#and working for my parents was the worst idea ever

[olderthannetfic]

No, ppl, VPNs aren't even possible for many MANY ppl in the third world. You can't buy a VPN in a brick and mortar store, and many of us (adults who are parents of kids in schools and everything) don't even own credit cards. Many who do still cannot afford VPN because what is easily affordable to a Westerner could pay my bills for a whole month. It depends on how poorly my currency is performing against the US dollar.

Even Paypal is sth mythical. I mean, I've had pieces accepted in US magazines for what the editors said was a token payment, about 50 dollars. Man, those 50 dollars would've paid off so much! That would be a FORTUNE. But I had to waive the payment EVERY time because Paypal doesn't work in my country. Grrr.

That doesn't mean third world countries listed on the Paypal site can use it either. My country is on it but every time I filled surveys etc and they transferred the money, I couldn't get my bank to let me have it. I know a third worlder in another country who has had that happen to them too.

My heart goes out to fellow readers and writers in Malaysia. Some of the most mindblowingly beautiful fics I've ever read (they were gushed abt by Americans and Brits and Aussies so I assumed the writers were native English speakers) turned out to have been written by fellow third worlders, one of those in my own country! The idea of waking up to find my country decided to ban ao3 is just... unbearable.

I hope the Malaysians find a way around it. And I hope whoever made that horrible decision gets the worst RPF written abt them AND hears about it from their political rival.

--

Yeah, I'm always meeting fans online from certain countries: Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines. Some places just seem to produce a lot of nerds. Or maybe more people learn English? IDK. Both a lack of (popular-with-fans) local media and a lack of economic opportunity can incentivize foreign language learning, so I'm sure that's part of it along with a certain amount of randomness.

In any case, part of why AO3 is run on donations instead of having paid accounts with better features is that a lot of core fans who write the fic and make the recslists and make fandom happen turn out to be in situations where they literally cannot pay even if they have the money.

Someone who's popular might be able to get foreign friends to pay for their VPN, but even then, can they actually get access to it? Questionable.

As for the last, it will be with their political rival, and you know it! They'll have to hear from some aide. ;D

[velvetcloxds]

i miss being a teacher’s assistant and working with my babies and doing what i love and working towards something good

[siriuslynephilim]

spending my whole life trying and trying and trying and trying to be good enough for people who don't give a fuck about me

[crazy-fruit]

One year of work only to get a mediocre grade.

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I have this tea cup I made in highschool (it’s really cute and was designed more like those Japanese ones without a handle than it was those fancy English style with even more elements to them) but I never actually asked if the glaze we used was food safe (we all used the same glaze on those cups specifically because the teacher glazed those ones in particular and I don’t remember checking. I glazed and painted every other project but only one of them was something you would use for food and that thing broke a few years ago and was honestly more decorative) and this has haunted me ever since. It’s a super cute cup and I adore it, but I have no idea if I can use it for its intended purpose and while I could buy a lead testing kit I’m not sure how I would check for anything else that might have been in that glaze. I know the color used but not the brand, so that’s not really a help either. The teacher I had left the district after that year because our school district paid art teachers a shit wage and we rotated through them like elementary school kids needing new shoes every year. I’m not entirely sure how I would contact her, but even if I did track her down (something not entirely impossible from what I know about her life outside of teaching us for a year, I would feel slightly weird about it though, even though she was my favorite art teacher) but I highly doubt she would remember something like the glaze she used on one project her students made at a school she taught at for one year. I’m not sure what other testing kits I would need besides lead to confidently say it’s safe enough for my personal use, and it’s annoyed me for several years now.

[medicinemane]

.

[beeseverywhen]

god the duality between 'I don't want someone in my house' and 'yeah I'd like my own kids and no way I'm doing that alone'

[navree]

This is his dad in there, the first man he ever called Dad, at any rate, and even after everything, booze and jail and Bruce and death and then death again, there's never going to be a part of Jason that isn't gutted that he's dead. One night, a wraith in a red helmet slips onto the grounds of Blackgate Penitentiary to steal one specific thing.

Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics) Pairing(s): Jason Todd & Willis Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne Words: 2,822 Chapters: 1/1

[mihai-florescu]

*gripping the sink refusing to look in the mirror* no, like, it's ok, it's fine, i'm just in my war shu era in my war leo era in my kaname era in my-

[zylev-blog]

Batman opened the door, catching the falling body that had come out of the tube. Glowing green Lazarus water flowed around his feet, but he didn’t care. He gently laid the boy onto the ground, listening for breathing sounds. But he wasn’t even sure if his species could breathe. The boy was no older than Tim, with stark-white hair, and pale green skin. The boy wasn’t human, that was for sure, but as to what species he was, Batman had no clue. The teenager hadn’t even opened his eyes since being removed from the tube.

The Lazarus water didn’t smell quite like the pits he was used to. The water smelled cleaner, stronger. Less like battery acid and more like a strong-scented cleaner that he couldn’t give a name to.

He grasped the boy by the shoulders as he picked him up bridal style. He needed to take the boy to the cave, and figure out if he was even alive. A regular hospital wouldn’t be able to do anything for him.

“Batman, we’ve apprehended the last of the men in white suits.” Red Robin said over the comms.

“Good,” His voice was gruff, “Make sure they don’t escape before police arrive.”

Tim didn’t bother saying anything else to him. Neither of them were in the mood for jokes. Not after what they had seen tonight. They had stumbled across a lab in Gotham in an abandoned warehouse. They had thought that it was a Joker hideout when they first arrived, but they had quickly found out that wasn’t the case. After they had began to investigate, they had found corpses of many people that had been thrown into a pit. The bodies had evidence of vivisection, torture, and experimentation. The bodies had ranged from children to adults, but the results were all the same. They were all dead.

They had found tubes like the ones used at Cadmus. They held a few humanoid-species, but most of them looked like they were in varying stages of death. The only tube that looked like it held someone living had been the teenage boy he now held in his arms.

The worst thing about all of this were that they had no idea what this place was, what they were doing, or why they were in Gotham. They had stumbled in by mistake.

He had a lot of work to do.

“No survivors.” Nightwing’s voice sounded. Not even Dick was in a good mood anymore, and he had been joking around for the last few hours.

Batman looked down at the boy in his arms. The boy hadn’t stirred once, hadn’t moved, and hadn’t breathed. He might be carrying a corpse for all he knew.

“And the files?” He prompted.

“Downloading.” Red Robin’s voice was grim. “You’re not going to like it.”

He didn’t like anything about this situation already. How could it get any worse?

“From what I can tell from skimming through the files,” Red Robin continued, “They were experimenting with people’s souls. They killed all of these people because they wanted to catch their ghost.”

“Hrrn.” He looked away from the teenager in his arms. Maybe he didn’t have a corpse in his arms—but a ghost. A ghost of a teenager he failed to save.

What if it had been Tim lying in his arms? Dick? Jason? Damian? Did this teenager have parents before he died, or were his parents in the pit?

The boy stirred, whipping Bruce’s attention back to him. The boy moaned in pain, starting to writhe in his arms.

“You’re safe now.” He said to the boy. “You’re saved.”

“Nnnngh.” The boy opened Lazarus green eyes to look at him. The eyes were hazy, as if exhaustion plagued them. “Batman?”

“They won’t hurt you ever again.” He promised.

“Where is my sister?” The boy asked. “They took her.”

Dick’s words played on repeat in his mind. No survivors. But the boy didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

“We’re still searching the base. She’ll be here somewhere.” He lied.

The boy closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. But even with Bruce watching him, the boy did not breathe. Maybe he didn’t need to anymore. Tears leaked down the boy’s cheeks, as if he knew Bruce’s lie.

[phoenixkaptain]

I really want to explore Tim “rich kid” Drake spending time with his friends and them just slowly realizing that Robin is even weirder than they thought.

Like, Arrowette complains about some press event or something that her mom wants her to go to and Robin just starts listing off advice and unspoken rules and tells her to absolutely avoid the shrimp cocktails unless she wants an early out, in which case the correct amount to eat is one and a half shrimp with only a bit of cocktail sauce, which will be enough to change her complexion and convince people she doesn’t feel well and allow her to escape to the restroom, then she just needs to slip out one of the windows-

Or Wonder Girl commenting on, like, a science fair project or something and he just goes “Science fairs are the worst. Everyone wants to buy your services to make them something, not understanding that you’re richer than they are and that an insult to you could lead to you buying their parents’ companies if they don’t shut up. They’re lucky I have an even temper…” WG: “…wat.”

Superboy is like “man, Superman’s trying to convince me to clean my room. What should I do?” and Tim just stares blankly at him because nobody has ever told him to clean his room before and he’s never cleaned his room before and he had no idea Clark was so cruel and-

Impulse: “Hey, Rob, pass me a can opener.”

Robin, staring into the drawer, fifteen can openers right in front of his eyes: “We don’t have one.”

I just want Tim to inexplicably not know some things because he’s never had to know them. I want him to explicably know things because he had to know them. I want the things he does know and the things he doesn’t to be totally backwards to everyone, who are all wondering why Robin knows how to hotwire a car but does not know how to work a vacuum cleaner.

[lovelytsunoda]

give me a kiss (or three) // lando norris

summary: matching clothes shouldn't turn lando on this much.

pairing: lando norris x female reader

warnings: smut, the worst description I have ever written, it’s a lil bit cringe. lando has a nickname for his dick, and a box of flavoured condoms in his bedside drawer. lowkey inspired by an audio posted by the wonderful @2-fast-2-curious. (I took a lot of creative liberties and added a ton of things, but the base idea is still there), there's more laughter than sex in here my dudes-

seeing lando norris wrapped up in the soft pink bedspread should not have warmed her heart the way that it did.

she had slipped out of the bed and ducked across the hallway to use the bathroom, and when she came back, her chest seized at the sight of her lover, his arms wrapped around the massive section of duvet that she was previously buried under.

she never thought she'd see the day, and she never thought she could feel this way about someone who felt the same way back.

she slowly began to dress, careful not to make any noise in the small bedroom. not only would she prefer not to wake her roommates, lando himself was a light sleeper and he needed to be well rested before they went to visit her parents that afternoon.

"sweetheart?" lando mumbled, messy-haired and groggy as he began to surface from underneath the duvet. "its so early, what are you doing awake?"

"i have to run to tescos, and then i have boxing at ten." she smiled softly, tightening the strap on her lacy bralette. "i wanted to let you sleep in. you'll need all your energy for the drive later."

lando snorted, sitting up straight, his curls matted by sleep and sticking to his skin. "there's no way you're wearing a bra that nice to your boxing class."

"i'll change when i get there." she chuckled, leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

the blankets shifted with the movement, falling away from lando's thighs to where his royal blue boxers hugged his skin. the man looked down, and then over to the matching set his girlfriend was wearing before he let out a laugh.

"what's so funny?"

"your bra matches my underwear." lando snickered. "we match. a perfect pair."

she couldn't help but join in with her lovers laughter and mirth, looping her arm's around his neck with a chortle. his skin was warmed against hers, which had rapidly cooled since she had emerged from her blanket huddle and into the winter air that filled her home.

"you're so cringe." she giggled, standing between his legs, the slight shade of difference between their underclothes making her smile.

he was right. they were almost a perfect pair.

"cringe? you think i'm cringe?" lando feigned hurt, squeezing her sides playfully. he kissed her deeply, nipping at her bottom lip as his hands roamed her lower body.

the kiss was passionate, yet playful, smiles evident on both of their faces (even when lando slipped his tongue into her mouth, earning a surprised shout).

"not as cringe as the time-" she stopped midsentence, whining as lando ran his tongue along the sweet spot on her neck before diving back in to kiss her. "you wore the monoply boxers."

"i thought 'wanna go to jail" was a great line!"

"yeah, for a fifteen year old boy!"

"it still worked, didn't it?" lando laughed, grabbing at her thighs to roll them over.

the duvet was soft and pillowy around her, bunched up just enoough around her that it narrowed her field of vision. all that existed in that moment was her and lando.

just the way she liked it. she loved it when they were silly like this, playful and sexy at the same time. an experience that felt so uniquely like the two of them and their love, and ensured that they never got tired of being intimate with each other.

