#I feel like I'm forgetting something I was thinking of...

[madamechrissy]

Blueberry Yum Yum - oneshot preview/taglisttt

Pairings - Fratboy Plug Sukuna x Nerdy stoner reader

This will be a cute ass lil smut oneshot where you fuck your plug and he gets down bad from your coochie aha, reader is a freak, Sukuna will whimper. will be smutty and explicit, preview here is just mentions of sex and weed smoking, college AU

Comment to get tagged babesss you know the drill, will be out next week 🫶🫶🫶 preview below!

"What if we like... had sex?" Sukuna starts coughing up the thick smoke of his purple haze, wondering if it's fucking laced with something as you sit there, blunt in your hand and your legs crossed, casually smoking it as if you brought up the fucking weather.

"The fuck did you say!?" He demands after he catches his breath, you inhale your blunt now, you're by far his nerdiest client, you shocked him when you asked to buy from him the first time.

You scream good girl, certified Velma from Scooby-Doo - annoying 'actually - jinkies' nerd. The two of you even hanging out was a fucking anomaly, a mathlete and a frat boy, one he didn't try to figure out. He enjoyed selling weed to you and smoking with you, hearing your stupidly intelligent thoughts, he enjoyed looking at you too. Sure you were fucking gorgeous in that soft, sweet way.

So what the fuck was this!?

"It's been a while," you murmur, handing him the blunt back now, he takes a huge rip, coughing again as you speak. "If I'm not really your type it's cool."

"If you're... you... I..."

"Shit, it's fine. Calm down. Just was thinking it'd be fun." He keeps staring at you, mouth wide open, and you sigh, rolling your eyes. "Dude it's fine don't freak out. Forget it."

"Forget it? The fuck?" He's glaring ruby eyes at you, while you take a wad of money our of your little black backpack, decorated with anime pins all over and a ridiculous amount of keychains.

"Here," you hand him the cash, fingers brushing for a moment while he just stares. "Shit, I made it weird."

"Yeah you fucking did. Who just says that?" He glares right at you, thin brows low over his narrowed eyes, those sooty pink lashes too fucking pretty and long, god you're jealous of them!? Are they so pretty because you're baked?

"Sukuna, you've fucked like half the girls I know, I have heard you're pretty good at it." He blinks again at that, a rare blush to his cheeks, not fitting his cocky persona while you put out the blunt, letting it smoke against the tray. "Here's the money. Thanks again."

You turn, and he grips your wrist, pausing you, it feels way too good. Not only has it been way too long, Sukuna was fucking hot, every time he got too close you felt that heat, you literally clenched when he just brushed a big hand across your shoulder to grab something. And your boyfriend broke up with you six months ago, you thought maybe it would be fun to fuck him, Sukuna is sexy as fuck and chill. Now you want to disappear, clearly reading the room wrong as usual.

You suck at that.

"You wanna fuck me? What like... some friends with benefits? Or one time shit?" He stands, hovering so fucking tall, you turn and look at him, blazed whites of his eyes red, you swallow nervously, eyeing the tattoos on his chest in that thin white wifebeater that's just unfair to wear around you while you're ovulating, you can see his nipple piercings through it, and it's doing too much.

"I thought like once, if we liked it sure we could do it more. If we're both single and... get along... plus you're hot."

"Yeah I am." He grins and you roll your eyes.

"You know... never mind."

"Wait brat, shit." You sigh, looking up at him now, as he turns you two him, his cock twitching just looking at your dilated eyes behind thick glasses, your parted lips. His fingers brush against the softness of your sweater, watching your nipples press against the material.

"It's cool if you dont want to. Like I am chill about it promise." He fingers the edge of your sweater, blitzed off his ass wondering if you're some fucking dream for a moment. But he feels the heat of your skin as his fingers slip up your waist.

"Think you can keep up with me, huh brat?" He murmurs then, snarky with his smirk. You step closer, your finger drifting up his hard chest.

"The question is if you can keep up with me, Sukuna."

Taglist open!! my pairings are as ridiculous as ever lol

Perm tagss @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[konigsluv]

DOMESTIC!Sukuna x Reader

MDNI ꒦꒷ Domestic!Sukuna forgets your birthday, but a surprise picture at work with a 🎀 and donuts makes you forgive him

contains: down-bad Sukuna, dick picture, fem!reader

"Fuck off, Ryomen,"

Sukuna remembers your exact words as you left the house this morning. He had fucked up. He knew all too well.

Sukuna had forgotten today was your birthday.

It was like any other day when the two of you woke up in bed together. He had pressed kisses to the back of your neck to rouse you from sleep, but not once did he whisper the words "happy birthday, baby,"

You had expected anything, just anything. Flowers, chocolates, maybe even a nice diamond necklace, or even better a ring...

But no.

You walked out into the living room to see it the same as it was the night before. Even with the dishes still in the sink that you asked Sukuna so nicely to take care of a day ago!

You didn't even bother giving him a kiss on the way out of the house, or listen to his excuses as you dressed as fast as you could. Sukuna was even baffled that you pushed his hands off of your waist when he tried talking sweet to you. You never resisted his sweet voice...

Now he knew he was screwed.

Especially when you didn't respond to his texts, and ignored his calls. In all, it made Sukuna a little pissed. Not at you though, just as himself for being such a fuck up. Seriously, how bad of a boyfriend was he to blank on your birthday?

"Fuck, please baby, i'm sorry," he growls into his phone as he collapses onto the couch, "just answer me- answer the god damn phone already," he then hangs up, hoping you'll at least listen to the voicemail.

You don't.

You're at work now, staring down at your phone with furrowed brows. The countless texts:

10:23AM || Ryo: baby i'm sorry

10:23AM || Ryo: i'll take you out to dinner, get you something nice

seen 10:23 AM

10:34AM || Ryo: fuck i'm already pissed off, don't ignore me

10:35AM || Ryo: i'm sorry, tell me what to do to make it up to you

seen 10:35 am

You couldn't believe the audacity of that man. For him to get mad?!

After ignoring him, Sukuna stopped spamming you, which made you feel even shittier.

You kind of wanted him to fight for your attention on your birthday, even if you were mad... and weren't responding...

bzz-bzz

You almost ignore the notification from your phone, thinking you should punish him more. Though you couldn't, you wanted to see what else he had to say for himself.

11:14AM || Ryo: i'm sorry baby. I got your present, just forgive me already

*photo attached*

You purse your lips in suspicion, you wonder what he got you that could make up for forgetting your fucking birthday.

Clicking on the photo you immediately turn your phone off at the speed of light and almost fling it across the room.

Was he crazy?!?! Sending that to you at work?!

Your cheeks flush as you whip your head around, wondering if anyone saw your phone screen. Of course Sukuna sent you a fucking picture of his dick.

11:15AM || You: why the fuck are you sending me dick pics at work?!

11:15AM || You: I'd be dead if someone saw that

11:15AM || Ryo: did you see it

11:16AM || You: your penis? yes Ryomen.

11:16AM || You: I know what it looks like.

11:16AM || Ryo: you didn't, open it again

Groaning internally you wondered what he was on about. You glance around once more before walking into the bathrooms and shutting yourself in a stall.

Clicking on the photo again your eyes widened.

It was Sukuna's cock alright but... he had tied a pink ribbon around it in the shape of a bow. And was that a box of donuts?...

11:19AM || Ryo: i'll let you stack donuts on it. I can get those fruit roll ups if you want me to

You huff a sigh from your nose, running a hand down your face as you try to calm your erratically beating heart. This man was going to be the death of you.

After a minute of conflicted emotions and staring at your phone screen, you respond.

11:20AM || You: you're forgiven.

m.list

please do not copy or repost on any platforms without my permission

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED

[gay-dorito-dust]

… maybe bob with a reader who also has mental illness? And has low self esteem also. :3…. not super fluffy but it can become fluffo

'why do you like me?' you asked Bob after having not been in the best mindset for the past couple of days, it had hit you out of nowhere, but it was still enough to have you sitting within your room with the curtains drawn and burrowed in your own multitude of blankets as you let your own void consume you.

Bob was suprised to hear you say such a thing, he was always the one to ask you why you liked him, so seeing you look at him with such hopelessness and saddness only made his heart ache as he didn't hesitate to take a seat next to you and grabbing ahold of your hand. He didn't like seeing you like this but knew -that just like him- you had your down days as well as your best ones and he was going to be the grounding force you needed however he could, whether it be just sitting here and holding your hand as the day passes you by or otherwise then he'll do it a thousand times over just for you.

'How could i not?' Bob begins softly, 'you are the kindest person i've ever met and the most genuine soul that never felt the need change for anybody and remain to your truest self, the one person who always managed to keep their head held high when the situation seemed bleak.' He kisses the side of your head and allowing you to rest you head against his shoulder, allowing him to be your light within this dark moment of yours, much like you have been for him in his. 'The strongest person that never once gave up when the going gets tough, yet sometimes forget that you're human and not every day is going to be a good one.' he finishes as you look at him through your eyelashes.

'what if i can't get out of this...emptiness? what if i just accept that most battles are too hard to win and think i'm deserving of being forgotten and or left behind like i'm not worth the trouble of comforting?' You were just saying the things that had been within your mind for a longwhile now, things that you knew you'd never you would never get an acceptable awnser for even if it was a believible one, you'll still always have that lingering doubt within the back of your mind that they were just saying it for the sake of saying something that sounded plausable...for a while until you get like this again.

