a thin line. "I feel old.”

“You are.”

Jimin lets out an offended huff. “Thirty-three is not old Y/N. If I am old so, are you.”

You take a turn to the left, eyes focused on the road. “I never said I wasn’t.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can tell it unsettles him. The city he thought he knew has shifted without him, leaving him slightly out of step with reality. 

The radio interrupts the silences that nested itself between you before Jimin turns to you, brows slightly furrowed. "I wanted to ask you yesterday, but I forgot," he says, his voice casual but laced with curiosity. His gaze flickers across the dashboard before he nods toward it. "This is a jeep."

“Was it the sheer height of it, or did the universe whisper it to you?"

Jimin rolls his eyes as he repeats your question, voice an octave higher to tease you before he answers. "You never liked big cars. You always said smaller ones were more practical."

You click your tongue. "You were very persistent about it, actually."

There's a flicker of intrigue in his dark eyes and you feel like he's waiting for you to fill in the blanks of a story he can’t quite remember. "I did?"

"Yeah. You didn’t want me to get the BMW. Said the Mercedes was better. And then you convinced me to get a jeep."

He blinks, his frown deepening as if testing the words, turning them over in his head. "Why would I push for a jeep?"

You hesitate before answering with a small shrug opting for a half-truth. "You always complained that my old car could never fit our suitcases when we went on trips. And you knew I never wanted to drive your car."

But the truth is heavier than that. The truth is, one evening over dinner, Jimin had dropped the kind of bomb that reshapes futures. 'If we ever have kids, your car wouldn’t be ideal,' he had said, so casually, so certain. His words had lingered in the air between you, not a suggestion, but a decision already made. 

And you, wanting to meet him in that imagined future, had adhered to his wishes without question. Your car had been replaced, the jeep had arrived, and in some small way, it had felt like preparing for something that never came. But now, looking at Jimin’s confused expression, that future feels further away than ever, like a dream you had once but forgot upon waking.

"Well, I can’t say the decision was bad, the car is spacious."

Beyond the windshield, the hospital comes into view, its reflective glass catching the morning sun. Jimin shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders slightly as if bracing himself.

"This one I remember," he mutters, voice quieter now, almost to himself.

The car slows as you pull into the parking lot. The hospital looms ahead, all reflective glass and sterile walls, a place that should feel clinical and detached but instead carries the weight of something more personal.

When you step out of the car, Jimin follows suit, and you both barely have time to exchange a word before a familiar voice calls out.

"You made it," Namjoon says, standing near the entrance, his gaze flickers between you and Jimin, assessing without making it obvious.

"Of course," you say, locking your car. "Thanks for meeting us."

Namjoon's face holds one too many question to answer with a raise of your brow you gesture for him to move on. "How are you feeling?"

Jimin thinks for a second as if it was a million dollar question. "Like I should be remembering more than I do. But physically, I think I'm alright."

Namjoon offers him a smile with laced with pity. "That’s a start. Let’s get you checked in."

Before you can respond, a voice calls your name from behind. One of the residents, dressed in scrubs, approaches quickly. "Dr. Y/L, sorry to interrupt, but could you consult on a case? It’s a post-op patient with some complications."

You shift between Jimin and Namjoon which catches the latter's attenion and steps in easily. "Go ahead," he says. "I’ll stay with him."

Jimin lifts a brow. "You’re babysitting me now?"

Namjoon smirks. "Something like that."

You press a light touch to Jimin’s forearm before following the intern. "I’ll find you after." 

Jimin watches you disappear down the hall with the resident before Namjoon motions for him to follow inside. "Come on," Namjoon says. "Let’s get this over with."

Jimin's point of view

Inside an exam room, Namjoon moves methodically, checking Jimin’s reflexes, eye movement, and responses to simple neurological tests. Jimin ever the one to be awkward with a longer pause or silence, decides to break it by asking more questions to fill in the gaps. 

"So, how’s everyone been? Jungkook, Hoseok, the guys?"

Namjoon steps away, writing something on a pad before he continues the exam. "Hoseok’s doing well. Your company is still thriving, no surprises there. Jungkook’s finally gone global, and Seokjin opened a restaurant last year."

Jimin's leg bounces against the floor. "Seokjin in a kitchen for real? Feels illegal."

Namjoon presses two fingers against Jimin’s wrist, checking his pulse. "It was a shock to everyone, but he’s been killing it. Opened this fancy restaurant last year. Exclusive but not pretentious. Classic Seokjin. He’s hands-on with everything, too, always yelling at his chefs but somehow still their favourite person."

Jimin recalls the memory of Seokjin insisting he had 'natural chef instincts' flickering somewhere in the back of his mind. "He always did say he could outcook half the restaurants in Seoul. Guess he wasn’t bluffing."

Namjoon makes Jimin track his finger with his eyes. "It’s weird, isn’t it? Catching up on years you lived but don’t remember."

Jimin’s jaw tightens slightly. "Yeah. Feels like I’ve been given a highlight reel instead of the full thing."

Namjoon hums in response before switching gears. "Jungkook’s still traveling, by the way. Spends more time overseas than in Korea these days."

"Yeah? What’s he been up to?"

By the way Namjoon's feature soften, Jimin can conclude that whatever Jungkook is doing, Namjoon supports it. "What hasn’t he been up to? World tour, a couple of magazine covers, some random adventure sports phase where he started skydiving because of course, he did."

"Let me guess. He tried to get you to go with him."

"Tried and failed. You, on the other hand, would’ve been on that plane in a heartbeat." Namjoon, pinches his nose.

Jimin smiles at that, but it’s brief. "I can’t tell if I miss it or if I just miss remembering it."

Namjoon watches him carefully, giving a slow nod. "Reflexes are good. You’re healing well. No sign of complications."

Jimin's hand comes up absently, touching his ribs, and he stills for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, a memory flickers to life.

"Wait… the guys’ trip. We went away for a few weeks, right? Somewhere in the winter?"

Namjoon pauses mid-motion. "Yeah. A cabin trip. Jungkook dragged us all snowboarding. You nearly broke your ankle."

Jimin glances sideways, image sharp and fresh. "Hoseok kept yelling at me to stop being reckless. He was freaking out."

"Yeah, because you were trying to do a backflip off a jump that Jungkook barely landed."

The memory makes Jimin laugh, eyes crinkling into half-moons. "Taehyung was there too. He kept trying to record us, saying he wanted ‘cinematic footage’. He always acted like he was shooting a film, making us redo things just to get a better shot."

Namjoon's posture remains neutral, but there's a subtle flicker in his eyes brief but telling. It’s slight just a second of hesitation, the tiniest pause in his movements. Jimin catches it.  However, Namjoon recovers quickly, too quickly. "Yeah, he was. He always got the best shots."

The warmth in Jimin's smile fades as he studies him with newfound scrutiny. "How is he? I feel like I should've talked to him more recently than that trip, but I can't remember anything after that."

Namjoon schools his expression, but the hesitation is there, enough for Jimin’s stomach to begin flipping as he feels that there is more than meets the eye.

"He’s… in Switzerland. Getting treatment." He says it carefully, as if weighing how much to reveal.

Jimin straightens slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "Treatment? For what? He was fine before, wasn’t he?"