"am i still cringe when i've got your wrists pinned to the bed?" lando smirked, his body a comfortable weight against hers, her wrists cradled against the goose down.

"i dunno." she smiled arching upwards to press her lips against his. "why don't we find out?"

lando grinned at her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "i like the way you think, but don't you have to go to boxing?"

"they won't miss me. i'm there three times a week as it is." she smiled, snaking one bare leg around his.

lando's touch was as familiar as her afternoon stretching routine. every brush of his fingertips against her skin made her feel powerful, like she could do anything. his lips were comfortable and warm against hers, yet new and exciting every time. lando's grip on her wrists let up, and she buried her fingers in his curls, tugging softly.

"fuck, babe. i love it when you do that." he moaned, lips dancing over the material of her bralette, tonguing at her peaked nipples.

"i know." she hummed, breath hitching. "oh, i love it when you do that."

"that's my girl." lando hummed, reverence in his eyes and a serene expression on his face as he continued to kiss across her collarbone, throughout the valley between her breasts. "you want my fingers, baby? want me to make you feel good?"

“please.” she keened, arching into him.

landos calloused fingers danced across her thigh, over the cluster of freckles that used to make her feel so insecure but he so dearly loved, reaching for the damp spot on her panties. his touch was feather light, running up and down her slit, barely applying any pressure at all.

“lando.” she breathed, making a show of spreading her legs wider for him.

“I’ve got you, sweet girl.” he hummed, tugging her panties to the side before dipping two fingers in with a moan. “all this for me? you’re so wet, love.”

“only for you.” she moaned, breath hitching as she dug her fingernails into landos shoulder blades, his tongue darting out to lick the sweat off her neck. “oh, baby.”

“such a good girl for me, taking my fingers so well.” he praised, using his free hand to guide her face towards his.

lando kissed her deeply, her hands moving to clutch his hair as his fingers fucked her deeper. every inch of her body was on fire with desire, pleasure pooling in her stomach, her lovers hard cock pressing against her stomach while he finger-fucked her to high heaven.

“oh my god, lando, fuck, I think I’m gonna-“

she didn’t have time to finish that thought before lando pulled his fingers out abruptly, making a show out of licking them off as she whined impatiently at her ruined orgasm.

“what the fuck, dude!”

lando just laughed, kissing her forehead. “payback, sweetheart. you called me cringe, so you don’t get to come.”

“fuck you.”

“I beleive you’re trying to.”

the room went awkwardly silent, so much so that you could hear a pin drop. and then, all at once, they both burst out laughing. the kind of laughter that makes your eyes water, your stomach start to hurt. Lando was laughing so hard that he dropped back onto the bed, bare chest heaving as he looked up at the ceiling.

“why the fuck did I say that?” he cackled.

“I don’t know!” she laughed back. “if it helps, I thought it was cute, and it really made me want to suck your dick.”

“yes, actually. that does help.” landos eyes brightened as she shifted his position, sliding his boxers down his legs. “little lando has missed your pretty face.”

“little lando? god I hate that you have a nickname for your penis.”

“we’ll, if you’re going to insult him like that-“

“shut up.” she breathed, kissing him with a smile. “do we have any of those flavoured condoms left?”

lando grinned. “watermelon or fruit punch?”

she slipped off the bed, foot tangling with the flat sheet as she crouched in front of the bedside table, digging through the drawer for the small red box, searching for the elusive fruit punch condom.

she had never been a fan of giving head. there was something about it that had always just icked her out, but lando made her want to try. she wanted to expand her horizons with him, not for him. it took a lot of trial and error, but they found a way: flavoured condoms. this way, it was more enjoyable for her as well as him. it was akin to a warm ice lolly, rather than a body part.

she deftly ripped the packaging open, sliding the rubber shield onto landos cock. she positioned herself between his legs, taking a few deep breaths before taking his cock in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks and running her tongue up and down the shaft.

“oh my god!” lando moaned, resisting the urge to buck his hips. getting blown was always a treat for him, considering that y/n didn’t enjoy it all the time, finding it more stressful than it was worth. but every time she did it, he was reminded just how incredible she was at it.

it was a treat, one that he would savour until the end of time.

he bit his lip to stifle a moan, dropping his hand to the back of her head. he was big in her mouth, weighty against her tongue. she closed her eyes, sucking gently.

“god, you’re so perfect.” lando whined, rubbing reassuring circles with his thumb on the side of her head. “taking me like such a good girl.”

she opened her eyes, chancing a look at the love of her life. she moaned at the sight of his rippling abs, body contorted in pleasure.

all because of her. she did that.

“fucking hell, honey. I think I’m gonna blow.”

lando came with a howl, hips stuttering as he came inside the condom sheath. she slipped off his cock quickly, leaving a trail of saliva behind as she made her way up his body to press a soft kiss to landos lips. using a handful of tissues, he slipped the condom off, balling it up and tossing it in the wastebasket. his breathing was heavy, but he was raring to go for more.

“sit on my cock, babe. ride me, please. I need it.”

she smiled, kissing him again. “now who’s the needy one?”

“shut up. do you want to come on my dick or not?” he joked, tickling her sides.

she playfully pushed him against the headboard before rooting around for another condom (a normal one, this time). she pressed the foil packet into lando's hand before getting to her feet and sliding off her soaked panties. she moved to take off her bra as well, but lando grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"keep it on, gorgeous."

and how could she argue when he was giving her puppy dog eyes?

she sunk down slowly, dramatically playing up her actions with some hair-fluffing and boob-primping. lando laughed underneath her, the sound distracting her from the sting as he stretched her out with his cock.

she shifted slowly at first, moving her hips in slow, torturous circles, biting her lip to stop a moan. her lover groaned, looking up at her with lust and reverence in his eyes.

"comfy?" he quipped, hands gently moving to grip her backside.

"very." she smiled, leaning in to kiss him.

lando wasted no time in guiding her movements, lifting her up and down on his cock like it was no effort at all. her fingernails dug into his shoulders, small pants coming out in quick breaths as she bounced on his length.

"oh my god, lando." she whined. "you feel so good. so good, baby."

"that's my girl." lando hummed, dotting kisses along her collarbone, his hands grabbing fistfuls of her ass. "only i get to see you like this, make you feel this good." he growled "and you're doing so so well for me, love."

if lando were to explain what having sex with his girlfriend was like in two words, he'd probably say coming home. she was his safe haven. they fit together like a glove, always seemed to know what the other needed without saying a word. and if they spent more time laughing than actually having sex, or fi their sex was goofier than it was seductive? that didn't matter to him. all that mattered was that they spent that time together.

just two people in love, showing the other just how much.

every bit of praise made her skin break out in goosebumps. she could feel herself dripping onto lando's thighs, but she didn't care. she just wanted to be close to him. as close as physically possible. she arched inwards, leaning against his chest for support as lando stopped moving her hips, instead thrusting his up rapidly to meet hers, a strangled moan escaping her throat.

"that's it, princess. you don't need to do any of the work. lando's got you." he cooed, pressing kisses to her sweaty forehead, whispering words of praise in between moans and grunts. animalistic sounds that just turned her on even more, pleasure reverberating throughout her body.

her slender fingers came up to tangle in his hair, tugging gently. lando moaned softly, angelically, his head tilted backwards and his eyes closed. it was a heavenly sight as he leaned down to sew her lips to his, walls beginning to contract against his cock.

"fuck, lando, go faster. i'm so close, baby." she whined, feeling him pick up the pace, hugging her body closer. she matched his movements, circling her hips and reaching a hand towards her clit.

"you coming, baby? you gonna come all over my thick, hard dick?" lando crooned. "touching yourself for me? getting yourself off on my cock."

"lando, please." she breathed, fingers rapidly moving against her swollen bud. she could feel herself getting closer, the band in her stomach getting tighter. "make me come."

he kissed her hard, thrusting deeper, the room echoing with the sounds of his skin slapping against hers, his guttural moans as his head fell back against the pillows. she could feel him release into the condom, his dick shuddering inside her, the latex getting warmer as it filled.

that was enough to trigger her own release, her juices pouring out of her, running down lando's shaft and dripping onto his thighs. she came with a cry of his name, bracing her hands against the headboard. her limbs felt like jelly as she tried to ease herself off him.

"easy does it." lando spoke softly, his voice raspy (as it usually was after sex), his touch gentle as he eased her down onto the bed. "remember to breathe, there's still water on the nightstand from last night. finish the glass, darling." he kissed her forehead softly before stripping himself of the condom and wiping her legs up with a handful of tissues. "come here."

she smiled, placing the now-empty ikea glass on the nightstand before curling up against him, wrapping her naked limbs over his, pulling the flat sheet over their bodies.

"this was a much better workout than boxing." she smiled, resting her head on his chest. "you're more fun than the coach is."

"i should hope so. i need to give you a reason to keep me around." lando joked, kissing her forehead. "i love you, my darling darling girl."

"i love you too, my handsome boy." she smiled, leaning up to kiss him, trailing a hand across his face as they kissed softly.

"by the way, this doesn't absolve you of driving to my mum's later. and yes, we're still going."

"god damn it! she always sends home with so much crap, i can't fit it all in the mclaren!"

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @httpiastri @libraryofloveletters @diorleclerc @thatsdemko @scuderiamh @twinkodium @sidcrosbyspuck @cartierre @lorarri @userlando

[storiumemporium]

Astarion As a Father

Fem!Tav/Reader

I FINALLY GOT A NEW KEYBOARD WITH FULLY FUNCTIONING KEYS LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I elected to write about something that's been giving me brainworms for ages, because I'd been talking about it with someone on here awhile ago and it just infested me. Astarion finding out you're pregnant and how he handles fatherhood. (Or, in this case, doesn't at first.) This isn't my best work but I blame it on the fact that I didn't intend for it to be THIS FUCKING LONG okay 😭

But without further ado, daddy Astarion:

Finding out:

When it comes to children, I think Astarion hasn't put much thought into it beyond 'me!? ABSOLUTELY NOT—'

He has no illusions about his state of mind and his faculties, you see. Astarion knows that he's fucked up, he knows that he's a problem, and he's only entirely too confident that any child unfortunately put under his care would likely end up just as damaged as he is, were they to miraculously make it to adulthood. He's just not equipped for it.

And, frankly, Astarion isn't even aware he can have children... That's just, not something he ever thought to question. He's undead, is he not? That should take care of the...fertility question.

Shouldn't it?

Truth be told, Cazador never told him of the possibilities because it was never meant to be a possibility. Astarion was too malnourished, his victims too short lived for anything to ever have come of it. He was supposed to die a sacrifice, not live to carry his own bloodline (hah) onward.

Were you to ever ask him about it, even jokingly over dinner one eve, he'd be very firm in the fact that it's a terrible idea and he'd be entirely unequipped. He would even go so far as to say he's the worst choice out of all of your past companions.

"Me? No. Absolutely not. I'm sure whatever little devil you managed to cook up would be the most charming child Baldur's Gate has ever seen... But even that magical explosive that fancied himself a God would be better suited to fatherhood, darling. I am built for luxury and adventure, nothing else." All bookended by typical Astarion preening.

So when the day comes and you inform him of the little life growing in your womb?

Nope. Not happening, not even a chance of happening.

The denial is strong with this one.

And when I say denial, I mean that Astarion well and truly blots out what you've said from his mind, as if it simply didn't happen at all. You never had the conversation, you never dropped the revelation, there is no child, he is not becoming a father.

It's not a lack of want— though he doesn't realize that yet— it's true, blinding terror. Before it was just a joke, just something for him to brush off with commentary about how terribly he'd do as a parent, better the uncle than anything else. But now it's a reality and to accept what you've said is to accept that he might well and truly destroy a child. But not just any, yours.