So you wondered how long it would take until Bob grew bored of reassuring you, of getting ride of the sour thoughts that plauge your mind all too frequently nowadays, of having to hold your hand when the darkness clouded any sembelence of light from passing through. However what you weren't willing to see in your current state of mind was that Bob would in fact gladly reassure you as many times as you needed, chase away the sour thoughts time and time again until you were ready to come out of your room, hold your hand and guide you through the darkness until he could effortlessly do so with his eyes closed.

He didn't like the idea of leaving you alone with your thoughts, especially not when they were making you second guess eveything about yourself, not when you were within a room devoid of leeting any light in, allowing the worst of your thoughts to be let in without warning and stay to fester; up until all you could think about was the supposed worst traits you possesed and how you didn't think you were worth any ounce of attention. So Bob was more then willing to be stubborn and stern with you, even if it meant getting through your head that you were more then worth every ounce of attention and support given, that you were worth going back for ten times out of ten.

'i won't let you.' Bob replied frowning. 'i won't let you becuase i'll stay here with you as long as it takes, as long as you need until you do feel wanted and seen becuase you didn't leave me with my mind when i wanted you to, you stayed with me until the early morning looking tired as hell but happy that i finally stepped out of the shadows.' He tucks you futher into his side, his body guarding you from the dark of your own room as though he was the only one who could keep you safe from it all, keep you protected from the worst yet to come and within his arms you felt the safest you've ever had in a long time. 'So why would i ever leave you to face your battle alone?' Bob asks.

You shrugged, geuninly at a loss on how to awnser him, but far too content within his arms to move away from the warmth he emitted. 'i'm not worth all of this Bob, i'm not worth your efforts but yet you still stay here as though there is nowhere esle you wanted to be-'

'There is nowhere i want to be other then right here, with you. i won't let you think any diffrently about yourself, out of anyone in the Watchtower i can't think of anyone but you to spend my days with, no matter if we're sat like this or doing the dishes together.' Bob cuts you off, looking at you with those sofe blue eyes that you swore could see into your soul and thensome. 'As long as i'm with you my day could never be wasted at all, i want to be with you on your worst days as well as your best days, all you've got to do is let me in instead of shutting me out.' He finishes earnestly, holding you closer to him as you burrow your face into his neck, your hands were gripping the back of his sweater as though you were scared to let go of Bob in fear that he'd dissapear.

Bob noticed how tightly you were gripping onto him and began rubbing your back with his large hands in soothing motion. 'i'm here. i'm not going anywhere, not without you, never without you okay?' he says and hears you hum in agreement as you made yourself comfortable against him, even offering your blanket to cover him somewhat before finding yourself inable to fight off the need for sleep, and Bob rubbing your back didn't make matters better either as you were esscencially lulled into drifting off; the scent of vanilla or perhaps chamomile and new books invading your senses as you murmurered agaisnst his skin. 'Thank you for not giving up on me.'

'never.' Bob whipsered back, leaning back against the wall for some brief shut eye, all the while making sure you stayed close to him as his back caresses soon slowed and came to a still, finding their resting place at your waist that he'd occasionally grip as though trying to tell you he was there in some sort of morse code that he'd hope would reach you in your dreams where he would be too; only for him to fall asleep completely soon after.

bonus;

Later that day Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei were walking through the hallway, wondering where you and Bob were, only to come across your slightly ajar door where Yelena peaked inside and smiling upon seeing you and Bob cuddled up tightly together asleep on the floor. 'i found our little lovebirds.' She says to the rest of the group as they too poked their heads inside soon afterwards, similar smiles plastering across their faces.

'That doesn't look pratical.' Ava said as she notes your sleeping possitons, knowing that both of you will wake up complaining about your aching necks, but she couldn't help but find you both adorable in this situation.

'At least we don't need to send a search party for them both now.' John says, wincing when Alexei claps him on the shoulder, wiping away a tear that had fallen from his eyes.

'Bob is protecting his love even in his sleep, how valient of him.' He adds as Yelena and the group decided to make boht of your situations a little more comfortable for you both. Yelena and Ava would put pillows behind your's and Bob's head, Alexei would shift you both slightly into more suitable positions for you both, and finally John would adjust the blankets so they would cover you both properly with the intent on keeping you and Bob warm and safe.

The group, once satisfied with their work, left you both be and shut the door behind them as they did in order to give you both the rest and privacy you both nedded.

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞

After walking out mid-argument, Dante ends up with Enzo, bad advice, and demon-grade alcohol. The goal? Forget everything. But what good is drinking your feelings away when your body won't even let the alcohol stick?

Pairing: Dante x Fem!Reader

Genre: Oneshot, romance, hurt comfort, mild Angst, Fluff!

Warnings: language, Emotional miscommunication, Mild alcohol use, Mentions of past trauma/abandonment issues

Authors comment: This idea hit me while rewatching the 2007 anime. Dante was drinking and I thought, if he can even get drunk with his regeneration?? Wouldn’t it be fun (and a kinda tragic) seeing Dante all frustrated, trying to get wasted but his demon healing just won’t let him?

It didn't start with a fight.

It started with quiet tension. A half-answer here. A missed call there. The kind of things that build in the background, until one day, something stupid stirring up the tension.

Tonight, it was the dishes.

Not the end of the world, right? Not even a big deal. Just a small, silent irritation. The sink was full. Again. You'd come home late to that same damn pile, untouched, like a monument of Dante's laziness.

"Seriously?" you asked, not even raising your voice at first. "You said you'd clean the kitchen."

Dante, lounging on the couch with his boots up and one arm slung behind his head, barely turned his head. "I will."

"When?"

He yawned. "Eventually."

You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched at your sides. "You live here too."

"Yeah," he said, stretching, "and I kill demons for a living. One of us is clearly more exhausted."

That did it.

"Oh, you're exhausted? Try coming home after twelve hours of dealing with people who actually communicate, only to realize I'm dating a guy who thinks emotional labor is a side quest."

He sat up a little at that. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you don't show up, Dante. Not for the little stuff. Not when it matters."

He stood now, slowly, arms crossed, like you'd just challenged him to a duel instead of a conversation. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically? Sure. Emotionally? No. I have to dig to get anything out of you. You dodge every serious talk with a joke. You ghost me for hours after missions. You don't answer texts. You act like I should be grateful you're even around."

He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. "You think I don't care?"

"I think you're scared to."

Silence.

For a second, the world shrank. There was no sound, only tension in the air. His mouth opened. Then closed.

You took a breath. "You treat this like it's temporary. Like you're just waiting for me to leave. You act like I'm disposable, like everyone else who's hurt you. That's not love, that's defense"

His voice was too quiet when it came. "Everyone leaves."

"And that gives you permission to push me away first?" you snapped. "To be cold and dismissive and act like you don't need anyone?"

His eyes flashed. "I never said I didn't need you."

"Then act like it, Dante!"

He flinched. Not visibly. Not in a way most people would notice. But you knew him. You saw it, in the small drop of his shoulders, in the tight line of his mouth.

He looked at you like you'd touched a bruise he didn't know was still sore.

Then, without a word, he turned and grabbed his coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your anger slipping away. “Don’t walk away. Not again.”

But he was already at the door, and then gone.

He didn’t take his phone, didn’t say a word, didn’t shout, just the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

And then, silence.

You paced the apartment, every minute ticking louder than the last. You called once. Twice. Ten times. Nothing.

And when he finally walked back through the door two hours later?

He was dragging a crate of alcohol like it was his soul in a box.

Earlier...

Dante sat in Enzo's crusty kitchen, arms crossed, sulking like a kid who'd lost his lunch money.

"I dunno, man," he muttered. "She said I treat her like she's disposable."

Enzo was already halfway through a beer and nodding slowly. "Well, do ya?"

Dante squinted. "No."

"Then it's simple: she's wrong."

"She's not wrong," Dante admitted.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Okay," Enzo tried again, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Maybe she's just being... emotional. Women, y'know. Feelings and all."

Dante stared blankly. "You've been divorced three times."

"Exactly. I know things."

Dante dragged a hand down his face. "I shut down. That's the problem. I don't know how to talk about any of it: The nightmares, the constant fear that everything's gonna go to hell again, so I don't."

Enzo blinked.

"Jesus Christ."

Dante laughed bitterly. "I never learned how to let people stay. Mother died. Vergil left. Everyone I ever cared about either died or disappeared. She gets close and it's like... my brain starts screaming. Like she'll vanish if I breathe wrong."

"Alright, alright," Enzo said, waving his beer. "Enough of that. You're spiralin'. That's girl therapy talk."

"It's called trauma, Enzo."

"Whatever. You don't need therapy. You need alcohol."

Dante looked up slowly. "What?"

"Alcohol! Fixes everything. You drink, you talk, or maybe you don't, and then she feels bad for you and bam, makeup sex."

"That's... not how people work."

"Worked for my second wife. For a week."

"You're an emotional hypocrite," Dante muttered.

“Exactly. Look,” Enzo said, searching through his stash like it was some kind of treasure chest. “I’ve got the good stuff. Demon-proof, Hellfire brand. This stuff would probably knock Cerberus out cold.”

Dante barely registered the words. His mind kept going back to the mission, the one he screwed up. He took down Cerberus, got paid, and then… nothing. No text, no call, no follow-up. He promised he wouldn’t do this again, but here he was, pulling the same bullshit.