Namjoon presses his lips together before speaking. "He needed time away, so he went to Switzerland to recover. It was the best option. “

Jimin’s gaze sharpens, tension creeping into his voice. "Why didn’t I go see him? Did I even know?"

Namjoon meets his eyes. "You knew. You had a lot going on, work, your personal life. It wasn’t intentional, just how things unfolded."

Jimin absorbs the information, but something about the way Namjoon is answering feels too structured. Like he’s picking his words carefully, making sure they fit together in a way that keeps Jimin from looking too closely. Not lying, but definitely not telling the whole truth either.

Jimin leans back. "So, he’s still in Switzerland? Is he okay now?"

Namjoon licks his lips, feeling like he’s losing the secure grip he had over the situation. "Yes, he’s still in Switzerland. He stayed longer than expected, focusing on treatment. “

Jimin nods slowly, the way his friend slowly begins to close up, divert the conversation leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "It feels weird, like I should remember more. Like I was supposed to check in on him. Was I?"

Namjoon’s arms folding over his chest. "It’ll come back in pieces. Sometimes memories just need the right trigger."

Before Jimin can press further, Namjoon moves on, gesturing toward Jimin’s bandages. "Take your shirt off. Let’s see how you’re healing."

Jimin obliges, pulling the shirt over his head and throwing it onto the bed. The bandages covering his bruises stand out starkly against his skin, and for the first time, he truly looks at them.

Namjoon’s voice cuts through his thoughts. "She did these, didn’t she?" His tone is knowing, more of a statement than a question. He gestures at the neatly secured bandages, tilting his head slightly. "It’s stupid, but you can always tell when she’s the one who patched someone up. It’s a little too careful. Too precise. Like she’s making sure it holds even when it doesn’t have to."

Jimin feels like he should be serious, but he lived by the proverb asking stupid questions get stupid answer. " No I did them myself. With my impeccable one-handed skills and a tutorial video on how to make my injuries worse."

Namjoon rolling his eyes, steps away allowing Jimin to get dressed. "Right. Because that’s exactly what you’d do."

"Namjoon." His voice is quieter now. "When exactly did I get this?"

Namjoon turns around, following where Jimin’s finger was pointing. "Japan. About a year and a half ago.”

"Why, though? Why would I get this? Did I ever tell you?"

Namjoon shrugs, shoulders relaxing, for the first time he felt like he didn’t have to adjust the truth. "You never gave a straight answer. At first, you avoided talking about it completely. Then, one night after a few drinks you said it pained you. I thought you meant the tattoo itself, but you just shook your head and said, ‘Not the ink. The thought.’" He says rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You kept giving these cryptic answers, like it was something only you were supposed to understand. Hoseok and I were with you that night, but we couldn’t piece it together. It didn’t seem like something you wanted to explain."

"I call Y/N lily, you know. So, when I first saw this, I thought it had to be for her. But then…" He trails off. "Then I saw her reaction. She wasn’t just surprised, she looked hurt. Sad. It didn’t make sense. If this was for her, shouldn’t she have been - I don’t know, happy?"

Namjoon feels the guilt seep in, biting at his consciousness for he knew why her reaction was like that. "Jimin, sometimes things don’t fit into neat little boxes. Maybe you got the tattoo with one meaning in mind, but by the time you did, maybe things had already changed. Maybe it wasn’t about her the way you thought it was.“

Jimin stays quiet but his consciences doesn't let him rest. "It’s strange, though. How didn’t she know about it? If I got it for her, wouldn’t she have seen it before? Wouldn’t I have told her?"

Russian roulette, that’s how Namjoon feels like this conversation is going. One wrong move and he could be opening a pandora’s box with a bullet. "Maybe it just never came up or maybe you never showed her."

Jimin’s hands hit the table, irritation clear on his face. "Come on, hyung. You really think that makes sense? We lived together. There’s no way she wouldn’t have noticed."

Namjoon hesitates, already on the brink of slipping up. "You weren’t in the best place back then. Maybe you meant to tell her, but you never got around to it. Or maybe… you didn’t want to."

At this point Jimin was desperate, he felt like there was much to unbox but no matter how hard he tries it doesn’t budge. "That still doesn’t explain her reaction. She wasn’t just surprised, she looked..." he searches for the right word. "Like it hurt. Like it was something she never wanted to see."

Namjoon’s already sitting behind the desk, writing away his assessment, the conversation long finished in his mind and now he’s giving crumbles that could satisfy Jimin. "Then maybe it meant something different to her than it did to you."

"Hoseok was there too?"

Namjoon nods, silently apologizes to Hoseok hoping that he will find a better way to deal with Jimin. "Yeah. He might remember more, if you ask him. Maybe he caught something I missed."

Namjoon clears his throat. "Physically, you’re healing well. Reflexes are good, no sign of complications. Just keep taking it easy."

"You busy?" Jimin asks casually, though his tone is anything but.

"Depends. Why?"

Jimin shrugs, slipping his shirt back on. "Coffee. Or lunch. Something."

Namjoon understandes the underlying request. A moment to breathe. A moment to process outside of sterile walls and medical evaluations. "Alright. There’s a café a couple of blocks away. Let’s go."

Soon, Jimin finds himself sitting across from Namjoon at a quiet café near the hospital. Namjoon stirs sugar into his drink, his spoon tracing slow circles along the rim of the cup before he finally sets it down with a quiet clink.

“I’m glad you finally came in for your check-up,” Namjoon says, breaking the quiet first. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Jimin shifts his grip on the warm ceramic of his mug. “I’d never hear the end of it if I did.”

Namjoon exhales something between a chuckle and a sigh, taking a sip of his coffee before tilting his head slightly, studying Jimin. “How are you feeling? Any improvement?”

Jimin rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, considering. “The headaches come and go. Not as bad as before, but they still hit randomly.”

Namjoon runs his thumb over the edge of his cup. “That’s expected. Your brain is still trying to reconnect everything. The smallest things can act as triggers, scents, places, even a passing phrase.” He pauses. “Have you remembered anything new?”

Jimin drums his fingers once against the side of his cup before stopping himself. “Some things.” He keeps his tone light, casual, as if it isn’t keeping him awake at night. “Some are sharp, others feel… disjointed.”

“I remembered being in a bookstore,” Jimin draws circles on the table as he tries to remember more. “Walking through the aisles, holding Y/N’s hand.” He keeps his eyes on his coffee as he speaks. “She was laughing at something, me, maybe? She picked up a book and handed it to me like she already knew I’d like it.”

Namjoon is listening intently, trying to make something of what he is being told. “That sounds about right. Your memories might be resurfacing in pieces—details before context.”

Jimin leans back slightly, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “When did Y/N dye her hair blonde?”

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It was about a year ago, I think? She went lighter for a while but changed it back not long after.”

Jimin doesn’t react. He just lifts his coffee and takes a slow sip, letting the heat settle in his chest as his mind works through the information.

A year ago.

That’s not what you said. A strange sensation unravels inside him, curling its way into his ribs, squeezing just enough to make his breath feel shorter than before. Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice, continuing on, something about how the brain prioritizes emotional memories, but Jimin barely hears it. He keeps his expression neutral, nodding as though Namjoon’s words don’t shift the very foundation beneath him.

It could be nothing. A miscommunication, a lapse in memory. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

It feels like proof.

One of you is lying.

And he needs to find out why.