The traumas Astarion possesses heap onto his shoulders and slough off plentiful enough to make new oceans of it. Now, not only is he just beginning to regain his own autonomy, he's supposedly being given responsibility over a brand new life?

(It would only make sense for Astarion in retrospect, that the life you willingly sacrificed to nourish and nurture him would in turn allow him to grow a new life within you. The fool had just been too blind to consider it: The way, fresh off your blood, he could pull back from the delicate column of your throat and you would find his cheeks and ears and chest flushed with the loveliest shade of pink, eyes wide and soft and alive. The way his entire body would warm, going from corpse frigid to something just beneath normal. The way his once-still heart would slowly beat again.

He'd even asked you once- curled together on a familiar silken bed, foreheads touching and your hands clasped together between your chests- if you knew what it felt like to be so, so hungry that all you could even think about was about badly you wanted to eat? How food sounded so good that the desire became crossed and instead felt even more painful and nauseating? How it consumed your ability to make rational decisions, denied you the capacity to control your emotions?

He'd told you then, voice tender and timid and weak, that he'd felt like that every single day for two whole centuries, until the night you'd willingly laid down on that cot and put your life in his hands.

It was so simple really, of course you granted him the strength to create life. It was you.)

And of course it comes to a head before there is any chance at recovery. Your body begins to show the changes, you begin to swell, and Astarion only grows more avoidant and flighty. Because now he can't simply wipe the idea from his mind and continue on as if the child doesn't exist, the proof is there every single time he looks at you. He makes it very clear to you that he will not be returning to your side without a confrontation, a very potentially ugly one at that.

And ugly it is, explosive. Astarion hasn't truly had the time to recover from his life under Cazador, and all of those protective traits he grew remain sharp as ever, returning to the surface as if they'd never truly gone away to begin with. He sneers and hisses, tries his best to dig in and hurt you enough to stop poking his tender wounds. Enough to push you away so he can lick his wounds back open. He'll go so far as to accuse you of infidelity, though he regrets the words the moment they leave his lips, it's easier for him to imagine that you simply grew tired of him, that you were weary and longed for the daylight. That you wanted someone who could hold you beneath the sun, unlike him.

How you respond to this is entirely up to you, but just shy of throwing something truly despicable back into his face, such as Cazador, Astarion will apologize... eventually. If you remain stalwart and patient, if you have it in you to recognize that he doesn't mean his words, that he's barbing you with intent, Astarion will break down in that very same argument, his angry and accusatory rant will dissolve into an admission of deep insecurity and deeper terror.

But if you respond with anger? Justifiable, and Astarion knows that even in the moment as it's happening, but emotions rule him far more than he'd ever care to admit, and he will dig in and relish the reaction he's managed to draw from you. He will bristle and bite back until suspicion and bitterness fully claims his heart, and he aborts the conversation to hide in the shadows.

Astarion will wait until nightfall, until his freedom calls for him. The one thing that always manages to clear his head, even when you prove to be the cause of his muddying. It's a reminder, every time he steps into the cool and dark of Baldur's Gate, that Cazador is dead and he is a free man. That he can go where he chooses and when he chooses to, and not only that no one can stop him, but that you wouldn't even want to stop him.

And that truth is always what brings Astarion home.

Under the distant lonely stars and that cold moon, he has to remember that time and again you have let him. You have accepted him, you have not fought him on anything shy of a horrible mistake he wanted to make in a moment of weakness and hysteria. You have accepted all his deepest and ugliest wounds and kissed them like they were freckles to pour affection on. You fought Cazador for him, you defended him from your own friends. You even- at times- tested your own morals for him.

You wouldn't betray him, and Astarion knows he can't betray you.

Astarion would return to you late, curling into bed at your side, his eyes would not meet you, and his apology would come in the form of a simple confession. "I am... afraid. I am afraid."

Astarion wouldn't blame you if you don't forgive him immediately for his transgressions, he was cruel and you were vulnerable. But even then you'll find that your love doesn't abandon you again. He accepts- however frightened- that what you've said is true and is coming, and he must accept it. Mind you, it won't be perfect and it won't be romantic. Astarion doesn't know the intricacies of handling a pregnant woman, he's hardly tactful beyond his well honed and flirtatious lines. He genuinely loves you, but he's going to come pre-equipped as father material.

You need something? He'll get it with minimal complaint (but never none, you'd sooner get him to dye his hair black than cease complaining for the sake of it), he won't begrudge you your mood swings though he might be inclined to poke fun at you ever so often. And he will panic when you burst into tears for seemingly no reason, and no- time doesn't make him adjust, he will panic just as much the thousandth time as the first.

However, if it's any consolation. The moment your child enters the world, Astarion is a changed man.

When You Go Into Labor:

Astarion did the honors of informing all of your friends about your pregnancy, once he came to terms with it. And believe me when I say it is extravagant. The stationery and grandiose script that Astarion wields when informing everyone that you were expecting better fits a wedding invitation than it does... well. Very elegantly explaining that Astarion had accidentally knocked you up.

You can tell from the splotchy stains addressed to you from Wyll and Karlach that one of them had been crying when penning the message, Astarion has coin on Wyll, and you on Karlach. Lae'zel never responds to begin with and you know for a fact the Githyanki's response will likely come in the form of her simply showing up one of these days, unprompted. Jaheira personally and rather frequently visits as well, she becomes a sort of bastion as nerves take you over, confident and calm as she is. Halsin's "letter" arrives late, rather because alongside his letter is several little carved animals for the child's room, and mentions of a quilt he intends to bring along when next he visits. Shadowheart's letter, while congratulatory, contains an air of interrogation strung all about it, all aimed with pinpoint precision at the man responsible for your pregnancy and dripping with sarcasm.

Gale's letter is seven pages long, comes with a violet hued wax stamp, and multiple different inks in the most lavish hand he can manage. You daresay he's competing with Astarion. However, surprisingly, Gale's seems to be the most... helpful of them all? It wasn't your intent, you simply wanted your dear friend to join you in celebration, and yet Gale goes on to inform you that upon reading the letter he'd become a madman in pursuit of knowledge on pregnancy and giving birth. He admits that this wasn't a particularly fruitful endeavor, as he's rather confident that you're not a gnoll, troll, cambion, succubus, or any other variety of strange creature with strange metrics of procreation. Still, Gale directs the latter portion of his letter to Astarion quite pointedly, informing him of bookshops around Baldur's Gate where he might have more success.

Astarion scoffs, but you don't miss the way his fingers twitch and flex.

After the hilarity of this is resolved and you just begin to believe that peace might return to your soft little home in the city, the first of your companions begin to arrive.

This continues on for the next week or so, without you ever knowing that this had been planned- and without knowing that Astarion had been the one to plan it. It's a furthering of his apology, of his guilt over the way he'd treated you. Again, Astarion has no illusions of the kind of man he is, and the fact he's not nurturing in the sort of ways that you need- but he's not completely stupid and he knows you're scared. So... bring the cavalry, darling.

Eventually your entire home has become a crash pad for all of your dearest friends, your family, and you only grow suspicious of Astarion's hand in this chaos because he's surprisingly amicable to having his peace so thoroughly disturbed by 'everyone and their mother'. Truly, he manages to bite his tongue some of the time about them trampling his fine rugs and scratching the plates. He even seems... wistful about it. As nostalgic as you openly are at seeing all of these beloved people under one roof again.

Nights are filled with raucous laughter, clattering utensils, a table so thoroughly overcrowded that people are playfully shouldering each other out of the way for a chance to get at their own food. And Astarion stays faithful at your side, his hand perpetually clasped gently around yours, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. Days are never spent alone, no matter what it is you need to do, someone (if not everyone) is following you along. And though Astarion feels his heart ache that he can't join you, he'll be glad to know you're safe.

Besides, your companions are likely all taking turns tormenting, testing, and relentlessly teasing him about what is to come. He has his own hands full. He's starting to regret being such a generous lover.

And then your water breaks in the dead of night.

Remember how I said Astarion was far from perfect? This would be one of those moments that it really shines.

Not that he's particularly terrible, no. He's not actively cruel toward you, and certainly not dismissive, it's somewhat the opposite. Halsin and Jaheira end up the ones helping you, the only two with some iota of understanding on what was happening and what to do with and for you. The others, less experienced in "mundane" medical situations will take up the second most important role.

Prevent Astarion from catastrophizing any more than he already has been.

Karlach has been the sole force capable of keeping Astarion away from the wine, typically bear hugging him away from your cellar while Wyll tries his best to talk your lover down from a total nervous breakdown. Of which he nearly has, several times. It's not even the sight of you, specifically. He's okay with being at your side and holding your hand, in trying his best to provide comforting words that aren't laced with sarcasm for once. But the sounds you make, that's what breaks him. Astarion isn't good at hearing you scream from the pain, he isn't good at the choked sobs or your heavy breaths. The way you sound like you're struggling against death. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin, fight assailants that aren't there.

And for a few hours there, in the midst of your labors and your exhausted, pained little cries, Astarion isn't sure how he can love the child causing you this much suffering. It's not as if Astarion was an altruistic man on his best days, as if he were particularly reasonable when it came to you. You've both come to a mutual understanding that were something to happen to you, no morals would be involved in the things Astarion would do to rectify it.

And now, here you are, suffering. Astarion isn't supposed to do a thing about it? He's supposed to be- what, overjoyed by it? It infuriates him, he's truly prepared to have a grudge match with an infant.

Until, as the sun is starting to creep up on a brand new day, it's no longer your screams that meet the air, but another's entirely. Tiny but powerful, high pitched little squeals of fury and distress. And your laughter, disbelieving, soft, adoring already.

Astarion has a daughter.

I go with the HC that Astarion had eyes like honey once, and that his daughter takes after that, along with the delicate points of his ears mirrored in her own. She's small, so small, but healthy and already feisty, wiggling as best as her tiny body can whilst still too heavy for her to lift and move.

You're the first to hold her of course, and Astarion will be at his knees beside the two of you. The expression he wears is something you've seen maybe two or three other times in the entire time you've known him- moments when you know he expected everything to fall apart, moments where he couldn't believe that the world was so good.

It's then that you can breathe for the first time, and know that both of your darlings will be just fine.

Once he does hold her, he's not inclined to let her go. Even once you ask to have her back, he'll simply move you into his lap, so that he can hold you both. It's better that way anyhow, having both of his girls in his arms. And Astarion will repeat again and again how stunned he is, he just can't believe it. Cannot fathom any of it. I think he's the type to say that he's speechless and then spend the next five minutes doing nothing but talking. It's nervous rambling, but still, speechless is not the term I would use to describe him here.

Astarion With Your Baby:

Once your little darling is actually in your lives, you get to see how hilariously unorthodox Astarion is with children. Especially his own. Astarion doesn't baby-talk like you or the rest of your companions, he speaks in the same exact tones as he would a grown woman. In fact, for the first few days you're adjusting to a child in your life, you sometimes mistake Astarion as speaking with an unexpected guest, only to round the corner and find him lightheartedly chastising his own daughter for her poor nappy conduct as he wrinkles his nose and changes her diaper.

He's disgusted by that, by the way. Absolutely hates it, complains loudly about having to do it. But if you so much as try to stand to help he'll force you back down onto your chair or the couch, something something not useless something something already up, darling. It's as if Astarion is simply allergic to admitting that while it makes him nauseous, he wants to care for his daughter. He wants you to rest.

And yes, Astarion is the type of father that thinks all other children are hideous little fecal beasts and his daughter is the only gorgeous little angel in the entire world. Perfect, can do no wrong. He tells her as such too, in the same deadpan voice he always uses, wiggling and stretching her legs.

"You know, darling. You should count your blessings, you're the only child I've ever seen that doesn't look like some sort of hideous, deformed bean. I can't be surprised though, with as gorgeous as your parents are." And though he rolls his eyes, he's unable to contain the grin that shows his teeth when she coos and squeaks at the sound of his voice.

And yes. Astarion dresses up with his child.

The older she gets the more he does it, little matching outfits and ribbons. Nothing that she would choke on, were she to get her mitts on it. (You had to be the one to tell him no, at first. He did throw a little fit about it, just a small one).