Enzo, oblivious to the storm rising in Dante’s head, kept on his monologue. “You know what’s crazy? You take down Cerberus like it’s a walk in the park, get a fat paycheck, and still can’t pick up the damn phone? What happened, Dante? You don’t even have the decency to say ‘Hey, I didn’t die fighting a three-headed mutt. I’m fine.’” Enzo scoffed.

Dante’s frustration bubbled over. “I—”

“I know, I know,” Enzo interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s tough, man. That damn Cerberus battle really took it out of you. Big, bad demon, yada yada… but here’s the thing, you still can’t handle texting her? You get all emotional, come back looking like a damn mess, and then ghost her? That’s cold, bro.”

Dante felt a knot tighten in his chest. He wasn’t just mad at Enzo for talking about it like it was some kind of joke. He was mad at himself. He promised his lover, he really did, but once again, he failed. He couldn’t get out of his own way.

Enzo kept going, still not realizing how much he was digging in deeper. “Look, you’re so good at demon slaying, but when it comes to basic human interaction? You’re trash. And I don’t even mean like ‘rookie-level’ trash, I mean pro-level trash. You can take down an ancient demon, but you can’t pick up the phone? Dude, even I managed not to screw things up like this in my old relationships, and I’m a disaster. Like, seriously, I’m the disaster.”

Dante slammed his head against the counter. The guilt was suffocating.

Enzo, not noticing a thing, just kept yapping. “It’s not that hard. You show up at her place, look tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically. That’s the secret. Women love that tortured crap. Hell, I love it, and I’ve been through some shit.” He smirked, clearly thinking he was dropping wisdom. “Why do you think I’m always pulling in these tragic, mysterious vibes? I sell it, man. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Dante groaned, rubbing his face. “This is not helping. That sounds manipulative."”

Enzo didn’t even notice. “You’re telling me it’s manipulative? No, no, no. It’s drama. It’s called drama, son. We’re in the business of devil hunting and trauma bonding. You think any of the girls I’ve been with cared about me picking up the phone? Nah. It’s all about the act.”

Dante looked at the Hellfire bottle in Enzo’s hand, then back at Enzo’s grinning face, and sighed heavily. “I can’t get drunk anymore.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by Dante’s crisis. “Not with that attitude."

Dante raised a brow.

"Look," Enzo said, now dragging a wooden crate out like it was treasure. "You show up at her place, looking tragic, say nothing, drink dramatically."

Dante looked at the crate, then at Enzo, then sighed like the broken man he was.

"You're a disaster."

"And you're takin' the box as the next paycheck, so shut up."

Back in the apartment, Dante wordlessly slammed the box on the counter and uncorked a bottle like it owed him money.

You stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, watching this demon-slaying idiot fumble with the strongest liquor in the realm.

"Are you... drinking?"

He didn't look up. "Enzo said it would help."

"Oh no."

You stepped closer. "Dante. Tell me you didn't just trauma-dump on Enzo."

He swallowed a third of the bottle and winced. "Kinda."

"You told the greasiest man alive that you're emotionally shut down?"

"Yep."

"And he said drink through it?"

Dante slammed the bottle down. "He said it would either make me cry or pass out. So far it's just making me thirsty."

You deadpan blinked. "You're half-demon. Your liver literally regenerates."

"I KNOW."

You sat down at the table, chin in your hand. "You thought you could drink away emotional repression?"

He gestured at the second bottle like a broken man. "This one has a skull on it. Maybe it'll work."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm trying," he muttered.

"By what? Hiding from the consequences of emotional negligence?"

"I don't know how to do this," he said, shoulders slumped. "I know how to kill and destroy things. But I don't know how to stay."

Silence. Just the ticking clock. His hand tightened on the glass.

"I figured... maybe if I just felt something strong enough, I could finally say it."

You blinked at him.

"...So your genius plan was to outdrink your own trauma?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It made sense at the time."

"You're a disaster," you said flatly, but your voice cracked at the edges, not from anger now, but from relief.

He finally looked at you, eyes tired, haunted, and young in a way that made your chest hurt.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, quieter. "I wasn't trying to disappear, I just... I don't know how to do this. When you got mad, it felt like- like it was already over. So I figured if I could just feel something... anything loud enough, maybe the words would follow."

You stared at him, then exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"That's the dumbest emotional strategy I've ever heard."

He opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by stepping in and kissing him. Fast, warm, and full of everything you were still too exhausted to say.

He froze, then breathed out through his nose, leaning into it like something in him had just... let go.

When you pulled back, you raised an eyebrow.

"You still owe me a full conversation, idiot."

He gave a half-smile. "Can I be drunk for it?"

"You are very sober."

"Unfortunately."

He gave the ghost of a grin.

"Honestly? When you started yelling, I flashed back to the one time my old man raised his voice at me."

You narrowed your eyes. "Sparda yelled at you?"

"Once. Real quiet. Real disappointed. Genuinely horrifying." He held up a finger. "But you? You're way scarier. Banshee-level scary."

You tried not to smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Wasn't meant to be," he muttered.

"Also," you added, grabbing the bottle and inspecting the label, "this says 'Do Not Consume If Mortal.'"

He groaned. "Enzo's gonna kill me."

"No," you said, placing the bottle on the counter. "I'm gonna kill the both of you."

Later, as he lay half-curled on the couch, shirt half-off, a bottle abandoned at his side, he mumbled just loud enough to betray himself:

"Damn it... Enzo's advice almost worked. Makeup sex counts for emotional healing, right?"

You, brushing your teeth in the next room, spit into the sink and yelled,

"You really are allergic to accountability."

Next morning:

It took exactly one full day before you marched Dante back into Enzo's trashfire excuse for an office.

You didn't knock.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the coat rack and knock over a stack of demon-hunting magazines from 1998.

Enzo, chewing a meatball like it was his final meal, froze with sauce halfway to his chin.

"Well, well, if it ain't my two favorite lovebirds-"

"You gave him poison in a bottle!" you snapped.

"Technically it's concentrated hellbrew-"

"HE TRIED TO DRINK THROUGH HIS FEELINGS."

Enzo raised his hands in mock innocence. "Whoa, whoa. I didn't tell him to turn into a drunk cowboy in your kitchen. I offered an alternative path to emotional growth. Through liquor."

Dante stood awkwardly behind you, very much regretting his life.

"You," you pointed, turning to him. "You listened to him."

"In my defense," Dante muttered, "he said it was demon-proof and emotionally numbing. I panicked."

You folded your arms. "So your brain went: 'Hmm. I have unresolved abandonment issues... Better drown them in demonic Everclear and hope for the best.'"

He gave a sheepish shrug.

"And it almost worked," he added.

You slapped his arm. "It didn't."

"Okay, but technically we-"

"It didn't."

Enzo was now watching with the same face he made when demon entrails exploded in his car: morbid curiosity and suppressed laughter.

"Look, sweetheart," Enzo said, "not everyone's good at feelings. The kid's got a sword twice his body weight and the emotional range of a wet sponge."

"Hey-!" Dante frowned. "I tried to talk about my issues."

"You tried to mainline whiskey and stare into a mirror."

"Same thing!"

You glared at both of them. "You're not off the hook either," you snapped at Enzo. "He doesn't need alcohol, he needs a therapist."

Enzo scoffed. "I've been a therapist for years."

"You once told Dante to 'punch grief in the face.'"

"And he did! It was very liberating."

You sighed, hard enough to summon storms.

Dante reached up behind his head and mumbled, "Okay, okay. Maybe I'm bad at this."

"No," you said. "You're terrible at this."

"...But I still wanna try."

Your anger melted just a little.

He stepped closer, rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know how to fix everything in here," he said, tapping his chest. "But I don't wanna lose you just because I never learned how to talk."

You held his gaze.

"You're lucky you're hot," you muttered.

He smirked. "Jackpot."

You groaned.

Enzo stood up, wiping his hands on a suspiciously oil-stained towel. "Alright, lovebirds. Get outta my office before you start trauma-bonding on my furniture."

Dante turned to leave, and Enzo pulled him aside at the last second.

"Hey," Enzo whispered, voice oddly serious. "Next time she yells, listen. And don't try to drown it out. You'll screw it up worse."

Dante nodded.

"Also..." Enzo handed him a sealed bottle with a wink. "Save this one for after you make up. You'll thank me."

You grabbed it and dropped it in the nearest trash bin.

"No, he won't."

As the bottle clattered into the trash, Dante groaned into his hands.

“She’s gonna kill me."

[oopsiedaisydeer]

how to lose a guy in 10 days

slow burn, mutual pining, dual pov, fake dating, angst, comedy, miscommunication, fluff, enemies to lovers (kinda)

word count - 700ish

day one

Boston bars on a Thursday night had a specific flavour… half-sour beer, half-sweat, half-despair.

The kind of place where office workers unwound and undergrads overcompensated. She fit somewhere in the middle, technically employed, emotionally unmoored, trying not to think about the fact that she was doing this on purpose.

Her drink came sweating in its glass. She took one long sip and scanned the room, reminding herself: first guy who smiles.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Two minutes later, in walked Matt Sturniolo, hat tucked in his back pocket, rings on his fingers like he was trying a little, but not too much. 

He had spotted her immediately. Alone at the bar, one heel slightly hanging off her toe, like she hadn’t decided whether she was staying or leaving. When she met his eyes and smiled, he thought, Shit. That’s her. 