By the time Jimin steps back into the apartment, the evening light has softened into gold, stretching long shadows across the floor. He toes off his shoes without thought, his mind elsewhere, tangled in the weight of the conversation he just had.

A year ago.

Namjoon’s words sit heavy in his chest, pressing against the space already thick with doubt. His body moves before his mind fully catches up, carrying him toward the bedroom with a quiet urgency.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for only that he needs to find something. He pulls open the first drawer of the nightstand, fingers sifting through neatly stacked belongings. A watch he hasn’t worn in months, a stray receipt, a set of wireless earphones. Nothing. He shuts it with a quiet thud and moves to the next.

Papers. Old notebooks with hastily scribbled lyrics, corners folded from use. He flips through them on instinct, his own handwriting staring back at him, filled with half-finished verses, melodies he no longer remembers composing. Nothing.

The tension in his chest tightens, winding itself around his ribs like a slow, deliberate vice. His movements become more hurried, dresser drawers pulled open with less care, hands pushing past neatly folded clothes, rifling through stacks of old letters, envelopes, anything that might—

His fingers still.

A small box, tucked toward the back of the drawer. Plain, unmarked. Something about it feels familiar.

He pulls it free, heart hammering against his ribs as he lifts the lid. Inside, photographs. Some of them stacked haphazardly, others in envelopes, edges slightly worn. He reaches for the first one and it’s you.

A candid shot standing near a window, sunlight spilling over your shoulder as you laugh at something outside of the frame. His fingers tighten around the photo. He flips through the others, a silent reel of moments captured on film. The two of you at a café, leaning close. You mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly. A blurry shot of you in his hoodie, sock-clad feet curled beneath you on the couch. And then a photo that makes his stomach drop.

Blonde hair.

The same bookstore aisle from his memory. His own hand in hers. A book between them, her smile barely visible at the edge of the frame. The air in the room feels suddenly too thick.

Jimin swallows hard, his fingers pressing into the photo as his pulse pounds against his temple. The memory had felt so sure like it belonged to you. But here, in his hands, is proof that it doesn’t. That it never did.

The photograph burns in Jimin’s hands.

Blonde hair. A memory that doesn’t belong to you.

The truth slams into him with unrelenting force he’s been remembering the wrong person. Or worse, he’s been remembering someone else entirely.

A sharp breath leaves his lungs, his fingers shaking as he tosses the photograph onto the bed like it’s something toxic. His head feels light, spinning, thoughts colliding too fast for him to make sense of. Who is she? Why does he remember her? Why? Why did it feel so real?

His vision blurs at the edges, his breathing uneven as he starts tearing through the room, like a man possessed. Drawers fly open, clothes shoved aside.

His hands push past shirts, socks, old receipts, searching for anything, anything that will make this make sense. Bills, takeout menus, hospital documents with his name on them, your old notes, faded receipts from restaurants he doesn’t remember visiting.

His elbow knocks against the vanity. Glass shatters.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of something breaking against the floor rips through the air. He stills, staring down at the mess your serum, the one you always used, the one that sat in the same place on your dresser for as long as he can remember. A drop of liquid slides across the tile. The scent light, floral, unmistakably you, fills the room curling in the air around him.

And then a memory slams into him.

His voice is sharp, unrelenting. “Is this what you wanted?”

You flinch, standing in the center of the room, your arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. You won’t meet his eyes. Your breath comes uneven, raw, as if you’re barely holding yourself together.

“Jimin, stop—”

Glass shatters.

He’s thrown something. A frame. A photograph. It hits the floor with a sickening crack, the splintered glass scattering across the wood, reflecting fractured pieces of the two of you.

Jimin watches himself, watches the way his shoulders rise and fall, his breath ragged, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Watches the way you sink onto the edge of the bed, shoulders trembling, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes like you can push back the tears.

“You don’t get to cry,” he snaps. “Not when you did this.”

The memory fractures.

Jimin jerks back to the present, gasping, his fingers pressing against the edge of the vanity like it might ground him. His head throbs, his pulse hammering in his ears, but something clicks—

The blonde woman in the photo. The blonde woman who was sitting beside his parents when he woke up in the hospital. The one who was there when you walked in. The one who looked at you with something too familiar, too knowing.

Rosé.

His stomach drops. That was her. That was the woman in his memories. The pieces snap together with brutal clarity, forcing him to face what he’s been too disoriented to see. She wasn’t just there when he woke up. She was part of his life before he lost his memories.

But how? What was she to him? Why does he remember her hand in his at the bookstore, the softness in her voice, the way it felt like something that belonged to him?

And why, why did it feel more certain than anything else?

His knees feel weak. His hands tremble as he slowly crouches, picking up the broken shards of glass, setting them aside like it will somehow undo the destruction, like he can put back what’s already been broken.

By the time the floor is clear, and the vanity looks untouched again, Jimin walks to the living room. He sits on the couch, fingers pressed against his temples, his mind still racing.

Jimin doesn’t sleep. Not really.

When morning comes, he steps out of the apartment before you wake, his mind moving faster than his feet. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, only that he has to keep searching.

The hospital feels like the logical place to start, but walking through those halls won’t give him anything new. Not yet. Instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts, his finger hovering over a name he hasn’t thought about in years—

Hoseok.

He doesn’t second-guess himself before pressing the call button. It rings twice before a familiar voice filters through the speaker.

“Jimin?” Hoseok sounds surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “How are you? I wanted to reach out sooner but man these kids are killing me”

“Are you busy?” Jimin asks, “I need to talk.”

A pause. Hoseok sighs. “No, meet me at Office.”

Jimin arrives at their office building, the glass doors reflecting the city skyline behind him. If anyone will give him a real answer, it’s Hoseok. His old friend is waiting inside, leaning back in his chair, flipping through reports. His desk is cluttered, stock reports, investment portfolios, documents requiring signatures. Things Jimin should be familiar with. Things he isn’t.

“You look like hell,” Hoseok says, setting a pen down and meeting Jimin’s gaze.

Jimin smirks faintly, lowering himself into the chair opposite. “You’re not the first to say that.”

Hoseok lets out a quiet snort, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. “Guess I’ll hold back the lecture then.”

Jimin studies him, keeping his posture relaxed. Casual. Familiar. That’s the key. He can’t be too direct. Not yet. 

“So,” he skims through the papers spread across the desk. “How’s everything been? Business still holding up?”

Hoseok crossing his arms. “Yeah. You left a mess, though. Some accounts need approval, and a few big investors are waiting for your confirmation on projects.”

Jimin rests his hands on his lap, fiddling his fingers a habit he picked up whenever he felt nervous. “Guess I really made my absence known.”

“You did.” Hoseok answer before throwing one of the papers in to a shredder bin “People were nervous. Stocks dipped a little after the accident. Some of our investors thought you might not come back.”

Jimin angles his chin slightly. “Did you think that?”

Hoseok clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Nah. Figured you’d drag yourself back eventually.”

Hoseok’s always been good at playing the game. Always two steps ahead. “Have you remembered anything new?”

Jimin presses nails into the palm of his hand to easen the anxiety that he felt was seeping out of him. “Here and there.”

Hoseok waits for a second, thinking Jimin might explain further. “Anything important?”

