#clearly there is something bringing me back again and again

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Call Me When You Fix Your Attitude 

Lando Norris x fem!reader

a little toxic but it’s ok. 

Lando had been impossible since the post-race debrief. Snapping at engineers, throwing his gloves at the wall, dodging every media obligation McLaren threw his way. You stood just outside the driver’s room door, arms crossed, praying he’d calm down once you got him alone.

He didn’t.

You slipped in quietly and shut the door behind you.

He didn’t look at you, just yanked his race suit down to his waist and flung himself onto the couch like it owed him an explanation.

“They fucking played me,” he muttered. “Team orders my ass. Oscar had the better strategy and the faster car. What the hell am I even doing here?”

“Lando…” you began carefully. “Second isn’t a failure.”

He scoffed, loud and sharp. “Of course you’d say that.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not in the car. You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to fight every fucking lap just for the team to throw your efforts in the bin because golden boy Piastri is quicker.”

You crossed your arms. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Project. I didn’t build Oscar’s car. I didn’t give him better strategy. Don’t talk to me like I’m the enemy.”

“You’re not helping,” he snapped, standing up now, pacing the room.

You followed him with your eyes, trying to stay calm. “I’m not trying to help right now. I’m trying to be here. To support you.”

“Well maybe I don’t want support. Maybe I want space.”

“Then fucking say that instead of tearing me apart like I’m a punching bag!”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop. “You want me to spell everything out for you all the time. You always need something—reassurance, validation, your goddamn ‘talk to me’ routine like it’s gonna fix anything.”

You stepped forward, voice rising. “So now being emotionally available is a bad thing?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No—you implied it. You implied that me caring is annoying. That me showing up for you is inconvenient. You know what? Maybe I shouldn’t have fucking come this weekend.”

“Oh please,” he sneered, “don’t act like this isn’t your moment too. The paddock loves you. Everyone wants a quote from Lando Norris’ girlfriend. You eat this shit up.”

The breath punched out of your lungs.

“Say that again,” you dared.

He hesitated.

“Fucking say it again, Lando.”

He met your glare but said nothing.

“You think I came here for clout? You think I’ve been flying across the world to hold your hand after shit races, picking you up off the fucking floor when you spiral, just for attention?”

He flinched, but again—nothing.

You were seething. “I loved you when no one was watching. When the cameras were gone. When your hands were shaking after Silverstone and you couldn’t sleep for days. I was there. I am always fucking there.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be second on purpose.” His voice cracked. “To be told to stand down. To not fight.”

“And you don’t know what it’s like to be with someone who resents you every time you try to help!”

The air felt sharp.

Your voice broke through the tension like thunder. “I’m not the reason Oscar’s winning. I’m not the reason you’re angry. But I’ll be damned if I keep letting you treat me like I am.”

He shoved his hands through his hair, practically pacing a hole in the floor.

You were right behind him now. Loud. Unfiltered.

“I stayed quiet after the media tour. I stayed quiet when you told me to ‘just not bring it up’ when you missed the podium in Austria. I stayed quietwhen you brushed me off the night before this race—didn’t even say ‘I love you’ back.”

He whipped around. “I had a race to prep for!”

“And I’m your girlfriend! Not your punching bag. Not your therapist. And not your emotional garbage can.”

Silence.

And then: “I’m fucking done with you.”

You backed up toward the door.

“Call me when you find your fucking senses—because clearly you left all five of them on the goddamn track.”

And with that, you slammed the door and walked out.

You barely made it ten feet before Oscar stepped out of the hallway shadows.

His brows were drawn together, concerned. “Y/N, I—”

“Don’t,” you said, breath shaking. “It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just coming to get my physio stuff and—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” you repeated firmly. “You’re killing it out there. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

He gave you a tight smile, visibly uncomfortable. “Are you heading back to the hotel?”

You shook your head. “No. I might murder him if I see him again.”

Oscar blinked.

“I’m going home.”

“Monaco?”

You stared at him. “No. Home. My real home. I haven’t seen my family in a while.”