He walked over anyway.

“Hey,” he said, leaning just close enough to be heard over the ambient buzz. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She raised her glass. “Bit late for that. This one’s already mine.”

Matt blinked, smile just a little crooked, like he didn’t trust it to land right. “Right. So… maybe your next one?”

She tilted her head. “You always open with math talk?”

He laughed, nervous but genuine. “Only when I’m nervous.”

That made her pause. She expected smooth, maybe cocky. Not this. “You’re nervous?”

“A little. You looked like someone who’d see through bullshit.”

He gave her a look as he did this, scanning her posture, the way her skirt hiked a little too high from how she sat, unintentionally flirty, hair slightly wavy, haloed by the bar’s neon light. 

She smiled again, slower this time. “Fair.”

They talked. Not for five minutes. Not for fifteen. For nearly two hours.

He asked her favourite movie. She said The Truman Show and then wouldn’t explain why.

She asked about his worst habit. He said, “Saying I’ll call and then forgetting my phone exists.”

She gave him a look. “That’s comforting.”

“You haven’t given me your number yet,” he said. “So technically, I’m still innocent.”

She snorted. “Charming.”

Someone’s laughter cracked in the background, but all he heard was the ice clinking in her drink as she laughed at him.

“Flattered. You’re terrifying, by the way.”

She tried to hide her smile behind her glass.

“Do you always go to bars alone and talk to strangers?” he asked her then.

“Only on nights when I’m feeling creative on my mission to try and ruin my life.”

He laughed, the sound coming all the way from his stomach. When he finally caught his breath, he told her, “then I guess I’m your lucky mistake.”

“You wish.”

He raised his eyebrow at her and she looked away, already reminding herself the point of all this flirting. But fuck, it didn’t hurt that he was hot. 

When the bartender called last call, she didn’t check the time. Neither did he.

She pulled on her jacket. Matt cleared his throat, watching her down her drink as he subtly pulled out his phone.

“Can I get your number?”

She raised an eyebrow, playful but cautious. “Already?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’ll be able to find you in this bar again next Thursday.”

She tilted her head. “You planning on being here again next Thursday?”

He grinned. “Only if you are.”

She looked at him for a long moment, like she was weighing something. Then handed him her phone.

“Text me something weird,” she said, a small smile on her face. “So I know it’s you.”

As they left the bar, Matt held the door open for her, and she slipped past him, brushing her hand gently over his forearm as thanks.

I'm gonna make you wish you were dead, she thought to herself as she looked into his eyes.

As Matt met her stare, there was only one thought on his mind: You're already falling in love.

Later that night, as he was brushing his teeth he remembered the girl from the bar. He pulled his phone out, letting the toothbrush dangle from his mouth as he found her contact.

Back in her apartment, she tossed her phone onto the bed, feeling the kind of buzz that had nothing to do with alcohol.

And across the city, Matt lay in bed staring at the ceiling, already wondering what the hell kind of trouble he’d invited into his life. Because this girl?

He ran his hand through his hair sighing, realising he had no idea what he’d just gotten himself into.

But for fifteen grand? He was all in.

One down. Nine to go.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: i hope you guys like this <3

[wonhes]

୨ৎ SATURDAY APRIL 5TH, 2025 7:18 PM

— nervously looking down at your hands, you clear your throat once more to try and calm yourself down before speaking up again.

at your actions, SEUNGHAN quickly looks up from his laptop and takes note of your body language. he's been knowing you were nervous since the moment you walked in but he didn't want to point it out, especially because he's nervous himself too.

taking another look at your shaking hands and at you nervously shaking your legs, he shakes his head at his thoughts and decides to speak up.

"don't be nervous," seunghan mumbles, offering you a soft warm smile. "it's just me," he adds before turning back to his laptop and moving it closer to you to show you the powerpoint he was working on.

looking at the blank powerpoint, you couldn't help but furrow your eyebrows at it before turning to seunghan.

"i wrote our names," he states proudly causing you to let out a small laugh. at the sound of your laugh, seunghan lets out a chuckle himself as he continues to watch you. god, he missed this. he missed this so much.

"that's it?" you manage to ask before letting out another laugh as you continue to watch him in disbelief. you two had spent the past few minutes trying to discuss random topics for your project but nothing was sticking. you had seen seunghan take out his laptop and naturally you assumed he had it figured out but boy were you wrong.

"you didn't even do it right," you jokingly state shaking your head at him. at your words, seunghan goes wide eyed and scoots closer to you to take a better look at his screen.

"what do you mean?" he worriedly asks, confused on how he could already mess something up.

"you forgot to write wonbin's name," you chuckle out before moving forward towards his keyboard to type out wonbin's name below yours.

rolling his eyes at the mention of his friend's name, he lets out a small sigh as he watches you type away. "..right, my bad."

as your done typing, you take your time to reread the names and feel your eyes go wide at another realization.

"your name—" you mumble out suddenly feeling your heart skip a beat. god, you were doing so good! you had gone 5 whole minutes without your heart acting up and now here you are again. back to square one.

slightly turning your head to look at seunghan you find yourself immediately regretting it. you take notice of how close the two of you were and immediately hold your breath. unable to move, you stay frozen in your spot with your heart pumping loud. can he hear it? you wonder.

"seunghan, your name is seunghan." you manage to squeak out with your heart continuing to beat rapidly against your chest.

without breaking eye contact, seunghan quickly shakes his head at your words. "hani. i'm your hani."

too immersed in one another you two forget all about your surroundings. you forget all about your group project. you forget where you are. all you two could think about were each other. that's all that mattered. no, correction— that's all that matters.

from a distance, dae watches as the scene unfolds. she doesn't feel her heart break. instead, she's filled with anger, maybe even hatred. rolling her eyes, she clenches her fists and walks away from the scene. this wasn't over and she was going to make sure of it.

୭ೃ — ENTANGLED

CHAPTER 16 — YOUR HANI

SUMMARY!! confessing to your best friend seemed like a good idea, right!? well, spoiler alert: it wasn't. fast forward to 2 years later and now you two are attending the same college and wait ... his girlfriend is your roommate?

<- BACK | NEXT ->

ENTANGLED MASTERLIST

𓂃۶ৎ TAGLIST — @aangelll0 @antoncyng @ant-onie @banez @calumsfringe @catdonut657 @cherrytaesan @chishiyapologist @blossominghunnie @dejundesign @ddolbyong @flaminghotyourmom @gacktsa @getoxo @hanninova @hyuckies18 @https-yeonjun @ilymarkchan @intakstars @janjoonty @jeeluv @jvngw0nlvr @kaosuni @ksywoo @kukkurookkoo @lizzieray @lovewonsall @maripositaa @mwrsi @ninetyatepink @nodoubtily @pinklemonade34 @renjuneoo @ridinhyuck @riizenhateez @rllymark @saranghoeforanton @seoksoop @skibidihan @sftsohee @snowyseungs @taehyunluvrs @taroddori @urlovelily @va1entinaa @yoursyuno @xcosmi

[mistressofthemanor]

masterofthemanor

"Oh..." He breathed in suprisement, trailing off as he'd given her a quick, apologetic look as it occurred to him that she hadn't heard them and was clueless about the fact that he'd be staying at their daughter's home for a couple of days. "I've agreed to spend the weekend with Celeste and Ariadnè- weeks ago *adds quickly, but calmly, not wanting her to think that he was making plans of such longevity over her head* and... well... let's just say it'd slipped my mind. I would've told you earlier that I'd be leaving tomorrow morning, had I been aware of the date... I should be back on Sunday... in the afternoon" He explained, feeling a bit ashamed for his forgetfulness, however, her radiating happines uplifted him enough not to lose his pleasant mood at once. "Right?" He asked back, grinning as his brows shot up when she'd claimed it was generous of him to invite her, unable to keep himself from making that comment, despite knowing that she'd continue her monologue. "Well... You know me... and its not a big deal" He murmured, playing into the shamelessness she'd pointed out and accused him of, shrugging before he grabbed the container and began shaking it. "Yes?" He asked back immediately when she said yes, glancing up at her and beaming as he pointed the tip of the canister at his pancake and pushed the button, covering the pancake in a thick, towering layer of whipped cream in no time, chuckling as she peeved him for taking getting an invitation for granted. "A criterion? Ah... Of course there is..." He sighed, pretending to be disappointed by that, shaking his head. "Look, Cissa... Colour coordination is fine, but if it's matching outfits- I'm sorry, but in that case, I'll have to revoke my invitation" He joked with the outfits, but remembering that colour coordination was actually something they used to do it the past to a certain extent when it came to them attending events had filled him with warmth. "Umm, would you like some?" He asked swiftly as if to not break the flow of the conversation, already aiming the can on her pancake, waiting for her to either approve or decline it.