Jimin diverts his attention to the window. Push. Just a little. And that he does, eyes looking directly into Hoseok's. “Must’ve been nice having people around,” he muses, voice light. My parents, familiar faces.”

Hoseok’s expression doesn’t waver. “Of course. They had a lot of support.”

Jimin shifts in his seat. Nothing. Hoseok won’t budge. He’s too careful. He lets it go for now, letting the conversation drift. “What about you?”

“Me?”

Jimin gestures toward the framed photo on Hoseok’s desk. His wife and two kids smile back at him, their faces bright and full of life. A family Jimin should know well.

“Still dealing with two gremlins at home?” Jimin asks, resting his elbow on the chair’s armrest.

Hoseok although grateful for his family, the undeniable exhaustion eats him alive. “They’ve gotten worse. I swear, the younger twin is an evil mastermind.”

“Takes after you, then.”

“You’re damn right.” Hoseok’s eyes soften. “Somin’s growing too fast. Wants to start dance classes. Can’t believe she’s already six.”

Somin. The name rings in his ears, familiar yet distant, like something just out of reach. “I used to babysit, didn’t I?”

Hoseok nods. “Yeah. You and —” He stops, just briefly, before clearing his throat. “You helped out a lot.”

Jimin stills. Whose name was he going to say?  Hoseok catches himself fast, covering the slip smoothly. But it’s too late. Jimin heard it.

He has to restrain himself from digging up more, it would raising suspicion. Instead, he pretends he didn’t notice. “Guess I need to catch up on everything, huh?”

“Yeah. But take your time. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“You sound like Namjoon.” Jimin says as he reaches out for Hoseok's visit card, slowly playing with it.

Hoseok fixes a strand of hair that fell out of its place before answering. “Namjoon’s the smart one.”

Jimin quickly disagrees before rising to his feet. Enough for today.

“Good seeing you, hyung.” He pats Hoseok’s shoulder as he walks past.

Hoseok stands up as if jolted awake. “Jimin—”

“I’ll be fine,” Jimin cuts in, flashing an easy smile. Lying effortlessly. “I always am.”

And then, without another word, he walks out, the weight of everything he still doesn’t know pressing against his chest like a vice. Now, he knows exactly where to look next. Jimin doesn’t hesitate.

He calls Jungkook the moment he steps outside.

“HYUNG?!” Jungkook practically shrieks. “OH MY GOD. ARE YOU OKAY? DO YOU REMEMBER ME? WHAT YEAR IS IT? IS THIS A PRANK? WAIT, ARE YOU AN AI CLONE—”

“Jungkook,” Jimin interrupts, already wheezing from laughter. “Calm down.”

“I CANNOT BE CALM!” Jungkook yells. “I—OH MY GOD—OKAY—DO YOU REMEMBER ME?”

Jimin exhales dramatically. “Yes, Jungkook, I remember you.”

“WHO WAS MY FIRST CELEBRITY CRUSH?”

Jimin bites his tongue, even at the age of thirty Jungkook is behaving like a child. “IU.”

A half cry is heard from the other side followed by a minut elong silence. Jimin moves the phone away from his ear to check if the call is still on.

Just as he was about to call out his friend's name, Jungkook gasps as if he was fighting to catch air. “OKAY GOOD. YOU’RE REAL.”

Jimin rubs his temple, at least one person is the same as they were five years ago. Dramatic. “Can we meet?”

Jungkook pauses. “Serious talk?”

“Yeah.”

“Spain hyung,” Jungkook groans. “I’m in Spain, but I’ll be back in four days.”

Jimin looks around before he speaks, for some reason paranoia getting the best of him. “Keep this between us.”

“Hyung, do I look like a snitch?” something in the background breaks and Jungkook curses.

Jimin debates whether to ask what happened, but decides against it knowing that whatever happened Jungkook wouldn't explain it in three sentences. He would have to give a full report, all or nothing.

“Yes.”

Jungkook hisses, another thud sound. “Rude. Four days then.”

“Four days.”

[periprose]

Arachnid Anxiety

You're Spider-Woman, and you've been tasked with babysitting Mayday. Maybe you have a bit of stress that you need to vent about, and Hobie comes along quite conveniently for that purpose.

Genre: Fluff, reader having anxiety, Hobie giving her advice, very cute, reader is a Jessica Drew variant, perhaps mutual pining if you squint, takes place during the movie but before Miles arrives to the Society, terrible british slang attempts (sorry Hobie :'))

Word Count: 2.4k

Babies are hard to wrangle when they’re crawling up walls.

Of course, Peter B. Parker said that he needs a nap, just this once, and he needs someone to watch over Mayday while he sneaks away into the sleeping pods in the Spider-Society-System. Sometimes he and MJ don’t get sleep for days at a time, so you get it.

But Mayday is so curious, and you find yourself having to pull her prying hands away before she inadvertently tampers with things around Miguel’s labs and causes either a mass outage or a explosion or Miguel’s wrath. You understand why Peter is a little exhausted.

She’s a very cute baby, though, and you can’t help but coo at her as she clambers off the wall into your arms. 

“Who’s a good Spidey? Who’s gonna be the best of us?” You shake her up and down and she giggles, wrapping her arms around you. 

You instinctively flinch, feeling your Spider-Sense go off.

“Large statement to make. But I see where you’re coming from.” Spider-Punk comes up from behind you, and you turn to him. “She’s definitely punk.”

“Hey, don’t go claiming someone else’s kid as one of your own.” You joke, and Hobie scowls as he pulls off his mask.

“Don’t believe in claims. Or labels, for that matter.” He scratches his hair, looking effortless as he ever does, and you roll your eyes. “She is… who she is. Forgive me for using a descriptive word, Spider-Woman.”

“I get it.” You hold Mayday as she squeals at the sight of Hobie, and she motions in an uppy-uppy motion. She wants to be held by him, but he ignores her.

You never quite know how to feel about Hobie Brown. The Amazing Spider-Punk is revolutionary, known for being better than just his words– he holds himself to the very essence of anarchy. He practices what he preaches.

But you can’t quite get a read on the guy. You don’t know if he’s pulling your leg– or taking the piss as he would say– when he gives his bouts of advice while somehow simply being amazing through it all. He somehow knows what to say but he also isn’t the most comforting, and that in itself makes you drawn to him. He just happens to be kind of rough around the edges, and it’s because of that you know he truly means what he says. 

No sugar-coating, ever.

But you hate yourself, because you’ve somehow managed to fall for him. 

It’s not uncommon for Spideys to fall for each other. Peter Parker and Cindy Moon, Miles Morales and Gwen Stacy. But you know this is the one time it just wouldn’t end well for you.

You can already hear Hobie’s comments if he ever found out. He’d probably rebuke you even though you’d never try anything. Tell you he doesn’t feel that way and you’re delusional for potentially thinking that he would ever tie himself down. Spiders are meant to be swinging free and all that.

Even worse, he just happens to be beautiful. You’re positive that if Hobie wasn’t so anti-everything he would have stuck with being a runway model. His face is molded in a distinctive way that has you trying to catch his glance, even if he only looks at you with nonchalance, completely unbothered, not a hint of chemistry in his eyes.

It is with great displeasure that you find yourself wanting his bored attention anyways.

And so you’ve been swallowing your crush for the greater part of a year now. You’re sure it will pass like all things do.