But it's not all lighthearted, good or bad.

There are times where Astarion won't touch your daughter, won't be alone with her in the same room. He fears it, he'll eventually tell you. His... affliction came with it's dangers, always. But he's always trusted that you could defend yourself, and you're big enough that he can't just kill you between one blink and the next. The same can't be said of your darling girl. She's so small and so fragile that, were he to lose even the slightest grip of himself around her, it could cost her her life. No doubt it would traumatize her for life, regardless.

You watch it, too. The way it pinches his brows and makes him wipe his palms against his pants as if he were sweating. Nervous habits creeping up his throat and causing him to pace about like a caged animal. It's during these times that you have to bring your daughter to him. Gently place her in his arms and remind him that he's loved her from the moment he saw her. And where once he held trepidation and queasiness at the prospect of fatherhood, you can see him care so much about this little bundle that he looks sick from it. A vulnerability he can't mask.

And of course, there are times he nearly weeps for other reasons.

Like when she takes her first steps, and immediately tries to run for him.

And Astarion knows he should let her tumble, that it's good to let her fall and get back up again, but the moment her unsteady feet cause her to careen she's safe in his arms. Little kisses peppered against her giggly face. And he'll tuck away against her to try and get his bearings back, but she'll pat his cheeks and tug his ears- and you'll have to distract her with a toy while he hiccups and sniffles down his need to cry. He wasn't ready for her to grow so fast, gone is the tiny bundle that could fit perfectly in one arm, now she's walking. How long before she's dating? Gods, should he be preparing for betrothal requests!?

"I want to be mortal." He whispers to you, one night. She's tucked between your bodies, sound asleep and wiggling from time to time. This is one of the rare moments you and your love can speak to each other uninterrupted, in the tranquility of the dark hugging around you.

It's strange that he brings this up now, you'd spoken about it several times since the Elder Brain had been taken down... But in the past few years since your daughter had been born, all of that had fallen to the wayside. "What brings this to mind, Starling?"

Your hand comes to cup his throat, as you watch and feel him work as if he were swallowing a stone. "I don't want to outlive this."

It's hard to blink the tears from your eyes, understanding the implications.

Were he actually two hundred years old, Astarion wouldn't survive well past the existence of his sweet little family.

He'd been more melancholy the past few weeks, after realizing that your daughter was beginning to function on her own. She was walking, grabbing things, talking in rudimentary sentences. She was even beginning to call him pa.

He'd cried, at that.

"I'll forget," his voice draws you out from that brief reverie. The distress is palpable, but runs low like the tide before a storm. "I'll forget all of this. I don't want to know what I'll become, then."

And when you run your hands up into his hair, to scratch lovingly along his scalp, he doesn't hide the shiver or the way his face presses against your palm, cold and smooth on your skin.

"We'll find a way, Astarion. I haven't given up yet... We just- she's too young."

It's both a strain and a relief, to know that. To be reminded that your daughter is still so small, that he won't be losing her- or you- any time soon. There's still time.

Astarion With Your Teen:

Arguably this is the best time between your daughter and him. It's simultaneously a surprise and yet- not at all? He's more like her confidante and best friend than strictly a father. He isn't one for harsh curfews and strict ways of dress- rather, he's the one she comes to when she's made some sort of mistake. Or when she's angry about something.

In general, Astarion withholds judgement of her, for better or worse. The unintended consequence is that you might become more of her enemy than Astarion, because he's less inclined to punish for questionable behaviors.

It's not that he's afraid of angering her or dealing with push back- rather that Astarion's frame of reference for what constitutes a mistake is ah... rather broken. Even in the beginnings of your relationship with Astarion, the mistakes that would anger him constituted dropping an entire building on his head or... risking being turned into a Mindflayer to help some old lady find her cat.

Not feeling up cute boys in alleyways.

As a result you'll likely need to have a few conversations with him about not being so lenient on her, because she needs to have structure in how to behave. Stealing things is in fact, not okay! And Astarion will listen, but he's always going to be a bit more of a friend than anything else.

A total gossip with her, too. You'll catch them huddled around the dinner table at night, both with a glass of wine (this was an argument that Astarion ended up winning, she's allowed one glass a week, but that's all!) in hand shittalking a storm together. Astarion has become the Baldur's Gate equivalent of a PTA mom, he shows up as stylishly as he can and beefs with the parents of whichever children have upset his daughter the most. And then when they get home they just toss it back and forth together.

But I want to stress, just because he doesn't punish her doesn't mean he isn't protective of her. Astarion is more protective than you are.

Once she begins dating you'll find yourself home alone semi-frequently, because Astarion will play the supportive, loving father part when she leaves- and immediately follow her out into the dark. He's had centuries to know what dangers lurk around every corner, and foggy memories of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time before his nightmare began. He won't allow that to happen with his girl.

And it's funny, because Astarion will talk mad shit to himself while he does it. Logically he knows that she's with some teenage boy or girl, but it doesn't stop the petty, emotional side of him from rolling his eyes and sneering at the cheap one-liners and the dumb tactics that this would-be charmer utilizes. Really, taking her into dark alleys to get her to tuck into you? Going to a totally secret spot that Astarion has known about for at least a hundred and sixty years? Get real, kid.

And you have to try valiantly not to laugh when he comes home, huffing and puffing about it. Because you will hear every single petty thought he had the entire time, and you will know that he looks like a petulant child. It's very cute.

All in all, I think Astarion is a reckless, chaotic, petty father. And one that loves his child so, so much. To the point of ruin, to the point where suddenly staying in one place doesn't seem so bad, just so she can have friends. Helping people isn't the worst, just so she can know there are heroes in the world. Suddenly he's learning to bandage scrapes and kiss bruises, and having tears and snot on his clothes mean nothing compared to the grief of the one shedding them. He loves her in ways he didn't anticipate he ever could. Enough to know all of her ticks and secrets, to know when she's lying through her teeth and when she's being devastatingly obvious.

Learning to cook even when he can't eat, listening to her spin a story with a straight face and then- as she's stepping out the door- telling her to be careful with that boy and listening to her groan loudly as the door slams shut, a mischievous smile on his face.

Holding you and dancing you around, cradling you close with all the tenderness he has in the whole of his body and soul. Kissing you, calling you the mother of his child, thanking you for giving him something he didn't even know he'd wanted. A family.

Small and odd, but his.

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x DC AU: Danny didn't want to rely on his rogues, but Tucker's computer skills only got them so far and if the media black out continues... Danny knows it's not going to be pretty for them. Nightmares begin to plague the Justice League.

---

Danny gets back from a shitty conversation with Clockwork and in his frustration, accidentally sets off one of the new GIW sensors that his parents allowed to be installed in the lab. Their collaboration seemed to be going no where but when Danny had new holes blasted through him... it must be going somewhere. Damn it.

The commotion is loud enough that Jazz hears it from her room above the lab (he knows she listens to more than just the lab... it's cause she cares, even if it is a bit invasive.) and rushes in to play the distraction while Danny gets away. This time it works- the Drs. Fenton might have the worst aim in the city but they demand all shots cease if a civilian is nearby- Next time his mom might be aiming her gun at him and not the ground. Danny decides he'll buy Jazz a coffee on his way home.

But first, new holes. Yikes. That like, needs medical attention- He heads to Tucker's place and he's pretty sure Sam is already there.

"Danny! What the fuck, did Clockwork-" She starts, her meticulous cat eyeliner making her glare all the deeper.

"Nah, it's the stupid GIW sensor, the stupid one I told you guys about that has a spring lose in the back?"

"I thought we decided those weren't a concern?" Tucker looks him over, face covered in undisguised and very blatant concern.

"Yeah well, Clocky pissed me off so I forgot about them when I came back in through the lab portal-"

"you were supposed to be practicing making your own." Sam interrupts.

"-And when I did, the thing got knocked and I was swatted like immediately. Jazz launched herself into the lab so Mom made them stop shooting and it gave me enough time to get out." Danny continued to explain, ignoring his friend's 'i told you so' faces.

"Dude. We're pushing it close this week. Sam already had a confrontation with the lab guys and I already got blacklisted on my new persona accounts. We're like seriously threading the needle for getting caught." Tucker, pulls his glasses down to pinch the bridge of his nose and Danny and Sam both get what he's really saying. They need to lie low.

"What did CW say to piss you off?" Sam asks after a silent moment.

"He said nothing really, just like he always does, but insinuated I should try getting a rogue to help." Danny sighs.

"What, Like getting Ember to announce the GIW invasion on her tour? We already agreed that-" Sam is getting angry as she speaks so Tuck cuts her off- "It's a bad Idea. She is- They are all just as likely to get captured and hurt as you are if you go out of town." He comes to the same conclusion they've agreed on for weeks. No rogue involvement.

"Maybe we just need to sleep on it... Hey... wait." Danny sighs, but then his gears start to turn.

"Nocturn. We need Nocturn to help us. He can get the message out through dreams." Danny comes to the new conclusion and his friends look hesitant but at least like they're considering it.

"Isn't he an ancient? He's not going to help us for free." Tucker, ever the Egyptian god in these moments.

"Most people don't take their dreams literally." Sam, ever the skeptic in these moments.

"Yeah but, if they dream it enough times, and they're the right people to do something... they can look it up and then at least see that there is a problem?" Danny sounds hopeful and its the first time he's sounded that way in months.

"What, you're gunna give Batman nightmares?" Tucker snickers but Sam looks inspired.

"That's exactly what he's going to do. We need to haunt the Justice League. They'll see past the fake facade the GIW put up online and they'll be able to get the right legislation passed." Sam is practically buzzing.

"Okay, so lets get scheming- What do you get the primordial beast of the unconscious? Should I google 'what to get someone who has everything'? " Danny laughs.

_____

Bruce and his children rarely do feelings when they have breakfast in the morning after a night of separate patrols, but it seems as though the room is plagued with unease. Tim looks about as tired as ever, so his unease is probably attributable to WE board meetings, but its unlike the rest of his children to be so... disturbed. For some reason, after Alfred has excused them all from eating more than a few nibbles, they make it to the cave. Bruce is glad for the noise his children bring.

The nightmare's he's been having are following a dark plot. A town, a boy who looks like he was kin, and so, so much death. Bruce has had vivid dreams before in life, but this nightmare is... unreal. He tries to remind himself that it's just a nightmare.

When his JL emergency communicator goes off at the computer desk, he's not expecting it to be Dinah Lance. She and her Birds are typically wary of him in Gotham, even if they work well together in the League. He answers it like he would any Batman call, with silence.

"Bats, we have a problem. Any chance you've been having weird dreams about a kid getting experimented on or a town being burned down? Ghosts? Lazarus portals?" Dinah sounds exhausted, but Bruce snaps to her voice with rapt attention. As do all of his children.

"I-" Bruce takes a look around the room, everyone's heads except for Tim's nodding up and down with distress," We all have."

"Something tells me that they whole JL is. Everyone I've talked to this week has had a variation of the same dream. We either have a telepath trying to tell us something, or something even worse than that."

"I'll call emergency meeting, we need to collect details and try to determine the complete message."

"I'll send you what I've noted down so far, sans personal details of course, it's definitely in a town called Amity Park though. My client this morning saw the sign."

Batman grunts and the call ends. It's time to get to work.

----

When the Justice League finally arrives, the town is glowing, and everything feels like... sleep. smothering. snoring. smoking. smoldering.

And then, despite the exhaustion that echos within them, the trudge onwards. The noise of laser guns certainly wakes them up a bit.

[peachdues]

TOXIC

LEVI X READER

A/N: a combination of the horny angst that’s been swirling in my head for a few days.

Listen. Do I condone what’s about to happen in this? No. Was it fun to write? Absolutely.

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content below • toxic fucking • unprotected/raw sex • creampie • breeding kink • fucking does not solve problems • neither do babies • toxic Levi and toxic Reader tbh

This was a bad idea. Terrible; one of your worst to date.