It was crazy. Narcissa knew about the weekend plans because she had overheard it all but now that he was explaining them, she realized she would all alone that weekend. In the manor. By herself. And that thought did not sound wonderful. But she gave a soft smile, not wanting Lucius to think that she was going to be sad or lonely because then he would feel bad about going, maybe even cancel and Narcissa wanted him to have a good time with the girls. Spending time with them would be good for all involved. Maybe this time alone would give her the time to readjust to the manor and living there. Narcissa leaned back slightly in her chair, watching him with a subtle mix of amusement and quiet affection. Her fingers rested delicately at the edge of her plate, tapping once, lightly, as she raised an eyebrow at his exaggerated tower of whipped cream. "Good heavens, Lucius," she murmured, her tone dry but teasing, "I can barely see the pancake under that. I see your taste for excess hasn't diminished." She paused, considering his offer with a small tilt of her head, then gave a graceful nod. "Yes, but please show some restraint—I'd rather not spend the next half-hour excavating my breakfast from beneath a mountain." Her eyes narrowed slightly, amusement dancing behind their carefully controlled expression as he lightly sprayed a neat swirl onto her plate. "And as for the matching outfits," she continued smoothly, a smile tugging at her lips despite her effort to remain stern, "don't flatter yourself. While coordination is always pleasing, I'll refrain from forcing you to do that this time, although I insist you abandon any thoughts of that grey coat." She reached for her fork again, slicing carefully into the pancakes, though her gaze remained fixed warmly on him. "My request was that we sit together on the second row. That way when the lights grow dim and everyone is looking at the girls on the stage, I might can get away with holding your hand in public," she smirked, playing light but her words were serious. "As for your weekend with Celeste and Ariadnè," she said more softly, her tone gentle and sincere now, "I think it's a wonderful idea. Go, enjoy the weekend. It will do you all some good." She paused, allowing a more reflective silence to settle briefly between them. "Besides," she added lightly, though the faint vulnerability in her voice was unmistakable, "I'll still be here when you return." She looked up, meeting his eyes meaningfully, and let her words linger just long enough for him to feel their weight before offering him a calm, reassuring smile.

Bones of Contention

[bxunyx]

MDNI

Pairing-Bo Chow x Smoke&Stack sister

Summary-Lou comes back form New York after almost a year and runs into Bo at her brothers juke joint

A/N: This one was a bit challenging since I’m not too familiar with writing Bo, but he got the most votes! I think the next one will be about Stack—I just need to come up with a good idea. I hope you all love this one, lovelies!

Words-804

This doesn’t follow the exact movie

Clarksdale ain't changed. Not really.

Same dust sticks to your boots. Same cotton ghosts flutter on the wind. Same creaky wood porch groans under my boots as I step inside the juke joint for the first time in almost a year.

But everything feels different.

Maybe it's me.

New York taught me how to walk faster, talk tougher, laugh tougher. But it did not teach me how to forget Bo Chow.

The juke joint sizzles as I come in. It's late. Delta slim at the piano. Stacks tending bar, mixing a drink. Faces turn to look, but it's not the looks I feel.

It's his eyes.

Bo's sitting in the back, near smoke who had his arm around Arna. He hasn't seen me yet.

Then—

Slim played the song me and Bo first danced to. That same damn song. My heart leaps into my throat.

He turns.

And Lord, that man still resembles a sin wrapped in Sunday starch. Vest snug over his physique, sleeves rolled like he's about to fight or fall. When our eyes meet, the entire room fades away.

He doesn't blink.

Neither do I.

The last time I saw him, I was boarding a train with tears running down my face. His kiss still burning at the nape of my neck . I was telling myself it was best. Telling myself that distance would help make it better.

But to be honest, I’m not really sure I even know what ‘easier’ means.

He approaches me slowly, as if he's afraid I'm gonna leave.

"Lou," he whispers, my name spilling out his mouth.

"Hey, Bo."

"Come back to stay?"

"I shrug. "Didn't come back to leave."

We are this close. The music whizzes between us.

"You still like this song?" he ask, tone slightly raspy.

I nod.

"You see," he begins, "I still recall that night. That storeroom. That gleam through the burlap. That kiss."

I laugh, softly. "I remember thinking one kiss wasn't enough."

He glances at me, eyes deep and tired but blazing. "Still ain't."

And then—

he does it.

One step closer. One breath space between us. He kisses me.

It's different now. Not stolen or forbidden. Not rushed like last time.

It's something else.

It's ours.

Smoke's voice breaks the music at our backs. "Y'all gonna make folks talk."

I turn, laughing over my shoulder. "Let 'em."

Because this time, I ain't hidin'. Not from the world. Not from my brothers. Not from this man.

Because sometimes one kiss is all it takes to know where you're supposed to be.

And I know I belong here.

Later that night, after the crowd had thinned and Smoke and Stacks closed up, Bo asked to give me a ride home.

But we didn't go to my house.

We were in his—the quiet, naked backroom of the store, where time waited. Where the world didn’t even dare knock.

The light on the shelf was burning low, casting shadows across the jars and ledgers. He stood near the door as if he wasn't sure he could step—like I would vanish again.

"I missed you," he said.

"I know," I whispered. "I missed you, too."

He moved towards me slowly, always wary, his hands hovering at my waist before settling. "You real?" he asked, his voice rough with something tender.

"Come and find out," I told him.

And he did.

His hands found my back, then my neck, then my face. His thumbs curled under my jawline, lifting my head, and the kiss that followed was not desperate. It was tender. It was a slow relearning. A rewriting of the memory.

He kissed as he prayed—deeply, reverently, patiently.

Clothing dropped away like secrets. Abutton at a time. A breath at a time. No rush, just… worship. His fingers skimmedover the revealed flesh of my belly asthough he were remembering me. Mapping old ground with new devotion. My dress fell softly, pooling at my feet, and his eyes never wavered from my face.

He led me to the cot against the window, the frayed sheets crisp. The evening air blew in through the slats in the wood, soothing the burn of us.

He kissed the space at the hollow of my throat. My shoulder. My ribs.

"Still know you" he breathed into my skin.

I arched into him, tugging him down, exhaling his name like it had been trappedin my chest all these months.

As he eased into me, it wasn’t hard or rough—it was slow, like a melody you never want to end. His hips moved slow, deep, and smooth, and I had his face cupped in my hands like he was something fragile. He moved in and out of me like he was committing every quiver, every breath to memory.

And when we came, it was together—quiet, shaking, clinging to each other as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Afterward, he wrapped himself around me, his arm under my neck, one around my waist. I made circles on his chest.

One kiss only.

I smiled into his skin.

No—just one would never be enough.

[lovelybucky1]

dad!matt discovering you have degradation kink by accident and you're all embarrassed and tell him to forget about it but he's stubborn and honestly the fact that you're embarrassed only makes it easier to use that discovery against you. why is he so mean 😔

btw i'm in love with your blog, honestly as someone raised in a catholic environment even though i know it's okay to like a lot of things, i do sometimes feel idk... guilty? and places like your blog make me feel valid and i wanted to thank you for that

this warms my heart so much. i know im just a faceless smut writer on tumblr but im so glad that my writing has an impact on people. i appreciate you reading!! 🫶

even if you had a convincing poker face, it’d be useless against matt. he can tell when you’re lying before you even do so. honestly, there’s no point in him even asking you questions other than wanting to hear you say the answers out loud.

“c’mon, you can tell me. what are your deep, dark fantasies?” he asks, chuckling as you lounge on the couch together. your feet rest in his lap and his hand covers your shin, rubbing small circles over your skin.

“i don’t have any,” you say, matching his laughter.

matt’s smile shifts into more of a smirk and he looks at you with his head tilted to the side. “yes, you do.”

“no, i don’t,” you insist.

“i know when you’re lying, sweetheart.” he shifts so he’s facing you and he grabs your hands, holding them gently. “you know you can tell me anything.”

“it’s really not a big deal, i swear. just forget it.”

“you told me you wanted to call me dad in bed. how could this be any more embarrassing than that?” he teases, and in retaliation, you attempt to kick him in the chest, but he catches your ankle. “i can start guessing if you want.”

“dad,” you huff, pulling your foot back.

“let’s see… you want me to tie you up?” your heartbeat remains steady. “no. you want to have a threesome?” steady. “no. you want me to walk you around on a leash?” still nothing. “hmm…” you feel matt getting closer to the truth and your heartrate increases with anxiety. “you want me to be mean to you?”

your heart skips.

“that’s it,” matt says with a satisfied grin.

you whine as you hide your face in your hands. “please stop.”

“was that so hard, baby? i can be mean to you if you want,” he laughs. “i didn’t think you’d be into something like that. i guess i should’ve known,” he says as he pulls you closer to him by your ankle. “i’ve got myself a kinky little girl, don’t i?”

he takes ahold of your wrists and moves your hands away from your face, removing the only protection you had from facing your embarrassment. he makes you look at him and when he does, he can feel your pulse quicken even more.

“i can do this for you, you just have to tell me what you want me to say,” he says.

“i don’t know,” you shrug.

“don’t lie to me,” he says. “tell me.”

“like…” you trail off.

“like?” he mocks.

you rip the bandaid off. “whore and slut and dumb and pathetic,” you blurt out. “just be mean.” you said it so quickly that the embarrassment of your words doesn’t hit you until they’re all out. that’s when you realize that matt is doing this on purpose. “you asshole,” you huff.

“don’t be mad, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “i’m just doing what you want, right? making you all flustered and embarrassed is mean, isn’t it?”

you cross your arms and attempt to turn away from him, but matt anticipates it and stops you by pinning your arms at your sides. he moves to hover over your body and places his knee between your spread thighs.

“and you like it, don’t you?” he asks, this time more serious. when you don’t answer, he says, “tell me.”

“yes, i like it,” you whimper as he tightens his grip on your wrists.

“yeah, you do,” he smirks. “now tell me, do you want me to bring you to bed, or do you want me to fuck you on the couch like a slut?”

you don’t have to say a word. your rapidly beating heart tells matt everything he needs to know.