Pavitr, as much as you love him, has told you many times about the “chemistry” between you and Hobie– and you have told him every time to fuck off. Not in an actual harsh way, because again you can’t help but love the guy, but because you don’t need false hope.

You’re just Spider-Woman. Another red-and-yellow suited variant of Jessica Drew, you might as well just be another Peter Parker. You know that’s not how you’re supposed to think of yourself, but it’s just how it is. Canon events brought you here, and according to Miguel, it’s not something you chose– you just happened to be there at the right time and place. You’re no Jess, who comes in on her motorcycle, raging heat and excitement on her toes– you are one of the many, instead of being exceptional like the few.

You’re not like Hobie, who is as far as you know, one of a kind.

“What’s on your mind, Spider-Woman?” Hobie asks as he picks through random tech on the desk in Miguel’s lab, taking what he feels is useful for whatever it is he does with the stuff. He’s never used your name, because he doesn’t know it.

You and a few other Spider-People have chosen to stay anonymous, for different reasons, and only Miguel and Margo know who you really are. Hobie has told you before that that’s pretty cool– he only chose to give up his name because it was easier to get along with people that way. Hobie knows there’s power in people.

“Just babysitting. Obviously.” You motion to Mayday, who takes this moment to thwip out a web and swing away from you– but you’re faster and you grab her back into your arms, and she pouts.

“Nah, nah. I mean that sour expression upon your lovely little visage, imbecile.” He pokes your masked cheek, and you find yourself blushing but pulling away from him. Hobie is like that– overly familiar and no real sense of space because he doesn’t care.

“It’s not lovely.” You retort, fully convinced of it because he has never seen your face, only your incredulous expression through the eyes of your mask. 

You think that Hobie is again being sarcastic about your unknown appearance, and because his back is facing yours as he searches through random shelves now, you don’t catch how his face frowns at your response.

“Disagreements about your anonymous-but-surely beautiful face aside– not that looks matter, mind you– you’re clearly miffed about something.” Hobie turns and crosses his arms, and it’s with a little embarrassment and comfort that you want his advice. Even if it’s kind of to do with him.

“Well, I guess, uh… lately I’ve just been feeling kind of down. Like what’s the point of all this?” You bite your lip, knowing Hobie’s feelings on nihilism. “I don’t mean like nothing in life matters, Hobie. I mean more that I don’t matt– I don’t… anyways, I feel useless. I don’t have anything special about me, I don’t really bring anything to the Spider-Society that wasn’t already brought.”

"Whoa whoa whoa. Nah, lady, you've got your priorities all twisted." Hobie pulls your arms, bringing you kind of closer to him, and rests his hands on your shoulders, making you listen. "This inner hatred stuff– that sick urge to feel shame and then blast it inside of yourself, all that repression, yeah? It's a crock of shit."

"Huh?" You and Mayday both peer up at him. You behind your mask, and she with her crocheted one. 

Hobie picks up Mayday, finally giving into her wishes to be held by him, and she immediately giggles. There’s a subtle smile on his face that warms him to you a little.

"It might feel good in the moment. It might even feel revolutionary." Hobie scowls, and scratches his jaw. "It's worthless. Notice, Spider, I didn't call you worthless. The very action is garbage, a visceral thing that brings no productive value– that's what they want you to feel."

"Ah, because then I'll never fight against the establishment, right, Hobie? I'll be too busy fighting myself." You say mockingly, taking on a fake-pretentious-Cockney accent, mimicking him, but Hobie gives you a chill look and nods.

"Now you're getting it."

"Aw." You slump and slouch and sit on the counter full of gadgets and gizmos next to him. "I know you're right, but… don't you ever get people getting mad at you?"

"You've lost me."

"Like… being so responsible." You roll your eyes as Hobie snickers and whispers the spider-mantra you all know so well. "Or just living by your own ideology so… efficiently. It's almost like a slap in the face to the rest of us Spiders. We don’t know how to cope, and here comes along Spider-Punk with all his personal assurance that even if things aren't alright, he'll make it alright for himself."

"Oi, trust me, it wasn't all that easy." Hobie sniffs and sits down next to you, holding Mayday close and then letting her go as she crawls onto the wall in front of you. "You really think I haven't had a bad day? I haven’t had my moments of self doubt, huh?”

“Uh… well. When you put it like that, it does sound kind of crazy.” You admit, and nudge him with your shoulder. “I didn’t mean any harm, Hobie. I just feel so… inadequate.”

“Just stop.” He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, and you feel that yet again, he’s somewhat unreadable. “Don’t think those things. You’re not inadequate.”

“But I–”

“Stop.” He grasps your hands, and squeezes them tightly in his own, and you wonder if Hobie has ever looked this seriously at you, his eyes soft yet firm with affection.

You’re in trouble, you think. Your heart is pounding and you’re really glad he can’t see your face.

“I don’t think you know how important you are.” He utters so quietly, in that very deep voice that has you leaning in to hear him better. “You’re not nothing, Spider-Woman. You’ve done a lot of good for your Earth-257, I’m sure, and that makes you something special. Like the rest of us– you’re kind of irreplaceable, right?”

“I guess.”

“Not ‘I guess.’” Hobie punches the side of your arm and you pretend to say ow, laughing a little. “If you didn’t exist, we’d all be poorer for it. Peter couldn’t ask you to chill with his baby, and I couldn’t be here talking your ear off.”

“But I’m not– I don’t really compare to her, you know?” You say without thinking, and then immediately squint at your own stupidity. 

“Who’s her?” Hobie is wary of how your expression is shifting. “Stacy?”

“Uh, no.” You inhale, exhale, and then decide it’s time to get it over with. “Jess.”

“Jess? Jessica Drew, huh?” Hobie smirks a little. “You don’t want to be adopted by her, do you?”

“More complicated than Gwen’s weird fantasy.” You shift on your spot on the counter, and pull off your mask after a minute of tribulations. “I’m… also Jessica Drew.”

You feel incredibly shy as Hobie takes in your face, wary of his every move as you feel yourself sweating, and he grasps your face gently, peering into your eyes and taking a look at your features, as if he’s really trying to remember them.  

“Huh.”

“What is it?” You say a little too defensively, and he shrugs. 

“You do have a lovely visage, you silly little sod. Even if it’s completely different from Jess’ face.” He laughs as you shove him away, covering your face in your hands. “No, don’t do that.”

He’s tracing your jaw, and he murmurs. “Maybe you could use a few piercings… a tat or two… ever thought about it?”

“No.” You shut your eyes. “I’m not cool like you.”

“Oh, shut it.” He leans in imperceptibly closer, and you blink, eyes open. Maybe Pavitr had a point that Hobie and you have something, because there’s not really another explanation for that look in his eyes. “You’re plenty cool, Jessica Drew. It was just a shit suggestion of mine.”

You think Hobart “Hobie” Brown is sweeter than you previously thought. You have half a mind to tell him about your feelings.

You and Hobie both look up, Spider-Senses tingling, and sure enough, Mayday is cooing from the ceiling– she leaps into your already waiting arms. She giggles at your expression.

Oh well, you think. There’ll be some other time to work up the courage to tell him.

Hobie half-smirks at her. “Way to interrupt us, Mayday.”

She looks at him all confused, tilting her head in a “huh?” motion, and you feel the same way, not entirely sure what Hobie meant by that and not willing to assume either.