His face softened. “The States?”

You nodded. “Pennsylvania.”

“Oh…” he said, quietly. “Do you want me to call you a car?”

“I already called one.”

He nodded, like he didn’t know what else to offer.

You hugged him—briefly.

“Do me one favor?” you asked.

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell him where I’m going. Not until I say so.”

Oscar nodded, eyes gentle. “Promise.”

———

The silence in the driver’s room was deafening after she left.

Lando stared at the wall for twenty straight minutes. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His fingers still trembled from the adrenaline—of the race, of the fight, of the realization that he might’ve gone too far.

Twenty more minutes passed before he finally stood up.

He grabbed his phone. Thought about texting. Thought about calling.

But he knew she wouldn’t answer—not yet.

So he tried to find her the old-fashioned way.

⸻

He moved through the garage, eyes scanning the crowd of engineers and McLaren personnel like a hunter tracking something he’d already wounded.

He checked the hospitality suite.

Not there.

Media pen? Empty.

Her usual seat in the back of the engineering meeting room?

Gone.

He shoved past a cluster of interns near the garage door, barely muttering an apology as he searched for any sign of her—hair, voice, familiar silhouette. Anything.

Then he spotted Oscar.

“Hey,” Lando said, walking up, heartbeat skipping.

Oscar looked up from his phone, guarded.

“Where is she?”

Oscar exhaled slowly, then looked Lando dead in the eye.

“She went home.”

Lando blinked. “Home?”

“That’s what she said.”

The word echoed in his mind. Home.

“Right,” he muttered. “Monaco.”

———

Lando dropped his suitcase with a thud.

His neck ached. His head was pounding. The trip from Silverstone to Monaco was a blur of sleepless hours and spiraling thoughts, and yet noneof that prepared him for walking into an apartment that didn’t feel like home anymore.

It felt… abandoned.

Half the closet was empty.

Her makeup drawer: cleared out.

No cardigan over the desk chair. No sparkly water bottles lined on the nightstand. No favorite mug in the sink.

She was really gone.

He sat on the edge of the bed, letting that fact sink in, chest tight and cold.

And then his phone buzzed.

From Y/N

I’m home. Don’t worry about me.

Call me when you fix your attitude.

It was 8:42 a.m. in Monaco.

Which meant it was nearly 3 a.m. where she was.

His fingers hovered over his screen for half a second before he hit call.

She answered on the third ring, voice groggy, heavy with sleep.

“…Lando?”

His voice was hoarse. “You’re not here.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I thought you were coming back to Monaco.”

“I never said that.”

He swallowed. “You said ‘home.’ I didn’t think—”

“No, Lando. You didn’t think. That’s the whole fucking problem.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel. It was flat. Exhausted.

“You’re in the States?”

A pause. “Yeah. I landed yesterday.”

His heart dropped. “And you didn’t even tell me?”

“You screamed at me,” she whispered. “You humiliated me. In front of Oscar, the team—hell, probably half the garage heard you tearing me down.”

“I know.”

“And now you want updates? After what you said to me?”

“I was angry—”

“At me? For something I didn’t even do?”

“No,” he said quickly, “I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at myself. The team. The car. The situation. And I made it your fault because you were standing there trying to love me through it.”

She was quiet for a long time.

When she spoke again, her voice cracked. “I didn’t fly home because I wanted to leave you. I flew home because if I’d stayed, I would’ve let you keep treating me like that. And I’m finally—finally—starting to love myself enough not to let anyone talk to me that way. Even you.”

His breath caught. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said softly.

He heard a sniffle.

“You said I came to races for clout.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“You said I make things worse by trying to fix you.”

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

Her voice wavered. “But you still said it.”

That hit deeper than anything else.

He pressed a hand over his face, trying to hold in the pressure building behind his eyes.

“Please,” he whispered. “Tell me how to make this right.”

“You don’t get to ask that until you understand how you made it wrong.”

Silence.