[omgfangirlland]

I'VE GOT ANOTHER IDEAAAAA! (I swear this ideas only appears when I'm about to sleep/stressed or when it is 3am) listen.. A neglected fem reader x batfam ooooor we can change it up to a neglected reader x superfam. Imagine, the reader was born as a Kent but has no superpowers. (Add how ben ten got his watch) or we can go to the same way.. The batfam x neglected reader.. Reader is a normal civilian just going about their days until she got that watch. (I'mma sleep.. I can't take it anymore.. ///orz///)

-🔱

FINALLY THE ASK I WANTED TO ANSWER SINCE I SAW IT-

🫀 anon, I saw your ask, I'll respond asap, I'm just trying to go from oldest to newest. Also- 🔱 anon, If I don't come up with an actual well-written one-shot about the aware!Marvel Characters soon, I'll just answer in this drabble/rant/spew stuff and see what sticks style.

I think the Superfam with a NoPowers!Ben10!Reader would be hilarious, actually- Perhaps even Anti-hero!Reader? Doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

Unlike the Batfam, I think the neglect wouldn't be as severe. Like, Jon seems like a very friendly and clingy kid, he'd love his big/lil sister with his whole being- especially if she didn't have powers, he'd feel like it's his duty to protect her.

And Kon may just get attached based purely on you accepting him before Clark does.( I'm a strong believer in robot and clone rights- unless they're the pure evil kind- looking at Clone!Shephard from Mass Effect. We could have reigned the universe together 😭) Like you being the one to stand up for him in the face of Clark would make him want to show you the same loyalty. You didn't see him as a weapon, as a cheap copy, as a means to an end, you saw him as human, as someone who deserves a chance.

If you want to make this unintentional neglect, the boys could be so scared about you hurting yourself or them hurting you that they deliberately ask you to set out of things. Playing rugby, football, or roughhousing? Sorry, you're just too fragile, they may break you. Helping them or trying to be their own personal Oracle? Yeah, no, what if a badie finds out about you?

Now- The worse in the neglect, I think, would be Clark- but let's first start with Grandmama and Grandpapa. They love all their grandkids, but they're farmers, awake as soon as it hits four a.m., they're busy and not really in their prime to be able to keep up with the kiddies and the farm.

So, while Kon and Jon can do so much of the heavy lifting, you're really left with washing dishes, cleaning, feeding the chickens, and watching from a distance as the boys are giggling. They are pushing you away without even realizing that.

Lois I don't think she's a bad parent, no mother who is working is a bad parent. But I do think she'd brush off stuff like you scrapping your knee or stubbing your toe in a way she didn't mean to come off as rude as it did. Small things that Jon, Kon, and Clark didn't experience, and small things she, as a grown woman, learned to not even blink at. Really, she just forgets that human children are very fragile, that they need to be coddled more.

And now Clark. He's Superman. You'll be talking his ear off, holding something in your hands, and the next second he's gone with a sorry, off to save the world. By the time he comes back, you've already gone to do something else.

He still remembers your birthday, but instead of spending time with you like he does with the boys, taking them flying and whatever else they do, he just buys you the same doll you've started hating years ago and pats your shoulder as he wishes you a happy birthday.

He promises to come to your parent's day school event, to the field day stuff, to everything you ask him. But he doesn't show up, and after the few times he forgot to pick you up, you just started accepting rides from your friend's parents and stopped asking him anything. You stopped talking to him entirely, and him not even noticing, hurt more than the broken promises.

And while all of these things aren't the worst things possible, they build up, insecurities taking hold and burying deep. You stop asking to play with the boys, you stop asking to go to your grandparents, you stop going to your parents for help, you stop considering yourself as someone who can help. You start to think of yourself as a liability. You learn that you're just different, and not in the way that'll make you integrate, not in the way Clark- in the way Superman needs.

You learned to be quiet a long time ago, living with supers who can hear your heartbeat took away from the privacy you should have had, so you did your best to keep the little things you could to yourself.

Started typing your thoughts, learned to cry without making a sound, and learned to keep your footsteps as light as possible. Granted, you didn't think they'd care to listen in to whatever you were doing, you weren't even sure if they knew that half of your free time was spent locked in your room, while the other half was spent outside, catching a bus and walking the rest of the way outside the city just to see what the boys always can if they just fly high enough, the stars.

Almost being killed by a shooting star wasn't the way you thought you'd go out- alas, you survived and got yourself a nice watch- well... it got you. Accidentally becoming an alien- more alien than you were- because of it wasn't on your to-do list, however.

After the mini scare of possibly being stuck as a flame alien, you decided to just never touch the watch again. You didn't go to show Clark, you didn't want him to start paying attention to you because of it, you wanted to be shown attention because of simply being you.

You didn't want to be a hero. But when an alien attacked your school and the building collapsed, trapping you and a few teachers and students in a room that was slowly caving in- you did what you had to do. Helping with Four Arms was a slippery slope, going from refusing to help to itching for it, especially as you got more and more cheers and love. It was selfish. But you were helping.

Sometimes it didn't give you the alien you wanted, and soon enough, you learned the thing is somewhat sentient, or had some sort of intelligence, giving you what you needed to not only understand the other aliens, but to also grow as a person, learning to be more strategic rather than a muscle tank just hitting until the problem stops.

Your parents didn't connect the dots, but Lex Luthor sure as hell did, and since you've picked up an interest in engineering, all he saw were opportunities.

Accepting his offer of a paid internship would be... bad. To put it mildly. He was your father's enemy, essentially the deadbeat parent of your oldest brother- but you've started being selfish a while ago. You've started being selfish and paranoid about your own parents. What if they decide that you're simply not worth even staying in their home anymore? What if they throw you out once you hit eighteen?

You accepted, remaining on your toes about the man. Just in case.

Now Lex expected you to be loud and hostile, not quiet and weary, but he can work with that- until he kept on listening more and more to you. He was a terrible parent to Kon. Point, blank, period. But boy, did it make him do a double-take on some things that fell out of your mouth. "What do you mean you broke your leg after a fight and went to an underground doctor instead of going to your parents, and now you sometimes limp?... What do you mean you don't think they'll care?"

"What do you mean your parents don't notice you being out late working for me?"

"What do you mean you kept an alien cat that eats humans for a week and nobody noticed?"

The more you give him, the more you're stressing him out- and, perhaps in a moment of weakness after hearing you jokingly(mockingly) refer to him as dad, he calls an old colleague asking for help.

"I have this intern who is... a meta." Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth after the man on the other side of the phone greets him. And he lies a bit... a lot. But he also strongly believes he could be a better parent if he actually tried. "And what I'm trying to say is- you have a lot of adopted kids. I need help on how to proceed so I can adopt her."

Bruce Wayne stares into the abyss for a while as he processes the word spew Lex just gave him. "...What?" Due to shock, and due to how sleep deprived he was, he doesn't really question who the parents are, or why he knows so much. He just gave him some indicators- hire a lawyer, call CPS, go the legal route- and sends a quick text to Clark about Lex possibly having ulterior motives regarding a meta teen.

The horror that settles over the family when a CPS agent, who may have received a very kind donation, comes knocking, and they can't even name one place you could be at, is enormous. Followed by complete disbelief, because what do you mean no one knows where this teen is? What do you mean she works for Lex?

Finding out that you are what the Justice League thought was a hive mind, calling themselves Omnitrix, would probably give Superman depression. You didn't trust him enough to tell him about your newfound powers, didn't trust him enough to even come to him about feeling neglected, and if for a second he thought that maybe Lex was right, he'd keep that thought to himself.

----

Batman, after finding out that it was Clark's "meta" kid: ... oops.

--

Lex, to Reader, probably: You're making me feel human things, like sympathy. How dare you?

--

Kon, awake for five days, wearing a "Kent for the win" shirt, to a reporter who didn't even ask: Are you going to believe the known criminal who pays off judges so he doesn't get any jail time, or the two reporter who keep speaking the truth and being whistle blowers on a lot of crazy shit these rich people do?

[angellekookie]

Hate it when a piece of fiction resonates deeply with ne and makes me reflect on my life and stuff 😪

Just kidding I live for that.

Now Aqua, I have thoughts- so many so that I'm not really sure how I'll put them together.

The first is that there's a friend of mine, we talk a lot about writing and how if you look deep enough at what's written, you get to see fractured bits and pieces of the author woven in. Always, it will be there- either in a small, subtle way or something bigger. More obvious, and harder to miss.

This is one of those works.

I absolutely loved the dynamic between Mc and Yoongi. Their care and their caution (but not really? Like the caution was there but less about dancing around the other and more about dancing around themselves? A lot of rambling, sorry😅) that they have for each other, how they understand each other, the barely contained lust- ok full disclosure, it doesn't feel right calling this list between them. Every touch was a conversation, even if they never understood it right away.

There was also some dialogue that I couldn't get over. You published this and honestly I can't even pretend to be casual about it.

Not to get emotional on main, but a lot of the times I get the urge to hide away when I feel like I don't really deserve the love my friends and family would give. The urge to really shut myself away is there constantly, always. But these words felt... idk the assurance? Like the literary version of things I try to remind myself of when I feel like an imposter in a space where logically, I know I don't need to earn.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

“You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

I may have sobbed a little here at this. Thank.

“You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You don't even know how much I needed these words, Aqua Glossdebut, you don't. And thank you.