He answers you by pulling your face in a sudden, swift motion, connecting his lips to yours, and in between the two of you, Mayday shrieks and laughs. She crawls off to the side of you, no longer smothered between your torsos.

Hobie is weirdly insistent– you feel like he’s been wanting to do this for a while, maybe longer than the length of your conversation (you don’t know if this is just a funny little fling for him, but you’re fairly sure it isn’t) and he’s a lot taller and lankier than you, so he really has to tower over you to reach your mouth better. He’s grasping your jaw and neck and the back of your head with a lot of intensity– you feel wildly dizzy when he pulls away.

“Uh.” Peter B. Parker is standing in front of you both, mouth wide open, and you look back at Hobie and he grins rather coolly, not really giving a damn. It’s enough to make you snort. “Wait, who are you?”

“Oh. Spider-Woman from Earth 257.” You remember Peter has never seen your face, either. “Jessica Drew?”

“Right, right.” Peter raises his hands in a whoop-de-doo motion, like he should’ve known that. “Nice to know what you look like behind the mask. Not nice to know that you’ve been avoiding your babysitting duties. Why are you two fooling around like prepubescent children? What happened to responsibility?”

“Ahhhhh, please, Peter. Live a little.” Hobie stands up, his full length of height drawing him to about the same height as Peter if not an inch taller. He picks up Mayday and hands her off to him. “Let’s not act as if you and MJ weren’t shacking up in the sleeping pods last week, yeah? Does Miguel need to know about how irresponsible you were?”

You think he’s kidding, but Peter pales and you clap your hands over your mouth, trying not to laugh. Miguel would absolutely throw a fit if he found that out.

“Uh…” Peter swallows. “At least that’s not an interdimensional tragedy-in-the-making like you two.”

“There’s no rules against that, I don’t think.” Hobie shrugs. “And if there are, fuck them. Miguel doesn’t know it all.”

“He really is punk to the very end.” Peter groans and leaves out to the hallway with Mayday. 

Hobie flashes a smile at you as he sits back down, ruffling your hair.

[twistedpink]

Mc Inserts x TWST characters pt.3 pt.2 pt.1

Al-Asim!Mc x Riddle Rosehearts @/kyokills

UGH the one of many kids x only child dynamic is to die for!!! You’re his light, the only person who could be so contradictory to him, while understanding his circumstances fully. He fixes your hair when you mess it up, and you give him the confidence for what his “letting loose” is. It is total balance. The two of you make small talk over tea and biscuits a little too often to just be friendly, but you guys haven’t crossed that line yet- It drives everyone you know insane.

“Why are you here? I swore you were aware of study hall this evening..”

“Ah! Do you have room for one more? I wanted to see you in action! Pew pew”

Pomefiore!Mc x Ace Trappola (Anon suggestion!)

The two of you are bad people in very different ways, so the only solution is to suck together! SDC is the perfect opportunity, too bad both of you are terrible roommates. You’re a judgy little whiner, and he’s a skeezy prick- AKA a match made in heaven <3 The crux of the problem is your assholeish behaviour only multiples when you hang out. Everyone else hates you, so you supplement the lacking connection by getting ever closer,, Soon enough you’ll get the message and hook up. Just not yet.

“Ace! What did I tell you about taking my serums from the fridge??”

“Do I look like I listened? Ow!”

Savanaclaw!Mc x Jade Leech (Anon suggestion!)

Ahhh,, Those enhanced senses, fluffy tail, and downright violent demeaner makes you the perfect lab rat. So many possibilities from taste testing to psychology! Too bad you hate Jade’s guts, he’ll wear you down eventually :) His little test subject was only defending their friend against the big-bad housewarden, and as the nurturing vice, how could he ever turn a blind eye to your struggle? He tries to be magnanimous with you- if only you’d taken his deal in the first place,,, With his stalking loving badgering, in a few short weeks you’re practically domesticated! Those days where you threatened to “swallow him whole” are water under the bridge! Now what is he to do with his new pet?

“My, aren’t your canines impressive?”

“Well you don’t have to say it like that,,”

Civilian!Mc x Silver Vanrouge (Anon suggestion!)

Your poor, neglected (unofficial!) delivery boy being stuck in the rain is not something you want to watch all weekend, no matter how good he looks soaked. Your parents go out around this time anyways, and over the years of cozy meetups he wears down your walls with sweet smiles and even sweeter kisses <3 Silver is the perfect boyfriend, and while getting whisked away to briar valley makes you nervous, he’s worth it. Of course all the sneaking around right now hurts your feelings a bit, but doesn’t distance make the heart grow fonder?

“Aren’t you just darling! Are you sure I can’t keep you til’ dinner?”

“You’ll just have to get by with my jacket, I’ll be back next weekend :)”

Ignihyde!Mc x Sebek Zigvolt @/fidenciocryptidcreechur

Sure, your dorm’s not known for its diplomacy, and maybe you’re a little stunted by it, but you’ll be damned if you fail art. Anything taught by Crewel is a nightmare for the introverts of ignihyde, and for your information it does suck to suck! Self proclaimed “EASIEST” elective your butt (that you fully suck at btw! You really need this freaking credit!) newsflash, nothing about art is easy! It’s all in the interpretation, and the practice, and the reference, and- holy moly is that a muscular extrovert on a HORSE? It’s time to put your big boy pants on, and pay a fifteen year old for their time. + biceps. #lockedin

“MC! I’M READY TO BE DRAWN!”

“alright! Hold that pose..”

Vice president!Mc x Rollo Flamme

Every mysterious hero needs their roguishly annoying best friend, just guess which one you are! You hover around your pampered wittle boss for a couple hours a day in exchange for the elusive office wifi. Rollo insists magicam is rotting your brain. You just respond by his spamming his ancient phone with couple’s challenges, despite being immediately rejected on a daily basis. The student body says you’re “odd” on the best of days, but your office crush hasn’t kicked you out yet- so you must be doing something right! Right?

“Woah, that guy is beautiful!”

“I’d like to assume you aren’t referring to Malleus Draconia, but it seems all your romantic conquests are an effort to “bug” me.”

“I live to serve, sir :)”

[e-hibiscus]

Pairing: GP!Acheron x reader

Warnings: NSFW, sub! Afab reader, GP!Acheron, slight angst, reunion se.x(?), not proofread, pre-release Acheron

Minors DNI! | NSFW! under the cut

Acheron has always been elusive from the day you’ve met this strange woman. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the fact you had known her for so long (and slept with each other before), she probably wouldn’t ever come back. But the galaxy ranger always finds her way back to you like a moth drawn to a flame. 

Days and months pass, and you’ve long since grown accustomed to her absence and surprise visits. It’s been a while, but you don’t forget her. Her touch, her smell, and the way she makes you feel, emotionally and physically. Simply thinking about her fills you with a sense of longing, as if a part of you is missing without her presence by your side. It’s a hole in your heart that is only filled by her, and her alone, so you cling to hope that you’ll see her again soon.

Penacony’s dreams were said to make anything into reality, yet it was the last place you thought you would ever meet her. Of all things, she’s here but what for? You could hardly grasp a tangible reason for this encounter nor would you have ever accounted that the reason she would give was, in part, to see you.