And yet, as Levi spread you out across his kitchen counter — the counter that, until two weeks ago, had also been yours — you couldn’t for the life of you remember why every alarm bell in your head was sounding off, begging your body stiffen, to reject the man lowering himself between your thighs, his gray eyes glowing nearly silver with desire.

“Just can’t stay away, can you?” His lips are hot and silky as they slope messily across your thighs, and his fingers push aside the hem of your sundress to make way for him. “Because try as you might, you know no one will ever be able to fuck you like I can.”

Ah. That was why.

Because you and Levi had broken up. You were no more; a past concept, a memory.

In the end, your three-year relationship died not in a fiery blaze of glory, but in cold resignation. He’d sat stoically at the kitchen table as you’d confessed that you could no longer stomach being second or third or whatever place behind his true passion — work — and that it was time for you to put yourself first, for once, since he wouldn’t.

The only sign of his emotion has been his fists — clenched so tight that the skin of his knuckles had gone white.

I’m done. I have nothing left to give you, Levi. Not when you only ever take and offer nothing in return.

He’d tried to argue once you announced your intention to move out that night. He’d fought to convince you to wait until morning, to put away the small suitcase you’d packed with your most essential belongings, to sleep on it — on the decision overall. But you’d known that if you’d stayed, you would have changed your mind — would’ve let him change your mind, and he’d known that, too. So you’d held firm, turned your back on him and forced yourself to walk out of the door to your apartment, suitcase in hand.

You hadn’t intended to return, and it seemed like he’d accepted it. He’d even gone so far as to mail whatever of your belongings you hadn’t managed to pack to your parents’ address. So though you spent your nights staining your pillow with bitter tears, your heart feeling like little more than a misshapen lump of meat barely beating in your chest, you’d at least gotten what you thought you’d wanted: a clean break.

Until he’d texted you that all of your mail was still being sent to your — his — address. He’d offered to pay to have it forwarded to you, but when you saw how much that would have put you in his debt, you’d begrudgingly told him you’d stop by on your way home from work and pick it up.

Really, you knew better; should have known better, at least.

And perhaps your logic would have won over your desire, but then Levi’s fingers tug your underwear to the side and his mouth latches to your core, and all the chatter that constitutes your higher reasoning fades to an indiscernible buzz in the back of your skull. The moment you feel something hot and wet prodding your entrance, your mind whites out without the hope of coherency returning any time soon, as Levi begins to fuck you with his tongue.

With a keening cry, your legs seize around his head, trapping him between your thighs. Your hands shoot to grip his hair, desperate to find purchase; to find anything to help keep you tethered here, to reality, rather than risk floating away in clouded bliss.

But Levi is too committed to tearing down the wall you’d carefully spent the last two weeks building, brick by brick. So as his tongue pumps steadily into your core, he shifts, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he presses you harder against his face. His jaw works furiously and when his teeth graze against your clit, you lose whatever last vestige of control you’d clung onto.

You’re sobbing through clenched teeth but utterly helpless to stop your hips as they begin churning and grinding against his mouth. Levi hums in approval, and throw your eyelashes, you spot the way his pupils dilate, chasing away the cool silver of his irises and replacing them with something black and hungry.

“Atta girl,” he praises between his thrusts, and the vibrations of his mouth against your heated, sensitive flesh nearly makes you drool. “For once in your life, stop fuckin’ thinking.”

He swirls his tongue around you entrance one more time before he replaces it with his fingers, plunging two into your cunt and curling them. He finds that rough patch on your innermost wall with a near frustrating ease.

It’s infuriating to know that the person you know can’t give you what you really need is somehow the only person who knows exactly how to give you what you want. And, judging by the faint smirk pulling at Levi’s lips they latch around that bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs, you know he can see your resolve crumbling under his feverish mouth.

“You don’t even remember why we were arguing, do you?” He jeers between harsh sucks at your clit as you continue to writhe and cry out for more. “You just wanted to cause a scene; make me sweat a little.”

You want to fight back; you want to tell him that he’s wrong, that you’d meant it when you’d said your relationship had run its course, but he won’t give you the space to do so. Not when he presses his face firm against your center and rocks his head side to side, reducing any protestations you might have had to pitiful whimpers.

“You’ve got my attention, sweetheart. Let’s see if you know what to do with it.”

Levi slips a third finger into your core and you come undone. With his teeth grazing your clit in time with each measured thrust of his fingers into your heat, you shatter against the kitchen counter, hard enough that stars dance in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s my girl,” Levi groans as he continues to lap at your sensitive and overstimulated flesh. “You’re always so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

His praise, coupled with the way his mouth continues to work at your cunt prolongs the waves of your release, until your legs are trembling against the smooth granite of the countertop, and tears are gathered in your eyes. Your walls spasm weakly one final time and then it’s over, your limbs limp and your brain little more than a puddle of liquid between your ears.

Levi steps back and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable; you know, by the way his eyes turn from steel to molten ore that he wants more; wants to take and take and make you bend to him.

You shouldn’t do it; you know you shouldn’t. You know that what’s happening between you is a manifestation of everything that was toxic about your relationship. Levi, always needing to be in control, who only listened when you were at your breaking point, but could never fully give you what you needed. You, who made far too many excuses, who let him dictate the norms of your relationship because it was easy; being with him was easy, until it wasn’t.

So no, you shouldn’t give in; you should stand firm.

You reach for him anyways. “Levi,”

That’s all it takes; a pleading whimper of his name, your hands outstretched toward him, and Levi pounces. His mouth crashes against yours, and his kiss makes you feel whole even though you know he’s tearing your resolve apart.

And you let him; you let him, because you’d sworn you were going to spend your life with him. You believed, without a moment’s hesitation, that Levi was the one for you — the one you’d share the remainder of your days with, the one with whom you’d create and share a family. It was all you’d wanted, and Levi, to his credit, had assured you it was what he’d wanted, too. At least, he did; once.

And, as Levi’s hands slide under you to peel you off the counter, your legs locking around his waist with practiced ease, you know it’s what you still want; he’s what you want.

For all your desperation to have him, Levi is just as eager for you. He pivots you away from the counter, lips still moving heatedly against yours, only to drop you both to the cold tile floor, spreading you out beneath him as his lips begin trailing down your jaw, your neck. He’s too impatient to carry you to the bedroom, his hands fumbling with the buckle on his belt so he can have you then, now, on the kitchen floor.

“‘S been too long,” he pushes the straps of your sundress from your shoulders, yanking the bodice down to expose your. He groans at the sight of your bare breasts, and idly you wonder whether you made the subconscious decision to forgo your bra when you dressed that morning, in the event you’d end up here, under him.

His mouth closes around one pert nipple and you think it was the best decision you could have made; for nothing could possibly feel as right as the sensation of his hot mouth and silken tongue swirling around your soft flesh, nipping and sucking his devotion into your skin.

Your chest is heaving as his hands stroke down your body, pushing and pulling the skirt of your dress up, exposing the lower half of your body. Your legs are still little more than jelly thanks to the intensity of your previous climax, but you manage to wrap them around his hips all the same, clenching in an effort to bring him closer.

“Fuck,” he growls, and he imparts one final nip at your breast before he pulls back, his hands hurriedly shoving the waistband of his trousers and briefs down his hips, just far enough that he can pull his cock free. Your stomach flutters at the sight of him, ramrod hard, his tip already leaking with his desire.

He’s just as desperate for you as you are hopelessly in need of him.

Your eyes trace back up from where his length stands hard against his belly back to his face. A pretty pink blush has flushed his cheeks, spreading down his neck and chest, and his eyes are glassy with want.

“Levi,” you plead with a soft moan. “Baby, please —“

Baby. You hadn’t called him that often while you were together, but when you had, it was because you’d been so filled with affection — with love — that his name hadn’t been enough.

It was a slip, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by your ex. In an instant his body is covering yours, and he’s moaning into your mouth as one hand ensnares itself in your hair. Between quick kisses, you swear you hear him whisper your name against your lips, before his tongue swipes back in and steals your breath away.

He breaks your kiss to shove a hand between your bodies, gripping himself at his base and giving his length one, solid pump. You shift, spreading your thighs wider, ready to take him and feel whole once more.

He lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance and pauses. Impatiently, you buck your hips forward, trying to take him in, but he twists back just far enough that your wetness can only brush against him, a mockery of how you truly need him.

Levi ignores your howl of frustration. “If you want it, then tell me you’ll come home.”

Your teeth clench hard enough to crack, but you won’t give in; not yet, at least.

He’d been right; you wanted him to sweat a little, and damn if you weren’t going to try and bring him to his knees, if only for a bit. At least until he had you back in the palm of his hand, begging for a crumb of his attention.

So with a gritty determination that borders spite, you lock your ankles against his backside and haul him into you with all your might.

“Jesus — fuck!” His yell echoes off the gleaming stainless steel appliances as you force him fully inside you, unwilling to let him win this battle so soon. He falls forward, an arm flinging out beside your head to catch himself.

Your boldness pays off, for Levi is forced remain still, panting hard and his eyes screwed shut as he adjusts to the sensation of being fully buried in your warmth after so long. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the way the muscles in the arm needed by your head ripples under the force of his restraint. Slowly, his eyes open and the darkness in them makes you pulse and contract around his length, your stomach fluttering in anticipation.

Your mouth falls into a perfect “o” as he begins to move once more. He sits back on his knees, back straight, and his hands come to rest on your hips. He tugs you up just enough that your backside rests against the tops of his thighs, your back forced into an arch away from the floor. His gaze drops to where you’re connected, your base pressed flush against his, and the sight of himself embedded so deeply inside you makes the fingers on your hips tighten.

Slowly, and with careful precision, he withdraws his cock from your heat until only his tip remains lodged in your entrance. His eyes flick to yours and then he slams back into you, forcing your breath from your lungs. He repeats the movement again and again, until your lower lip is wobbling and your fingers are sinking into the corded muscles of his forearms, unable to do anything but cling on as he hammers into you.

The stillness of the kitchen is soon disrupted by the telltale sounds of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your breathy moans and Levi’s pants. Between the sharpness of his hips and the cold tile of the kitchen floor, you know you’re likely to walk away from this with bruises, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. Especially not when Levi is moving like this, each of his thrusts as punishing as they are calculated.

“What’d I say, huh? No one can fuck you like I can.”

Levi more often than not was a soft lover. Kind; generous; prone to taking his time with you, so much so that it was nearly painful, usually leaving you in a tearful puddle on your mattress, begging him for more.

But now, he’s trying to remind you of what you’re leaving behind by leaving him; he’s punishing you as much as he’s begging you to stay.

The thought makes you moan out, wanton and desperate, and the walls of your cunt clench harder around him.

His hips snap harshly against yours, choking off the sound in your throat. “So come back home,” and though you know he means for it to sound like an order, his eyes betray his urgency, his desperation to confirm that you hadn’t really meant it; that you’d given up on him in a moment of stress and exhaustion. “Quit being a brat and come home.”

You want to tell him you can’t — that the door had closed on your relationship the moment you’d pulled it shut behind you that day, but try as you might, the words will not form. All that spills from your mouth are broken utterances of his name, and even those flatten out into pathetic whines as Levi’s callused thumb finds your clit and begins to work, determined to haul you to the edge of your sanity and shove you over.

Your legs spasm around his waist as you begin your ascent to that sacred precipice. Your eyes are rolled back, your head thrashing from side to side as the pleasure, white hot and searing, mounts within you, that coil in your belly winding tight with every impassioned movement of his body against yours.

Distantly, you feel his hold on your hips tighten, and you can feel his thrusts growing sloppy. You know it’s only a matter of time before one of you succumbs to your release.

He growls your name, the last syllable tapering off in a small whine. “T-tell me — fuck — tell me where.”

Your eyes fly open and meet his, sobering awareness washing over you like a tidal wave.