Like your writing means something just by existing.

"I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.” — full disclosure that this is here becaause i fear i got too emotional on main so we're gonna deflect and say it's solely here for me to say men use to yearn like this *insert men don't yearn meme and a girl staring out the window ✨️wistfully✨️*

An edit cause i couldn't stop thinking about it: But the way MC feels shitty on a Tuesday and is essentially this meme:

But then she gets her good news on Wednesday? Aqua? AQUA?!!!!

Anyways, this was a good read. A great read. Thank you for sharing 🫂

Btw it felt like this to read and also second hug is yours. I know I say it always, but I do mean it always that I'm sending hugs. Please receive with awesomeness.

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn��t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you��d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

���Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[fuzzandfeathers]

Was thinking about Octavia and Stolas and got sad about it 😭

Feelings and junk under the cut~

This one's been sitting awhile and in that time I've gone from feeling relatively certain about what I'm trying to express, to no longer having any idea what I'm expressing, to once again feeling kinda sure about it! It was meant as hopeful but I can't fully say it ended up that way; the little perspective shift at the end was originally intended as optimistic, because without it things felt to 'final', but in retrospect I might've just made it worse 😂 I had all kinds of feelings going into this, thinking about all the little private ways we try to measure our worth in other people's lives and how badly that can miss the mark, but more than anything I think I was trying to ask myself something from Octavia's perspective. When someone goes through something life-alteringly traumatic, eventually they always find a new normal. No matter how devastating something is in the moment, given time, things will always settle. So what does that feel like when you are the thing someone you love is 'settling' from? It's not fair to assume that someone's life is better without you in it just because they're still out there living. But what does it feel like, to see first-hand that they have either somewhat healed or hidden a wound that you carved in them yourself. Because you don't want them to hurt (well, you kinda do a little) but you also don't really want them to forget (even though you told them they should) and then it all becomes a jumbled mess in your head. Thankfully, I don't think Via and Stolas are going to be estranged long enough for this to become the kind of obstacle I'm portraying here. Pretty sure I accidentally stumbled into some of my own old teenage angst there - always a fun time 😂 I handled this a little clumsily, I think, and I have a few nitpicks with the formatting (beefing with past me's approach is a time-honored tradition for these things 😌) but it's sincere and I'm still happy with it~

[sammywilson]

Marvel's confirmed that Sam has already assembled his team. Meaning whatever publicity stunt is going on, there are Avengers who are formed, who probably have a base, who are already operating in the background already. I'm a 100% sure, his team ain't posting for photoshoots, but Joaquin's instagram is surprisingly full of random images of their base, the Cap cave, and the other teammates. Here are my predictions on who I think is going to be on his team and why: Joaquin - This is a given. This is Sam's partner, the kid he's mentoring, and Joaquin is THE Falcon. (Can we please give his suit some claws like he has in the comics? That shit would be so cool!) Bruce Or Jen - I think Bruce is pretty much still around. We got that confirmation at the end of Shang-Chi. He's still doing Avengers things, he's in contact with Carol/Wong. I think both Bruce & Jen should be part of team. And if not Bruce, I'm sure Bruce will point out his cousin. Thor - Hear me out, I know a lot of people think he's not gonna be on Sam's team. Hell yes he is. This man has been trying to fight with his teammates for like three movies now. He fought with the guardians, took directions from Quill, and then I think during his movie, after losing Jane and finding love he's at that space where he probably wants to be a part of something bigger. I don't know if Thor is earthbound, but if he is, it's a fucking given he will follow Captain America to the heart of every battle. Shang-Chi - This is a given. Absolute given. Marvel has done nothing with him and you know Sam's seen the bus footage. Also, he has connections with both Wong and Bruce, which means he will absolutely get recruited. Shang-Chi is the one I'm sure about, and I'm so excited to see how their dynamics will be. Black Panther - I think this is another given. Lemme tell you why. Sam's relationship with Wakanda is thriving. He has had multiple upgrades to his suit. He's been operating as Captain America for two years, and we've seen what that suit can do. It's incredible and it sure as shit wasn't that advanced at the end of Falcon and the Winter Soldier. He got the nanotech/vibranium helmet, he literally flies faster than a jet, and his suit is built to carry extremely heavy loads, his wings literally has blades that can slice through metal easy -- like all these upgrades didn't come out of nowhere. Shuri has been upgrading his suits, his tech, and everything is so entuned with him, so you can tell he's been at this for a while with how easy he wields the tech and fights. So yeah, him and Shuri probably have a really close bond off screen. Otherwise, the smartest person in the world ain't got time to be doing all of this. Okay back to Shuri and her role. So far, everyone I listed is broke as shit. Including Sam. Shuri is going to take up Tony's mantle (and I'm pretty sure T'Challa was the financial backer of the Avengers in the comics, right?). She's going to be the money person, the tech person, and the absolute asskicker as Black Panther. She's gonna be the heart of the group, I can feel it. And with a team -- I think she's gonna start to find herself again. Give me scenes with Joaquin and Shuri, PLEASE, I will bleed for crumbs. Ant-Man - We cannot forget Tic/Tac. Sam and Scott go way back and they're close friends, you can tell with how many times he was name dropped. But I'm sure we won't get the Wasp because Evangeline Lily quit acting (good, she's a scientology weirdo and antivax). --- Also I think the Avengers Compound they are using, isn't the one upstate. I think because Shuri's funding them, it's going to be in Wakanda and that works because Sam's Avengers aren't in the public view, they are working in the shadows, so it makes sense. IDK Maybe I'm giving the Russos too much credit for hoping for this, but we will see, but judging by the fact that Anthony is filming with the main cast + RDJ, I don't think they're going to sideline him.

[kxlluaz]

on my first rewatch of étoile and during episode 2 when Jack is telling Cheyenne she can't "come to new york and piss off the entire company in one fell swoop" (something around those lines, close to verbatim) I remembered how sometime after this moment is when Tobias over in Paris practically does the same thing, calling the entire French company to rehearsal just to not cast all of them and Geneviève says something nearly identical to him. I think its really cool how Tobias and Cheyenne are simultaneously opposites and parallels, kind of like a path forking in the road that leads to two very different outcomes (at least so far).

For different reasons and under different circumstances, they are both incredibly passionate about the work they do, in the sense that they are very particular about their personal art and will prioritize it over everything else. But the reason they turn out rather differently despite starting so similar is because Tobias gets someone in his life who is willing to support him how he needs in order to be freed from the pressures that are making it hard for him to do what he loves. Most people aren't willing to *learn* Tobias and work with him. When Gabin does, it also helps Tobias to start getting better at doing the same, to being more receptive to the collaborative aspect of art.

Side note, I know just how hard this is also as an autistic person who works in live entertainment tech. As much as I enjoy "working with others," it has taken me *years* to make progress in actually working WITH others and not just working around or near them. I can get so caught up in my personal vision of the way things "need to be" or "should be," and forget that the work I do and love inherently *needs* the ideas and experience of many, and is also all the more amazing for it.

But back to Cheyenne. Cheyenne has a similar mentality about the art she creates, like Tobias-- again, with many other factors involved, but what I'm trying to get at is they both come across the same way to most people in the show. She too feels more and more hopeless about the work she does. She explicitly states that she does not enjoy or love it, but it is her calling in this world, her obligation. What she was born to do. Tobias and Cheyenne both have a passion for what they do, and lose it more throughout the show. But where Tobias' love for his work is reinstilled through the support of another, Cheyenne's pressures are furthered and her turmoil worsens. She is not shown understanding or support, but rather her concerns are brushed off (i.e. the slip) and expectations are worsened. Cheyenne doesn't get a Gabin in her life who is willing to stick around, understand her, and help her change.

In the case of the job offer, she's ecstatic discovering something that she feels will rekindle her love for dance. She realizes how she can channel her passion in a way that *she* enjoys and is much healthier for her (physically and mentally). But ultimately, she's the one who gets shit from everyone else involved, despite doing nothing wrong. Geneviève only sees Cheyenne as her étoile, as her top dancer that makes the National money. Once Nicholas recovers, Jack rescinds the offer, understandably so, but he could've avoided getting Cheyenne caught in these crossfires in the first place had he waited to ask her until Nicholas had passed. He's also upset at Cheyenne, for making Geneviève upset at him, and ultimately Geneviève and Jack act like a divorced couple using their child as an outlet for their frustrations with one another. Don't even get me started on Gael just being... Gael. Love him in some ways, but he really could've handled things with Cheyenne better to say the least. Basically, Cheyenne is trying to make herself happy while also being obligated to make everyone else happy, and since it's impossible to please everyone, is turned against entirely instead AND loses the singular light at the end of the tunnel she found. Cheyenne's crash out was so incredibly valid, and it was so heartbreaking to see her get an entirely different outcome from Tobias at the end of season 1, having both started from the exact same spot and being taken in the exact opposite directions.

All this is to say, I really hope Cheyenne gets in season 2 what Tobias got for season 1: somebody to offer her a hand to pull herself up with, to help her take the first step so she can continue the journey.

I know I had a lot more evidence and points to make, like the choreographer for I Married Myself, but I've been pacing in my kitchen typing this for the past half hour and still have episode 2 paused in front of my dinner. I can GLADLY talk about this more and in more detail, since there really is so much to unpack with Tobias and Cheyenne's characters and how they're treated so differently due to their occupational roles (and, dare I say, genders and perceived neurotypes as well). But for now, to those of you who got this far, I hope you enjoyed this accidental mini-character-analysis-rant. Go watch étoile. Or watch it again like me if you already finished it.