“I gave you everything,” she said through tears. “And you made me feel like I was in the way. Like loving you was an inconvenience. Do you know what it feels like to shrink yourself next to someone who used to make you feel ten feet tall?”

He covered his mouth, trying to breathe through the guilt.

“I do now,” he said, brokenly. “And I hate myself for it.”

She let out a small, aching breath.

“I have to go,” she murmured. “It’s late. I’m tired.”

“Wait—please—”

“I’m safe. That’s all you need to know. Call me when you figure out how to be the person I fell in love with again.”

Click.

The line went dead.

———

The apartment in Monaco felt colder without her in it.

Not physically—just empty.

Lando barely moved from the bedroom the first two days. He left the lights off. Curtains drawn. Ordered nothing but espresso and dry toast.

He read her last text a hundred times:

Call me when you fix your attitude.

She hadn’t messaged since.

He hadn’t either.

Because for once, he was listening.

⸻

Day 3:

He sat on the balcony in the early morning, hoodie drawn over his head, staring out at the water like it held answers.

His phone buzzed. Daniel. Max. George. All left unread.

He opened Instagram and saw a tagged photo: Oscar smiling with Lily and a few friends in Paris.

The caption read:

“Grateful for the people who make this sport feel like home.”

Lando locked his phone and tossed it across the table.

She would’ve laughed at that post. She always loved how calm Oscar was—said he reminded her of her brother. Lando used to love how her face lit up when she talked about people she cared about.

Now it haunted him.

⸻

Day 4:

He went to sim. Crashed the car within two laps. Swore loudly. Quit the session.

He hadn’t crashed in months.

His engineer called.

“You good?”

“No,” Lando said honestly. “Not even a little bit.”

⸻

Day 5:

He walked through Monaco like a ghost, hat low, hood pulled. Saw a girl on the beach wearing her favorite brand of sunglasses. He had to look away.

Bought her favorite snack at the corner store out of instinct. Forgot she wasn’t there to eat it.

Came home. Left it on the counter.

Still couldn’t throw it out.

⸻

Day 6:

He stayed up watching old videos on his phone—her voice in the background on race weekends, teasing him, laughing.

One clip from Austria:

“You’re gonna win this weekend.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you always win when I kiss you for luck first.”

She kissed the camera in the video.

Lando cried into his pillow for the first time in months.

He woke up on the seventh morning and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

She’d given him space.

And now he had one chance to fix it.

He didn’t text. Didn’t call.

He just booked the flight.

———

It was quiet.

Too quiet for the way Lando’s heart was racing.

The rain pattered softly against the porch as she stood there, frozen in the doorway of her childhood home, eyes wide and bare-faced. Her hair was still damp from a recent shower, cheeks flushed, hoodie too big. She looked like someone who had finally started to heal—and didn’t expect her wound to come knocking.

“Lando?” she whispered.

“I didn’t want to text. I didn’t want to call,” he said, voice low and shaking. “I wanted to show up.”

A beat of silence.

She didn’t step forward. Didn’t pull him in. She just stared at him like she was seeing him for the first time again.

“I told myself I’d slam the door if you ever showed up without asking.”

He tried to smile, but it didn’t stick. “Do you want to?”

She blinked. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“No.”

A breath escaped his chest—relief, guilt, desperation all tangled together.

“Come in,” she said quietly, stepping back. “But take your shoes off. My mom just mopped.”

He nodded, shoving off his trainers and stepping inside. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and cinnamon. Homey. Unchanged. Safe.

Too safe for someone who’d broken her the way he did.

⸻

She led him to her room. Same pale walls. Same fuzzy blanket at the foot of the bed. A photo of the two of them in Abu Dhabi framed on the dresser—still there, untouched.

“Sit,” she said softly, motioning to the chair near her desk. She sat on the edge of the bed, feet tucked under her.

Lando looked around like he’d never seen it before. His eyes were glassy, red from the flight. Tired. He looked… hollow.

She noticed.

“Have you slept?”

“No.”

“Eaten?”

“Not really.”