Only once in the entire course of your relationship, did Levi ask where he was allowed to cum: the beginning. He’d asked the very first time you’d slept with him, legs in the air and over his shoulders, and once you’d made it clear you were on birth control, that had been the end of the discussion. You’d known that if you’d changed your mind, all you’d needed to do was tell him, and he’d adjust. Truthfully, however, you’d not minded the possibility of your birth control failing; you’d been content to let whatever happen, happen.

You’d told him as much, and he’d told you he shared the sentiment.

But that was then; this time, he’s giving you an out. A way to make sure this remains a one-time thing, a moment of weakness between two people too lost and broken to want anything different.

Levi’s eyes widen as the silence stretches between you, and his hips slow until he stops moving all together. The friction mounting where you’re connected is nearly unbearable, and you know the only way to relieve it is to give him an answer — whatever it may be.

This was it; the decision that will make or break you both. For once, he’s out the ball entirely in your court, and whatever comes after this moment of bliss — or frality — ends depends entirely upon you.

“Inside,” you barely manage to squeak, eyes wide and locked unwaveringly with his.

Even Levi hesitates. “Y/N —“

“Inside,” you repeat with slightly more conviction. “Cum inside me, Levi.”

“Your pill?” His hips have already resumed their pace, and you can feel how he’s grown harder at your insistence. But though his body is already moving in accord with your demand, his eyes look ready to bulge out of his skull when you manage the smallest shake your head.

“Inside.” You beg again, and you dig your heel harder into the steely muscle of his backside, limiting how far he’s able to pull his hips back; to pull out at all.

Because damn if he isn’t the only person in the world with whom you could fathom facing the consequences of fucking raw without even the safety net of the tiny blue pills still sitting at your pharmacy, waiting.

“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth, a tendon in his neck throbbing. “Fuck, you want me to give you a baby? So fuckin’ be it. As long as you’ll stay.”

He shifts over you, planting one foot on the ground so he can use his thigh to pin one of your legs back and to the side. His hand shoves under your other thigh, mimicking the position of your other leg as he mounts you, his full weight pressing you harder into the floor and keeping you spread wide for him.

Gone was the calculated precision of his earlier thrusts; now, Levi only presses his groin firmly against yours as he begins to rut, each rock of his hips pushing his length impossibly deeper into your slick warmth.

A cracked moan of his name signals that the blunt tip of his cock has brushed up against that spot within you that Levi knows will have you coming apart in minutes. And so, with a feral gleam sparking to life in his eyes, he shifts himself to press the head of his cock firmly against it, his hips rolling hard enough into you that you begin moving in time with him, your hips lifting up from the floor only to be pushed back by him as he works.

His balls are heavy against the underside of your ass as he continues to rut into you. You know he’s close when you feel him begin to twitch inside you, and the anticipation of being filled by him — so hot and sweet — makes the walls of your cunt clench harder around him.

If you thought you were a mess before, the way Levi mounts you on the floor has you nearly screaming with pleasure, so electric and blinding that all sights of the kitchen fade to white, and your eyes flutter shut.

But Levi won’t allow you to check out; not now, not ever.

“Look at me.” His free hand grabs your jaw in an attempt to force you to meet his eyes. You want to give him what he wants, but it’s far too difficult, what with the way yours are glued to the back of your skull, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“L-Levi,” you try and plead, to explain. But he has always demanded more of you than you knew how to give.

“Look at me.” His fingers squeeze your cheeks, insistent. “If you want my baby, then you’re gonna look at me while you cum.”

He’s doing it to prove a point — to prove that he still has control over you, over whatever it is that remains between you. And you, helpless against the whims of your heart, let him have it, because you love him.

Fuck. You love him.

You force your eyelids open to meet his punishing stare, and then his lips are crashing down against yours in a fiery clash of lips and teeth as both of you fight to consume the other. But you lose first, breaking your kiss to cry out as your climax slams into you with the force of a freight train, knocking your breath clean from your lungs.

It’s powerful; the most powerful orgasm you’ve had in memory, one that sends your back arching sharply up from the cool kitchen tile below, and pulls a howl of Levi’s name from your mouth.

You’re still straddled among the clouds of your pleasure when Levi succumbs to his own. His body tenses for a moment and then he’s coming undone, his hips giving one last, mighty push before he explodes.

He cums with a strangled groan that he silences by searing his mouth against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he pulses within you.

You don’t try to stop the pleasured grin that forms on your mouth, nor the contented hums which vibrate in your chest as you hold him close to you, savoring the feeling of being warm and full of him.

You know you might regret the decision later; but there, spread out across his — your — kitchen floor, Levi’s full weight bearing down upon you as he continues to flood you with his release, you can’t help but feel that maybe this wasn’t the toxic choice at all. Perhaps this is simply a manifestation of everything that is good in your life.

Good. That’s what you decide to tell yourself as you feel Levi’s lips press sleepily against your neck. This is good; this is right.

Because this — he — is your home.

[jiminrings]

fail-safe (2)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you've heard nothing about it, so you're thankful.

alternatively, yoongi reminds you of home in more ways than one.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, brother's best friend AND single dad au, eventual fluff, a lot of yearning but For What, they reunite but at what cost rlly, jealousy, self-loathing, unrequited love (initial), deja vu but in the worst possible form, eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: i am So sorry for this .

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even reading ur thoughts in the tags give me life :) | series masterlist

FIVE YEARS LATER

The trip back home wasn’t as rough as Yoongi expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between sitting in economy seats versus first-class seats, even if they’re situated on the same aircraft. When he left, Yoongi was irritable (amongst other things) to keep bumping elbows with everyone else; now that he’s back, he almost misses the ruckus in the cabin that’s far too cramped for everyone who could afford it.

Yoongi used to hate people like himself — atleast the version that he is now. He hated bastards sitting upfront in seats that reclined all the way back and ate off plates instead of noisy, flimsy plastic containers. Back then, deep down to his very core, he wanted that lifestyle for himself. To become bigger and better than he could ever imagine for the life ahead of him was always the goal.

Now that he’s at the peak, maybe even being the peak himself, he feels weirdly homesick.

“You need to bundle up all the way, Haneul. They’re gonna scold me if you’re not covered from head to toe,” Yoongi playfully chides his son, the insecurity and nervousness underneath his tone flying right over his head. It’s not even that cold, but still, a huge part of Yoongi worries.

He worries everyday if he’s a good dad to his four-year old. He worries if he’s good enough to be a solo parent because after all, he’s the one who has main custody of Haneul anyway. He worries and worries, but there’s nothing quite like the trepidation he feels being back home with everyone who has ever known him prior to all this success, suddenly seeing him come home.

It should be the opposite way around, that’s what everyone says to him. Yoongi had been queasy the whole flight back home despite the flight being one of the smoothest trips he’s ever been on in his life. He’s nervous to be back where he had been born and raised and he doesn’t know what’s that supposed to mean, except for the fact that he has an inkling of what the weight in his chest pertains to.

He’s back because it’s your mother’s 60th birthday. He’s back because her and Namjoon had asked him to, and he obliged without even thinking about it. Yoongi had offered numerous times to throw a party for the woman who had practically raised him alongside his closest friend, and even if Namjoon had backed him up on the grand idea for such a large milestone, she said no. All she wanted was for everyone to be back home, and Yoongi couldn’t say no.

Neither could you.

Yoongi is not the most modest person alive, but he is at his humblest when he drives the long way home just to delay the inevitable. He’s happy to the point he could be sick. He can’t tell if it’s the joy or the anxiety in his chest that makes it tighten, almost unbearably so, that he makes Haneul reach up to his forehead to check if he has a fever.

Yoongi’s home.

Not Los Angeles home, and not New York home. Not his home with a closet that’s the size of his childhood house’s living room, and not his space with the big windows and concierge downstairs.

Yoongi’s home — where the streets are narrow and the stairs are creaky; where this time, it’s all of him and none of you.

.

.

.

Enduring is different than working.

You’ve realized that the two concepts are drastically different as soon as Yoongi left, leaving you to survive the remaining years of your degree before you had to face the reality that you had to work to the bone for the rest of your life if you wanted a shot at living an average, food-stocked-in-the-fridge kind of life.

You didn’t know anyone who was connected to someone of importance one way or another, your family had zero ties, and you graduated from a university that raised more eyebrows in confusion than it tilted heads in awe. Your degree does havehigh promises as far as everyone in your town was concerned — it does and it should be, if only you were born and raised in different circumstances.

There’s not one acclaimed and high-profit company that would ever accept the likes of you. You worked hard and even if there were no exchange student agreements and Latin honors to show for it, you really did. You gave your best to graduate with a degree you never really liked and was only forced upon you, all for the promise of a future. It didn’t matter if it was extremely good or bad — everyone else just said you had to have one.

Your misfortune is what it is. It’s empty and haunting and the two weeks you had spent in the city right after graduating is truly something you never want to relive.

In hindsight, gambling the rest of your pocket money on a bus fare in your last day of job-hunting in the city at the time was a stupid decision. It was impulsive and irresponsible and everything your family scolded you for, what Yoongi hated you for, but it ended up being the single best gamble you’ve ever made, even above entry-level lottery tickets.

The same circumstances that held you back from where you’re supposed to head ended up propelling you to somewhere far, far different. Your degree became completely irrelevant, and the fact that you had nobody of significance in the city– no person to pass malice and gossip onto— made you a manager.

It had been a gamble to go work for an unknown entertainment company, much more a sinking one. It was an insult to have busted your ass back in your hometown, studying and working at the same time, only to work professionally in the city for a field that you didn’t even study about.

Your fate is what it is. You’ve endured and worked hard enough to the point that you had finally lucked out. Being the manager of someone who had later turned out to become the biggest actor in the industry, even in Hollywood, became your biggest break up to date.

Your way back home feels like an embrace you’ve denied yourself for far too long. You’ve mainly stayed in Seoul apart from the several hundred times you had to come with Jungkook for filming outside of the country, yet you could only count on one hand the amount of times you came home without anyone telling you to.

Coming home had become foreign to you as much as leaving it had become familiar.

“I’m near, Joon,” you hum to your phone, taking a quick glance at the cake you’ve strapped to your front seat. “It’s only us, right?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

Maybe it’s your fault for changing what us meant throughout the past five years, but Namjoon’s definition never changed. Maybe it’s your fault for not clarifying what he meant when you’re still kilometers away, when you can still leave, but nonetheless, you were cornered.

Us meant what it used to be when you were a kid in your childhood home — when Yoongi was still in the picture and you didn’t hate him for it.

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing them against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

.

.

.

You’re numb if that’s the word for it.

Your chest buzzes emptily the same way your fingers clench around nothing. You look at everywhere and everyone but Yoongi and his son. It’s nauseating to even think that everyone’s eating dinner as if everything’s okay; what’s even more sickening is that somehow, you’re willing to settle for it.

Yoongi is your mom’s cross-stitch project of a teddy bear that she hung up in your room one day when you were in school that you never took off by the time you came home. He’s a dent at the corner of your gate that could’ve only been made by Namjoon when he was practicing his soccer skills. He’s a Snellen chart that nobody really uses, stuck to the side of the refrigerator that you walk past.

Yoongi’s here, there, and everywhere, but you don’t question it. He’s simply there in your orbit and even if he exists, you don’t follow up on him.

You stay quiet at the talks of the sleeping situation because it turns out that Yoongi’s family had long sold their house. You never knew that throughout the several times you came down to visit.

Frankly, you’re relieved to barely know anything about Yoongi these days.

“You and Haneul can take my room,” you half-heartedly offer, not because it’s Yoongi who tugs at your heartstrings and demands your pity, but his child instead. The two, three (?) year-old baby (read: you’re too hesitant to ask what his age is because if it’s anything higher, then that meant Yoongi had moved on earlier than you did) you didn’t even know existed because you’ve completely cut off Yoongi from your life and refused to listen to Namjoon every time he talked about him, will be sleeping in your room; it just happens that he’s with his dad.

Yoongi’s awed at your preposition but he’s even more worried. He can’t tell a single thought that’s going on behind your eyes nor a single hint behind your tone. You’re formal; neutral. You’re detached even when you utter Haneul’s name and gesture them to your bedroom as if he hasn’t spent years and years of his life in your home.