[yahumankdj]

LaDs Flower Analysis

Because I am such a loser when it comes to flower meanings and symbolism and feel the need to apply it to everything I write and look into it with obscene detail.

This isn't a flower analysis on flowers that represent them, but the ones I could see in game and wanted to talk about how they represent them~ This is mostly my interpretation and research - feel free to correct me ehehe...

(Finished writing, phew, this is PACKED with angst, sorry gang + SPOILERS FOR THE BOYS’ MYTHS.)

Xavier - Forget-Me-Nots

Alright, firstly my favourite eepy boy, and his is pretty self-explanatory, but obviously I will use any excuse to talk about him. Simply, they mean 'don't forget me' or 'I will never forget you', and in the context of Xavier's myth that is so devastating for me... He's seen so much, his existence has been one linear timeline of memories and a shattered sense of identity, it's ironic in a sense. He wishes for MC to remember him, but does that 'him' even exist anymore? That thought probably runs through his head every moment.

Another meaning is humility. Xavier has grown into a person who is willing to put his needs second to MC's, he would do everything to protect her. It might seem like modesty when he doesn't talk about his own abilities but I wonder if it's because he truly doesn't see them as anything worth mentioning... Simply something necessary. This goes hand in hand with the meaning of resilience, with how much he's survived and lived through over the years crafting his mild personality. He's used to surviving. Living without much meaning, besides doing what is necessary to see the girl he loves.

You think I'm done hurting you yet? They're also commonly used to represent soldiers lost at war. (Like Xavier's sense of identity. Crying yet?)

They also represent faithfulness and loyalty. Oh Xavier my quiet loverboy, I love you so much it hurts.

Rafayel - Red Spider Lillies

You really can't think of Rafayel without mentioning love and tragedy. Across East Asia, the meanings kind of differ. In Japan, it's commonly a sign of death, love, loss and how fleeting life is in the grand scheme of things. Considering how Rafayel obviously isn't human and has a long life time, this is pretty representative of all the suffering he's gone through. One phrase I saw while researching stood out to me, 'the beauty that can be found in decay'. If that isn't the most Rafayel thing I've seen, I must hate flowers. Rafayel has caused so much death, so much chaos in pursuit of true love, he probably weighs the consequences in his head everyday. True love at the cost of sacrifice upon sacrifice, hurt upon hurt. His centuries of pain eventually lead to his true love. His happiness.

Red Spider Lillies are a poisonous, toxic flower that represents so much love and beauty it hurts. How fitting.

The positive side here is that they can represent new beginnings. Rafayel coming clean to MC about the past and finally letting go of the agony and regret is the only way for the true beauty of his love to grow from the decay of his homeland.

Caleb - Crabapple Flowers

CALEB MY SHAYLA, off the bat they literally symbolise enduring affection and love. Ugh. Just kill me why don’t you. They have the general message of new beginnings, however the fruit of the flower is so enduring it can ladt through the hardship of winter to enjoy spring and blossom. I could make a better metaphor for Caleb’s situation if I tried.

Particularly Chinese crabapple flowers are intrinsically linked to marriage and romance, leading to peace and a long life… Which Caleb better have after exploding so much bloody times. Just like crabapple flowers, Caleb has so much love for MC in him that it endured through countless unimaginable hardships, despite it hurting him, like how winter kills flowers, yet he persevered.

Also, not to like encourage the Caleb smut writers or anything but uh, crabapples are a major symbol of major fertility and reproduction. Do what you will with this knowledge.

Sylus - Daturas

This is the red flower seen in his dragon myth card, although they took some extreme creative liberties with it - it looks more like red Lillies than anything. Daturas are what they actually are, and how fitting they are, being known as the ‘Devil’s Trumpet’. While Sylus’ whole demon imagery, it’s fitting.

The datura flower deals with themes of beauty and death. It’s extremely poisonous to the point of being deadly, but you can’t help but admire its pure beauty. It reminds me of Sylus because most judge him from what they’ve heard about him (like how we hear the flower is poisonous before even seeing it). However, when you get to know him, it’s clear his love is as pure and adoring as the innocent beauty of the flower.

The flower also has effects of delirium and hallucinations, usually used in rituals to symbolise transformation. This screams Sylus’ childhood, how he discovered his own identity and was hated for it.

On a cool note here, they’re an infamous flower, playing major roles in culture and religion - particularly Hinduism (we see you polyglot culture lover Sylus) and is a symbol of power. Something to be taken caution to. It’s a perfect representation of him, something terrifying, holding power to dominate, yet if you ignore those aspects there’s a beautiful pure love underneath.

Zayne - White Jasmines

Our K-drama male lead Zayne has the most positive flower here. He honestly deserves it, he deserves all the happiness tbh, poor guy. After timelines of suffering having a flower that has no negative connotations is the least he deserves.

Jasmines, generally, are a symbol of love, purity and romance with a new couple. White jasmines in particular put emphasis on new love between a couple, and the purity of the romance. As well as new beginnings, which we all know Zayne has had too many of those across his lives. It’s a giant indicator of peace as well, used to celebrate a new chapter in love. Considering all of Zayne’s suffering, the innocent love of white jasmines is the least he deserves.

It’s quite straightforward in regard to this flower, I hope this is representative that Zayne will find happiness with MC in this timeline… They deserve best :(

[ducksido]

Thank you for doing my previous ask! I really liked it. Anyways I have another request. Could you do a Idia x Reader where the reader has an interest in florigraphy(the language of flowers) and uses it to express their feelings to Idia? Basically they give him bouquets of flowers such as dahlias, roses, and tulips(all relating to romance-I'm trying not to ramble too much about it!) and Idia doesn't really get it, just thinking the reader is being nice cause they give their friends bouquets often(those bouquets have different meanings though). Then, at some point someone (I'm thinking Riddle-he probably understands florigraphy :3) notices the bouquets(as in they spot the Reader giving Idia said bouquet) and tells Idia what it means. I'll leave the ending up to you, but I do know that Idia would probably return the feelings.

-🥀🪻

You liked to say things with flowers.

Not everyone noticed, of course. Most didn’t know what red tulips or dahlias meant, and even fewer would pause to think beyond “oh, that’s pretty.” But that was the point. You could confess a thousand times over without ever speaking aloud.

And your favorite person to “speak” to?

Idia Shroud.

You’d started small—just a single pink camellia slipped into a clear vase next to his computer. He barely noticed at first, giving you an awkward thanks while focused on some raid timer. But you kept at it. Week after week, a new bouquet:

Red tulips: “My love is perfect.”

Dahlias: “Commitment, elegance.”

Deep red roses: “I love you deeply.”

Forget-me-nots tucked between the petals: “True love and memories.”

Each time you handed one to him, your heart fluttered. And each time, Idia blinked and stammered out a confused “T-thanks?” before returning to his room like his hair had turned a shade redder.

You knew how he saw it. You gave flowers to friends, too—lavender for Epel (“devotion”), sunflowers for Ace (“loyalty and pride”), and even lilies for Ortho (“innocence and sweetness”). But their meanings were different, tailored.

The ones for Idia were love letters in disguise.

The truth finally bloomed in the botanical gardens.

You’d arranged a bouquet of red tulips, pink peonies, and tiny sprigs of baby’s breath. A little bolder this time—something that practically screamed “romantic adoration” in floriography.

You caught up with Idia as he was nervously trying to coax Ortho into keeping his drone away from the koi pond.

“Here,” you said, holding the flowers out with a smile. “For you.”

“Oh! Uh—th-thanks... again? Are you sure this isn’t overkill? Like, these are expensive, r-right?” He glanced around as if people were watching.

They were.

One in particular.

Riddle Rosehearts had been trimming a few plants nearby. His sharp gaze flicked from you to the bouquet, then to Idia.

“You do realize what those flowers mean, don’t you?” Riddle asked, arms crossed with the air of a prefect who’d memorized an entire language for fun.

“Huh? Uh... flowers mean... pollen?” Idia offered weakly.

Riddle sighed.

“Red tulips—perfect love. Peonies—bashful affection, a wish for a happy life together. And baby’s breath? Purity and everlasting love.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s a confession, Shroud.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Idia froze like someone had paused his game. His hair flared a bright pink at the tips.

“W-WHAT—” he yelped. “I-I-I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST BEING FRIENDLY! I MEAN—YOU GIVE FLOWERS TO EVERYONE—OH STYGIAN WEEPING—”

You smiled sheepishly, tucking your hands behind your back.

“Not like that,” you said softly. “I meant it. Every time.”

Idia looked like he wanted to glitch out of reality. His fingers twitched, and he opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“I’m—uh—I’m... flattered? No! I mean—uh... I l-l-like you too, okay?! Not just like ‘hey you’re cool’ like, I like-like you! L-love-like!”

You giggled, and that only made him combust harder.

A week later, a small, shy bouquet appeared on your doorstep.

Forget-me-nots. Blue hyacinths. A single white rose.

You smiled, pressing the petals to your chest.

Forget-me-nots: “True love.” Blue hyacinths: “Sincerity, a heartfelt apology.” White rose: “New beginnings. I’m worthy of you.”

You didn't need a translation.

You already knew what his flowers meant.

And that was more than enough.