**

“You’re back.” A voice spoke as you’re finally returning to reality once more. You know that voice anywhere, that much was unmistakable. When you turned your head, it wasn’t much of a shock seeing Acheron standing a couple of feet away from the pool.

You’ve caught glimpses of her in the dream. Acheron knew someone had been watching her, and she was quick to realize it was you. There’s no harm in it, but you’re surprised the woman came because she seemed occupied with her agenda.

“How did you-“ Your question was quickly interjected by the Galaxy Ranger.

“There’s no need to go into that.” Her voice cut through the air, her lust evident in her one “It just matters that I’m here now, with you. I know you’ve missed me. Those too are my feelings in turn.”

The only sign of the woman’s eagerness was the way Acheron barely allowed you onto your feet. A strong grip takes you by the hip, guiding you to the sofa. Her arm guides you on your back onto the cushioned seat with a light thud.

Acheron was moving quickly, today she’s far more eager and less reserved than normal, but you would’ve welcomed her with open arms regardless. Her lips hastily met yours without warning. She presses you deeply into a kiss, her desire evident by the way her lips move against yours in reckless abandon. A fight of dominance that she easily won, only pulling away as a whimpered plea leaves your chest.

A string of saliva connects the two of you once she pulls away. Looking up at her face, her eyes burn with need, but she doesn’t proceed further. Until you give her your full permission, she stays hovering above you, waiting for your consent for her to continue.

“Can we…?” 

Her fingers drag down your side—prepared to loop around the hem of your skirt if you let her. You gave Acheron a nod, however, she shook her head disapprovingly. “I need you to say it. I want to get your full verbal consent, and I don’t care how many times you’ve said yes before. Tell me you want it, just as much as me.”

Acheron’s hardened gaze softens as you say yes. Piece by piece, one article of clothing is shed and discarded someplace in your room until you’re left in nothing but your undergarments. Her fingers work at your clit through the material of your panties. This time, you share slower and more intimate kiss.

You couldn’t shake the overwhelming sensation of her fingers beginning to prod your sensitive hole. Acheron’s embrace soothes your nerves as she coats her fingers with your arousal. Already your panties are damp with excitement, and she has already taken the liberty of sliding down your legs and discarding them somewhere in your room.

A low moan escapes your lips as waves of pleasure wreck your body. Gentle strokes gradually build up as her fingers send waves of ecstasy throughout your body. You watch as her fingers effortlessly stretch you out– arousal making it easy for her digits to glide in and out with little resistance. Two quickly turned to three as she prepared you for what would come next.

Her intense gaze never left your core. Acheron was practically salivating at the sight of your pussy clenching around her fingers. Oh, how she can’t wait until it’ll be her cock buried deep instead of her fingers. She has to be patient though and ease you into taking her length again.

Acheron bites her lips as she palms your clit, watching you buck your hips with pitiful whines escaping your lips. A loud moan leaves your lips and your grip on her back tightens. Acheron groans out when your nails dig into her skin. 

She swipes her thumb over your clit swiftly. Your eyes roll back as your body tenses– clenching around Acheron’s digits as she works through your orgasm, only stopping her ministrations when you push her away.

You don’t know when exactly Acheron removed her pants, but you can feel her cock rubbing between your thighs, coating it with the remnants of your cum. She slowly grinds against you, letting the tip catch your clit.

Her breath tickles your skin, her voice heavy with desire. “I’ll try to be slow.” Her words came as the fat tip of her cock parts your folds.

With how wet you were, it makes Acheron’s gradual penetration come quickly. Tossing your head back, you can't help but moan out as you struggle to take all of it. When she finally bottoms out, a guttural groan leaves Acheron’s chest– nails digging into your plush thighs because of how tight your walls cling to her so tightly.

Acheron starts moving once you’ve grown adjusted to her size. Her hips pull back until only the tip remains before bottoming out and grinding her hips against yours. Your quivering entrance accepts her in full, gripping her length as she sinks deeper.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed having you here like this.”

The tip of her cock slams into your sweet spot. Your body trembled as Acheron pulled back before thrusting back in with a relentless pace. Seeing your expression and feeling you squeezing her tighter, Acheron doubles her efforts until your eyes roll back into your skull.  Your back arches up towards her while she pins your hips down.  

Acheron lips hungrily met yours, silencing your scream as you cum on her cock. With one final thrust, you feel the warmth of her cum flooding your womb. Every inch of your walls along to her length; causing waves of ecstasy to run down your spine. Your walls milk her release until she slowly slips her cock out giving you a moment to catch your breath.

You feel a gentle kiss on your brow before Acheron pushes aside the strands of hair sticking to your skinー a gentle and welcoming caress as you feel her cum slowly dibble from your quivering entrance.

Acheron’s voice was soft yet filled with desire. “Your body is just asking for more. You’ll give me one more, right?”

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hey,

may I request a Hannibal one-shot, where he meets a teenaged reader at a classical music concert or the opera?He is really fascinated by how interested she is in it and how much knowledge she has?

Hannibal X Teenage!Reader: Musical Connection

Warnings: none

Word count: 796

You settle into your seat in the grand opera house, the rich scent of polished wood mingling with the soft hum of excited conversation. The air is thick with anticipation, the velvet curtains drawn in front of the stage. You’ve been to many concerts and operas in your life, but there’s something uniquely magical about this evening—the elegance, the atmosphere, the music that promises to sweep you away.

As you scan the program, preparing yourself for what’s to come, you feel a presence beside you, a slight shift in the air. You look up, and there he is: Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It’s difficult not to notice him—his impeccable posture, the sharpness of his features, the aura of controlled confidence that surrounds him like a perfectly tailored suit. You’ve seen him before, of course. He was quite well known in the Opera community. A man whose love for the art was left clear to whoever observed him during any performance. 

For a brief moment, he glances at you, then returns his gaze to the stage, as if his attention was momentarily captured by your own. The thought crosses your mind that he’s perhaps one of those people who thrive in the background, quietly observing everything around him.

His voice, smooth and velvety, breaks the silence between you.

“Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, isn’t it?” he asks, his tone more of a statement than a question. He doesn’t need your confirmation, he’s merely trying to make conversation.

"Not many young people your age attend these performances." 

His gaze is focused on you as he speaks, his eyes glow as if he’d just found something extraordinary. 

"Tell me, what is it about this music that draws you in?"

There’s a slight challenge in his voice, an invitation to share your passion with someone who, you sense, might truly understand. You hesitate only for a moment, then begin speaking, your voice steady and confident, as you always are when discussing music. You may be younger than the usual people who go to these sorts of events but that doesn't mean you don;t have the knowledge to understand the profoundness of the music.

“It’s the precision, the way each note is so deliberate and yet so expressive. Beethoven had to overcome so much adversity, and when I listen to his violin concerto, I hear his struggle, his triumph… it's like he poured everything into it.”

Dr. Lecter watches you intently, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of fascination and admiration. You can tell that he’s absorbing every word, every nuance of your explanation. There’s no mockery in his gaze, no condescension—only genuine curiosity, as though he’s meeting someone who shares his refined appreciation for the art.

“You have an impressive understanding of music. It’s rare to find someone who truly listens—not just to the melody, but to the meaning behind it. Most people simply hear sound, but you… you feel it.”