“Where will you sleep?” he furrows his brows, his hand that had been rubbing circles on Haneul’s back faltering.

He’s asking because he doesn’t know anything about you at this point. He can’t tell if it’s the indigestion he has from resisting to talk your ear off at the dining table (like he’s always did when you were young) because you barely even spoke to him, or if it’s the overwhelming feeling of being back home with everything feeling familiar but you — either way, Yoongi thinks he’s gonna be sick.

“I’ll sleep at my mom’s,” you purse your lips, leaving him at that.

Between the yearning, demanding looks you get from Yoongi, the nosy and concerned glances from Namjoon, and even the guilt that you get from keeping all of your emotions from your mom when you used to confide in her religiously when you were younger — you’re drained. The urge to wash off all your anxiety can’t be done in your childhood home’s small bathroom. You can’t with the faulty water heater (you have to keep one finger pressed on the button at all times to keep it running) because you can’t even cry in peace under the either scorching or freezing water.

You can’t evade everything by grabbing a drink from the fridge that runs loudly as if it’s excavating oil from underneath your floors. You can’t curl up on the couch that’s become worn with age because there’s dents of you and Yoongi, the only two people who had sat on it the most every late night for years on end. You can’t romanticize any of the things in your home that have brought you joy all your life at this point in time.

To sleep under the same roof with your mother and brother again after so long feels foreign. It’s a language you can perceive but can’t translate and the frustration that comes with it seeps into your bones. There must be some common ground between the three of you; it should be anything and everything. With Namjoon being a world-renowned football player and you being somewhat accomplished and decorated in your field, you’ve managed to retire your mom early.

The three of you are doing fine. Not one interaction in the past five years has ever felt this tense and unfamiliar, but if you could pick just the odd one out, the very reason why you feel like falling to the floor and crawling your way out of your own home because you feel like you don’t belong to it — it’s Yoongi.

You feel awkward in your own four walls, whereas Yoongi finds your nightlight that you keep tucked in your closet without breaking a sweat.

Namjoon tugs you right when you’re about to call it a day in your mom’s room, his hushed whispers taking you back to when he pleaded for you not to rat them out whenever he and Yoongi crashed at the couch drunk.

“Give them this,” he shoves the can of bug spray into your hands, your immediate reaction making him wrestle with you just to push you closer to your own bedroom.

“No, Joon. You give it.”

“Y/N, no. You give it,” he whines, purposely having given Yoongi extra sheets and blankets earlier without the bug spray so you’d have something to take to him.

“I don’t wanna see Yoongi,” you whisper, trying to pathetically regain your footing even if you know your attempts go futile against an athlete for a brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snarks, giving you one last shove with a stern finger. “We’re gonna talk about whatever the hell happened between you and him, but right now, you’re gonna offer him bug spray like the gracious hosts that we are!”

You crash too far to your door that it could be mistaken as a knock, making you hiss because you know you can’t retract it. You actually knock this time, being met with nothing but a quiet Yoongi behind your own door.

Even when he opens it fully, even when it’s your own room — you enter hesitantly.

Yoongi’s already made a home out of your room. He knew where your nightlight was, knew which good extension cord (that didn’t spark every time it shifted) to plug into the wall, and even knew where you kept the magazine that you had to wedge between your windows whenever they didn’t fully close.

“Namjoon told me to give you this,” you put your hand out, looking at everything but Yoongi. You could look at Haneul who’s sprawled in the middle of the bed, but it isn’t any different than looking at his dad himself.

Yoongi, on the other hand, can’t see anything but you. He feels like an intruder who just happened to know the confines of your life almost better than his own, holding bug spray and the remainder of whatever recognition you have left for him.

“Will we ever be alright?” he whispers, not for the sake of keeping Haneul asleep, but for the sake of his sanity. If he makes his voice any louder, he’ll spill all his grievances and question if he had ever meant anything to you.

“We’ve always been alright,” you smile tightly, wrapping your hands around your back.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he pleads, swallowing the lump in his throat. “When did you ever give me bug spray? When did you have to knock on my door, o-or when did you ever have to treat me like I’m some guest and not a huge part of your life?” Yoongi stumbles over his words, correcting himself with a huff. “Most of your life.”

The sarcasm that coats the last of his words makes you twitch, the clench in your jaw being unmistakeable. Yoongi almost forgot what you looked like whenever you argued with him — talked to him, even. “Why are you only bitching about this to me and not to Namjoon? He’s the one who told me to give you the bug spray.”

“This is not about the bug spray!”

“What is it about then? Is this, is this some sort of long-winded euphemism that involves bug spray? What is it Yoongi, are you gonna hound me for an essay about it?” you spit, exhaling heavily. Haneul twitches in his sleep from the corner of your eye. “You grew up and so did I.”

Yoongi flinches like you’ve shot him.

“Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t do this to us.”

You flinch because anything is better than to have him dig up his old nickname for you as if he’s close; as if he’s still the Yoongi that you chased, as if you’re still the Y/N he looked out for.

“Don’t call me that.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s in the kitchen with your mom.

He looks domestic this way, hair tousled and pajamas loose. Even if you have unbridled internet access (courtesy of the high-speed package you split with Namjoon for your mom even if the most she does online is repost motivational quotes, reels of Namjoon and his team, and clips of Jungkook where you’re seen), you can’t muster the courage to search Yoongi’s name and what he’s made of himself.

You’re too scared to search up articles about his success as a producer because if you do, you’re terrified by the thought of accidentally clicking a link that leads you to a page of him and his ex-wife.

You’re too weak to search up the songs he’s had a hand in (that is if you hadn’t heard them before) because you fear that if you even listen for a single second, you might hear how perfect his life has been ever since he left behind everything that he’s ever known.

Even now, you’re too uneasy at the sight of him. He’s in your home and he looks like the version of himself that had never left. The Yoongi in front of you, sitting on your seat at the dining table and peeling tangerines with your mom, resembles the Yoongi that would top off your glass with water whenever you ate with him.

It’s as if you’ve always been in touch for the past five years; it’s as if Yoongi has never aged and you never drifted apart.

“You’re awake,” he remarks, greeting you first before your mom could even register your presence.

“You’re still here,” you reply, the exhale that leaves you making you deflate in reflection. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but Yoongi’s already slid over a plate to you.

“There. Just how you like them.”

There’s tangerines with barely any pith on them, and iced tea that had more ice cubes in them than there are in the freezer.

Yoongi smiles at you like you’re the old you again; the one who is more forgiving, and the one who is more hopeful.

( ♡ )

If it wasn’t for your brother guilt-tripping you into joining the impromptu road trip, you never would have come.

You didn’t want to come with them in the first place because the very thought of hanging out with Namjoon and Yoongi like old times, this time with the addition of the latter’s son, was too close; too familial. The three already knew each other and had kept in touch and you’re the odd one out. You’re the only planet out of the system and once you’ve come to think of it, that bit of their galaxy never failed. Whether you were in it or not didn’t matter — atleast that’s what you thought.

Yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you’ve heard nothing about it.

You blocked his number and on every social media account he had to his name. Even with Namjoon as a prominent variable, you’re amazed to how you’ve heard little to nothing about Yoongi ever since he left your hometown. You still talked to your brother, of course, but there was an obvious difference to how your conversations went because none of them ever went to Yoongi.

You didn’t tell him to not talk about Yoongi at all. You didn’t instruct him to never utter a single word about his closest friend whom you also grew up with. You never told Namjoon anything concerning Yoongi and what unfolded between the two of you before you left, and yet, it’s almost as if he had already been in your mind and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve come to realize that the prospect of growing up never used to be in your cards. The whole concept of it sat at the very back of your mind, the only times you used to pay attention to it being whenever Yoongi picked at your brain.

You thought your world would have ended when you were 19. You didn’t think you would grow up and see past high school. You didn’t think you would finish college, much less pick a degree to pursue in the first place. You didn’t think of having a future — you didn’t think you’d be living it now in this way.

“Joon,” you mutter, voice barely being heard at the expanse of the balcony you’re in. It’s his balcony in his vacation house he barely stays in, overlooking the waves by the beach he isn’t even that fond of to begin with.

Yoongi and Haneul are already asleep, the father-son duo knocking out way ahead than everyone else. They stayed with the two of you in the balcony hours ago, the bug spray in both the adult and kid edition being proof of it.

Tonight, alone, felt different. It’s as if the younger version of you was gazing out to what was supposed to be your future, except neither the past nor present variant of you could have ever had it for yourself.

“Hm?” he hums, sipping the last of his drink while he’s sat at the far end. You know about each other’s presence, and while years ago, the two of you would’ve been giddy staying in a house as grand as this whilst drinking behind your mom’s back, you and Namjoon grew up. You didn’t fight or anything — you simply grew up and grew apart.

“I never said it before, but thank you,” you exhale, clenching Haneul’s towel as you try to warm your hands. You may have spent the better part of the day not even acknowledging his dad, but you did fawn over him like you would with any other child. “Thank you for not telling me a thing about Yoongi.”

“You’re welcome,” Namjoon finally speaks as soon as he grasps what you were talking about, the smile on his face only lasting for a second. “If it were up to me though, I would have told you everything.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you, hm?” you laugh uneasily, running your hand through your hair. You didn’t know how much you had to be grateful for until Yoongi came back and reminded you of how little you knew about him.

Namjoon breathlessly laughs, looking up at the sky to try and condense everything that has happened through his words before you leave again. “I would have told you that he confessed what happened that time you ran away from home a couple years back, and I beat his ass. We didn’t talk for like, I don’t know, three months? Even when I was still training in the US that time.”

Your lack of a reply is what makes him take notice, the stunned look you have on your face making him snort.

“What?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed as he throws a stray bottle cap at you. “Why are you so shocked? I love him like a brother, but you’re my actual sister,” he confides his loyalty to you, yet you don’t even have a second to express your awe before he opens his mouth again. “I would have told you that I became the best man at his wedding. Even mom was there.”

“You can stop telling me these things now.”

Namjoon exhales, already feeling deep in his chest that you’re gearing up to leave. He wants to get the last word in, not to prove himself, but to try and vindicate you and the quiet suffering you endured without telling anyone.

“I would have told you that Yoongi kept trying to come back to you.”

( ♡ )

Haneul wakes up before Yoongi does.

You’re confused for a second because the moment you hear the lightest footsteps that you ever could pad along the kitchen, you become completely disoriented. There’s a child that looks like Yoongi, wandering off to where you are.

For the briefest second, your heart drops because the whole situation resembles a vignette. In another lifetime, it could’ve been your child, your Haneul, waking up before his dad, trudging to the kitchen where you are is if you’re his mom.

He’s an observant kid, far too trusting unlike his dad who used to scold you to hell and back for even entertaining strangers that asked you for directions. He’s friendly to you; to someone Yoongi had introduced as appa’s close friend. There isn’t even a single hint in how he introduced you to Haneul that the two of you stopped being close. Yoongi didn’t leave the faintest indicator to him that you most probably hated his guts and would probably choose a lifetime where he hadn’t even been in your life at all.

Haneul is innocent to yours and Yoongi’s history and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t meant to change whatever he introduced you as because by the time your mom’s birthday week is over, or by the time Yoongi takes the hint and leaves your hometown again, you would be a fleeting persona in Haneul’s life.

You’re not his mom. You’re not anyone of significance to either him and his dad.

“Good morning,” he greets shyly, his diction telling of how just attentive Yoongi is as a dad. You mostly listened to whatever Namjoon told you last night anyway, tuning out the parts where he rounded to how Yoongi had been miserable not having any contact with you (you don’t believe that at all), and instead zeroing in on the large details that you’ve missed. “Auntie.”