You feel your heartbeat a little faster, caught off guard by the compliment. Hannibal Lecter—who, you’re certain, could analyze any human with a level of depth few could match—is paying you such attention. And it's not just because you're sitting next to him in an opera house. It's because you’ve managed to stir something within him.

His eyes flicker momentarily to the stage, where the orchestra begins tuning their instruments, preparing for the performance. 

“Do you ever think, when listening to a piece like this, that music can be… a form of communication? A language, perhaps?”

You nod thoughtfully. 

“I’ve always thought of music as a language of the soul. Words can’t always capture what you’re feeling, but music can convey emotions too complex for speech.”

Lecter’s smile is subtle, but there’s a certain warmth behind it—a rare softness in the cold precision of his usual demeanor.

 "You have an eloquence in your understanding. I think that is what makes this concert special for you... You’re not merely hearing the music, you are living it."

For a moment, you feel as if time itself has stopped. The world around you fades into the background, leaving just the two of you, locked in a conversation about music and meaning—two souls who recognize the beauty in things that others may never notice.

As the lights dim and the orchestra begins to play, you settle back into your seat, but your thoughts are still with him. Dr. Lecter’s presence, his quiet fascination with you, lingers in the air, adding a layer of complexity to your evening that you didn’t expect.

For the rest of the concert, his presence beside you remains like a quiet undercurrent, an almost imperceptible pull between the two of you—two people who, for a brief moment, understand each other in a way that words cannot fully explain.

[kosmicdream]

Hello. After drawing webcomics for 10 years and making about 10,000 pages of comics, here are some things i have learned/observed in that experience..

1) making comics does not get easier.. Not really

Making comics is a tedious and slow process and with so many different facets of the experience to learn - you’ll never run out of stuff to learn or weaknesses to work on. I’m not saying this to discourage but to just give the frank reality that it really takes a lifetime to understand. Be patient with yourself and try to set healthy expectations. 

2) Read your own comics after making them.

I don’t know if this is as important to other people as it is to me, but I do think that sometimes its easy to not re-read your own work and just go from your own memory of it, or maybe you’re tired of looking at it because of all the flaws. I don’t personally get sucked into the “rewrite/remake” cycle that I know is common with comics, as I sort of just accept things as they are, but re-reading my work does help me see where I have come from and where I need to go to next. I personally don’t like to lose sight of that, and I think re-reading helps ground me in the planning process of my work and gives me a better perspective on all aspects.

3) A lot of comic advice should be taken with a grain of salt, because its the person talking to themselves. (including this)

I see a lot of advice that never would have worked for me, or just simply wasn’t something I was ever going to follow. “Dont start with your big epic long stories”! Is a common one. I don’t think that’s bad advice exactly, but how many young artists are going to listen, especially if they’ve never told a story in the first place? Yes, the advice to start small and build yourself up with experience sounds great, I’m sure people do it, but if you’re an artist you’re probably not gonna be that responsible. And for me, when i tried to do this with eggshells, my house burnt down and i kinda gave up comics for a while because i lost a lot of work. 

Writing short stories is still something I struggle with, its just not easy for me. I have gotten better at it but i don’t think that makes me less of a comic artist because I haven’t gotten good at that particular format, or that I jump around on my projects. Is it more impressive to have more completed work under your belt, sure. But I also think that.. Idk.. what is the advice actually saying, because with that one it sort of feels (often times) as a warning that you’re setting yourself up for failure/embarrassment by attempting a comic like that. I don’t know how to tell you this, but comics are gonna be embarrassing no matter what you do and there’s no guarantee you’ll be more successful/not experience failure by avoiding your passions. Something to think about anyway. 

4) Don’t draw every leaf. Unless you really want to.

I’m the kind of comic artist that kind of doesn’t care about the art as much as the whole package of the comic. When i see a very impressively drawn panel/page, with laborious detail that is well drawn and maybe even colored ect.. That usually is kind of, I guess, a turn off for me as part of the reading experience. The thing is, when i encounter that, it usually signals to me that someone has poor planning skills for comics. It says to me that comic is probably not going to see its end or that artist is overworking themselves in an unnecessary way, that ends up concerning me about how they’re doing. Because i know how hard it is to draw comics. When an artist phones things in a bit, or has a limit on how much they work on a page, its a relief for me to see! because I understand they have healthier boundaries and expectations, and the art itself usually is less stiff too. This is all an overgeneralization, but I think with a lot of webcomic artists we are usually drawing a comic for the first time ever, so it makes sense we want to do our best and try as hard as possible - that just usually isn’t the smartest plan to put all the stock in the visual department. This also kinda frustrates me to see because most comics (professional or not) will also (generally) not reel the art in ever or make a more simple style. Generally I see it always trying to outdo itself, which leads to burn out. I personally only work about 1hr on each page i draw, that hasn’t changed in the 10 years I have been drawing comics, but i used to spend hundreds of hours drawing detailed lineart for eggshells and it didn’t even read well and i’d be disappointed with the results, feeling more lost with my goals than ever. PLEASe.. Just draw worse, its usually better looking in the end too. (because you wont have the experience to judge visual clarity until you’ve been drawing comics for a while imo..)

5) Don’t draw ahead, draw those inbetweenies.

“Inbetweenies” are the pages for the “boring” ones. They are also usually the most common KIND of page. Its the pages that are necessary, but “inbetween” the action. The impact moments in a scene, ect. You gotta draw them. They’re always gonna be there. They’re the pages where maybe, the character is walking somewhere, thinking, ect. The after impact from an action.. There’s a million examples, but hopefully you’ll understand what I mean when I say they’re both necessary pages/panels, sometimes so mundane/redundant, but also required for telling the story.. As a comic is a sequence of images. This is why, the previous advice is also important IMO- because if you really want to “draw every leaf” - maybe you should save that energy and effort for those impact moments that you want to impress the reader with.. And not for the inbetweenies, which are the foundational support, but also not the most important moments. If you conserve your energy a bit, the contrast OF that effort will also pop more. I personally find it funny when I put more effort into a page and end up tricking my readers into thinking I got better at drawing, when really i just have been able to draw better and only save it for moments like this instead of always.

Also, when I say don’t draw ahead.. I mean I draw each page at a time before going to the next one. I have no idea if this is an unusual practice or not, and I know a lot of people will draw their chapters/episodes/whatever in sections like sketch/ink/color/ect.. But I personally draw and finish page by page, unless its the thumb/sketch stage. Even then, i don’t go ahead much. I think that you can control flow/pacing better by doing chapters all at once of course, I see that as a benefit. But i also think that makes things very overwhelming and can also result in a lack of flexibility if something isn’t working. No matter HOW much planning you do- comics are always going to have an aspect of IMPROVISATION with the result you get in the end. There are way too many factors in play to be in complete control of all of them and always know the result of the reading experience. SO for me, this technique is easier and has been something that continues to get me to working effectively. Plus, rumiko takahashi said that’s what she does. And i think she has some of the best visual flow/compositions in comics. So that’s what I do.

I could write more personal advice or rules that i follow..but I think those are the ones I find are the most important to me anyway. Of course, comics are a strange medium and not everything that works for me will work for you. That’s all for now.. Bye bye…! 

Oh by the way, my comics are here: feastforaking.com nastyreddogs.com https://kosmic.itch.io/ Support me on patreon! https://www.patreon.com/kosmic