You smile tightly, patting the empty seat beside to you to which he climbs effortlessly.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you do know him. You know that his dad is a doting, slightly paranoid one whose current dilemma is whether or not enrolling him in kindergarten early or waiting for one more year. You know that Yoongi doesn’t want him to know about the existence of iPads for probably ever, so he spends almost every waking moment talking to him to the point that Haneul’s eloquent at speaking for his age. You also know that Namjoon’s his godfather, and that he had looked after him for a whole day by himself when Yoongi went to settle his divorce.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you know his parents. You know Yoongi is his dad, and more importantly, that Hyewon is his mom — the same Hyewon who had been with him in your room before, and the same woman Yoongi shared his success with when he made it big.

“Hi,” you greet him softly, handing him his bottle for him to drink from. It’s a warm, domestic vignette for a split second. You’ve watched Yoongi far too many times at the corner of your eye to know where he gets the distilled water. “Why are you up already?”

“Uncle Joonie promised yesterday we can watch the sunrise together,” he says in between sips, letting you comb his hair into order unconsciously. You didn’t even think of it before your hand sweeps the strands scattered on his forehead, the hum you have at the back of your throat pausing when you realized what you’ve done.

“He’s still sleeping right now. He had uh, a long night,” you mutter, at a loss for a child-friendly alternative word for hangover. You keep your hands to yourself because you fear falling into the domesticity that isn’t yours to relax into; if you think about it for a second longer, you’d think that Haneul is yours and Yoongi is the final piece to your puzzle.

“Oh. But I, I wanna watch,” Haneul frowns, brows softly furrowed at your revelation. He’s not close to throwing a tantrum, but the upset expression on his face keeps tugging at your heart to cave.

“You can take your dad with you,” you offer, willing to knock on Yoongi’s door if it meant his son smiling again.

Haneul shakes his head at that, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the events of last night before being tucked in. “Nuh-uh. Appa had a long night too. He just kept crying.”

A part of you wishes that Haneul didn’t speak so clearly.

“What?” you clarify, heart skipping a beat the more you replay his words in your head.

“Crying?” Haneul repeats, tilting his head as he tries to figure you out. He says it again for a third time as if you needed any clarification of the word and not because of your disbelief that his dad was capable of it. “Like this,” he adds, pretending to bawl with his hands wiping at his eyes.

The scene before you is your brief moment of reprieve, making you chuckle breathlessly as you try to regain your senses. Whether or not Haneul was sure of what he was saying, if Yoongi had cried, it’s most probably not because of anything that has to do with you.

“Oh. So that’s what it means. Thank you, Haneul,” you laugh lowly, patting him on the head until you retract your hand again in realization.

Haneul thinks nothing of your trepidation; he thinks nothing of the yearning behind your eyes, and thinks nothing of the tremble in your voice.

“Can we watch the sunrise together?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as if doing so would be the equivalent of hanging the stars up for him in the sky.

(Read: it probably is, and in another lifetime, or in the far-shot that it happens in this one, you’d do it if he asks you to do so.)

You want to ask Haneul why it’s you who he wants to accompany him, but you don’t. You can wake up either Yoongi and Namjoon to go with him instead, but you won’t.

In another lifetime, this would have been your son, your Haneul asking to watch the sunrise with you. There’s a Yoongi-shaped hole and a Haneul-shaped vacancy in your chest, but you don’t prod about it further.

You don’t question what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of you that wants to fully accept it instead of hesitating to do so.

“Okay.”

Haneul puts his hand in yours, but you don’t pull away. You just hold him tighter.

( ♡ )

A large part of you forgot that for as long as Yoongi’s here, he’ll treat every interaction you have with Namjoon as an open invitation for him. He had always been this way; for as long as you could remember, he’ll include himself even if he isn’t needed nor wanted.

You can’t count the amount of times your mom had berated Namjoon for something and oddly enough, Yoongi also happened to be there. Whether it was to rat out on his own best friend or being at the receiving end of said scolding, Yoongi jumped at every opportunity to come along as a package deal.

When you asked Namjoon to drink with you at the balcony two days ago, Yoongi butted in and asked what brand of alcohol he should buy you at the convenience store. When you were on the way home and asked your brother what he wanted from the rest stop, Yoongi said he wanted the biggest can of coffee you could find.

And when you asked Namjoon what time you should come to the stadium to watch him practice, Yoongi said he’ll pack you an extra cap while Haneul bonded with your mom.

Sometime long ago, you and Yoongi saw each other eye to eye. You can’t determine when and how exactly, but there was a point in your life where everything you had to say to each other was what the other was thinking all along. Nowadays, you can’t even look at Yoongi in the eye while all he wanted was for you to return his gaze.

If there’s just one thing though, one single variable that remained unchanged between the two of you, it would be Namjoon.

The way Yoongi engages you in conversation this time around is not to trap you and to ramp himself up to apologize again, but purely, it’s to talk about your brother. Namjoon’s a lot of things, and one thing you pray would remain unchanged is the love you have for each other.

“Who would have thought, right?” Yoongi nudges, asking you sincerely. “Who would have thought that the Namjoon who had knockoff cleats years ago would become this world-famous athlete?” he chuckles, shaking his head as he once again tries to digest the fact that this very stadium in your hometown had been built and refashioned in his honor.

You laugh genuinely, the sound being the first he’s ever heard in such a long time.

“Abibas.”

Yoongi has his lips parted, shocked that you were even answering him.

“Abibas. That was the brand of his knockoff cleats,” you chuckle, bowing your head as you try to contain your laughter. “He could’ve bought the original with his allowance and everything, but he split it so he could also buy me knockoffs.”

Yoongi laughs at the memory you jog up in his mind, remembering distinctly how Namjoon kept asking for his opinion repeatedly on which colorway of the knockoff pair he should gift you.

Even if things are still tense between you, even if Namjoon is the only salvation that Yoongi could bring up in a conversation to which you don’t run from, nothing from the past five years could ever take this moment away from you.

The three of you have grown up. Some faster than they’d like, and some because they had no choice but to — nonetheless, in this moment, it’s the three of you back at home like it used to be.

“Namjoon was always meant for greatness. Even from the start,” you murmur, your attention waiting on Yoongi’s response even if your eyes were on Namjoon in the field.

“You are too,” he interjects quickly, voice defensive at the lack of your name to your own sentence.

“No I’m not,” you snort, crossing your arms. You’re not angry when you say it; in fact, you’re calm as if you’ve always seen it coming. “You told me I’d amount to nothing.”

You’re calm, seemingly at peace with what you just said and what Yoongi had ingrained in your head before, but he’s the furthest thing from it. His mouth hangs open, chest tightening impossibly as he shakes his head eagerly.

“I never said that!”

You’re about to counter him when you hear a familiar holler reach you at the lower section of the bleachers, eyes perking to see a familiar figure who isn’t blood-related to you.

“Y/N!” Jimin runs up to you faster than to whenever he passes the ball to Namjoon, engulfing you in a massive hug that forces you up to your feet before you know it.

“Oh my god, Jimin! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” you awe at the sight of him, unwilling to break away from the embrace until he does so. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, the second-best player in the team (you’re biased because of course Namjoon had been the best player to you since you were kids) being the closest member to you out of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t care for Yoongi. He knows of the guy and he doesn’t want to know any more than he already does. He doesn’t even acknowledge the guy’s presence; all he does is squeeze you tighter and twirl you briefly in his arms.

“Fuck, me neither. Heaven must’ve healed my ankle quicker so I could come here and see you,” he flirts playfully, earning a well-deserved eye roll from you.

“And you know, play for Korea.”

“Eh. That too, I guess,” he shrugs, sitting at the seat beside you. He looks straight at you and only you — Jimin only pauses to snort to himself when he notices that Yoongi’s squirming in his seat, beyond annoyed and frustrated.

( ♡ )

On the fifth day of Yoongi staying over at your house, there’s a power outage.

The sound of everything shutting off together in sync makes you jolt, the collective groan you hear outside from the neighborhood comforting you in solidarity.

You can only make out a grunt from Namjoon and a gasp from your mom until you hear the trembling voice of Haneul, the sound of a cry that crawls up his throat putting everyone on their feet.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just a little dark, that’s all,” Yoongi pipes up instantly, scooping him up in his arms without having to fumble for where he is because he could practically locate his son in his sleep.

You didn’t want for it to be a power outage, but oddly enough, you feel sorry that it happened while you’re here. “It’s okay, Haneul,” you whisper as consolation, the dark of the night shielding you from how Yoongi’s eyes widen at your cooing for his son. “Mom, where did you put that generator I got you?”

“About that,” she sheepishly shrugs, turning on her phone to illuminate her shyness. “I donated it last year to the public school nearby.”

“It’s gonna get so hot,” Namjoon groans, the sound of him clumsily feeling around for the lights alerting Haneul briefly. He comforts him instantly, finally turning on the torch in his phone instead of relying on his instincts. “Don’t cry, Haneul, alright? Uncle Joonie’s gonna get the candles and the flashlights.”

“I’ll go try to find a guy,” you get up as soon as Namjoon hands you a flashlight, your contribution to help instantly being shut down.

“You can’t just try to find a guy, Y/N. That’s dangerous,” Yoongi scoffs, putting a hand on your forearm to pull you.

“I meant on my phone, Yoongi,” you grit. “I was gonna go outside to try and look for a signal.”

“That’s still dangerous,” he narrows his eyes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Give me a break,” you mutter, removing his hold from you. You’d save your pride and actually go outside if not for your mom interjecting that she knows an electrician from her contacts.

Namjoon comes back after his quest for battery-powered fans and flashlights, unaware of how Yoongi’s protective streak for you practically never disappeared; in fact, it came back twofold. “Whole neighborhood’s out. Must be a broken transformer or something.”

Your mom consoles Haneul in her arms.

Namjoon waits by the gate for the electrician.

You and Yoongi clean the fridge up before anything spoils.

In between getting food out and embracing Haneul every now and then who insisted on obediently sitting atop the counter so he’s closer to his dad, Yoongi holds your hand.

“That’s my hand that you’re holding,” you murmur, assuming that he had mistaken yours for Haneul’s as he’s always chuckled how yours always seemed to be small against his.

Yoongi only hums.

“I know.”

( ♡ )

You’re falling back into your old routine.

Maybe it’s how your mom has to shake you awake because otherwise, you’d sleep through the afternoon and would therefore be unable to sleep through the night. On the other hand, it could be Namjoon who either hounds you to hang out with him or tell you off for clinging to him too much.

Maybe, it’s just Yoongi. It’s him who’s tricking your brain into thinking that has nothing changed with the way he keeps peeling fruits for you and telling you to be safe even if you’re only buying ice cream from the convenience store.

It’s only been a week and a half of almost normalcy, save for the fact that there are certain things and connections you can neither reverse nor rekindle.

You’re convinced, almost fully convinced that history is repeating itself except for the bitter, ugly parts of it that you never want to pop in your head again.

Like the past, Namjoon blocks you for whatever reason in his head but this time he does it to you while you’re on the way to your room, on the quest to retrieve your charger for your phone that you barely even used for work purposes.

“It’s my room. Why can’t I go in my room?” you furrow your brows at him, your amusement turning into annoyance the more that Namjoon pushed you with actual strength instead of playfulness.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go out for dinner,” he changes the subject quickly, turning you towards the stairs.

You shouldn’t have questioned him further — you should’ve left it at that.

“I guess? I’ll just get my purse,” you concede, dodging his attempts to haul you downstairs.

“I’ll pay,” Namjoon insists and although it’s not out of the blue for him, his franticness is what keeps you on edge.

“I still need my-…” you counter, being interrupted when he holds you firmly as you attempt to walk towards your door. Namjoon grips you with a silent plead, one that you can’t even decipher. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You finally break off his grip at once, walking into your room with a renowned determination.

It’s not only your routine that falls back into place, but it’s your whole worldview that does.

Love is terribly human. It’s a loose thread on your shirt that gets snagged on your doorknob. It’s a coat in your closet waiting to be worn for the supposed perfect time, and when you do, you realize that it no longer fits you.

Love is terribly human, and it is terribly Yoongi, Hyewon, and Haneul.

Love is terribly human and fragile, and it’s Yoongi, Hyewon, and their son sleeping on your bed.