“You should’ve waited to fly—”

“I couldn’t.” His voice cracked on the words. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

Another pause. Then she spoke first.

“You didn’t text. All week.”

“You told me not to. Said to call when I fixed my attitude.” He glanced up. “I didn’t want to call you with excuses. I wanted to come here with the truth.”

She nodded slowly, looking down at her lap. “Then say it.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“I was awful to you. I know that. I’ve been awful for a while, haven’t I?”

Silence.

“I’ve been so focused on trying to prove myself—on not being second, not being forgotten—that I forgot you. I forgot that you’re not just here for the wins, or the highs, or the press photos. You’re here for me. And I treated you like that wasn’t enough.”

He stared down at his hands.

“And when you said you were done… I deserved it. Every word. I was cruel. And cold. And I let my pride drive the only person who’s ever stood by me right out the fucking door.”

She looked at him, eyes glossy. But she didn’t cry.

“Why do you do it?” she asked, voice tight. “Why do you talk to me like I’m the enemy every time something goes wrong?”

He blinked. “Because I hate feeling weak.”

“You think I make you feel weak?”

“No,” he said instantly. “You make me feel safe. Which scares me. Because when everything else in my life is falling apart, you’re the one thing that never does. And when I feel myself losing everything else… I guess I start trying to break the one thing I know is real. Just so it doesn’t hurt when it breaks on its own.”

Her eyes welled then. Finally. Quiet tears sliding down her cheeks.

“You’re right,” she said. “I am your safe place.”

She wiped her cheek. “But I haven’t felt safe with you in months.”

That shattered him.

“I’ve been walking on eggshells, Lando. Constantly. Trying not to say too much, not to get in the way. Swallowing how I feel because God forbid I add to your pressure.”

She looked up, trembling now. “You’re exhausted? So am I. You’re scared? So am I. You’re angry? Lando, I’ve been angry for months. Angry at myself for letting it get this far. For letting you chip away at me in little, quiet ways every time you came home and didn’t say ‘I missed you.’ Every time I stood in the paddock and you looked through me.”

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

“No. Let me finish.” Her voice cracked. “Because I haven’t said this out loud to anyone. Not even Alex. Not even my mom.”

She took a breath.

“There were days I thought about leaving.”

That stopped him cold.

“I thought about packing a bag, leaving a note, and just disappearing from your world. Not because I don’t love you. God, I love you more than anything. But because I couldn’t breathe around you anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay while slowly being erased.”

Lando didn’t just tear up.

He broke.

His hand shot up to cover his mouth, shoulders trembling, face turning red as tears spilled freely down his cheeks.

“You were gonna leave,” he whispered.

She looked at him, chest heaving, barely holding herself together. “I didn’t want to. I wanted you to see me before I had to.”

He stood up slowly, like his legs barely worked. Walked to her. Dropped to his knees.

His head bowed into her lap like he was praying.

“I didn’t know,” he choked. “I didn’t know you were hurting that much.”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” she whispered. “You already had the weight of the whole world on you. I didn’t want to be one more thing dragging you down.”

“You were never that,” he sobbed. “You were never that.”

She ran a hand over his hair, fingers trembling.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said against her leg, voice muffled. “I’ll do anything. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll quit racing. I’ll walk away from the grid tomorrow if that’s what it takes.”

She froze. “Don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” he said, looking up. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe with me again.”

A long silence.

Then—

“I still love you,” she whispered. “But we’re not okay. We’re not gonna fix this with one big gesture.”

“I know.”

She reached for his face. Wiped under his eyes with her thumbs.

“We have to rebuild, Lando. From the ground up.”

He nodded, leaning into her hands. “Then let’s start. Please. Just… don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not yet. But I need you to prove this matters to you. That I matter to you when things are bad, not just when they’re good.”

“I will.” He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “I swear to god I will.”

[littledykeblue]

──𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄-𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄;

(college roommates! vi x reader): vi gets a little frisky at the drive in

wc: 3k | cw: kinda enemies to lovers, but like not really enemies, heavy petting, fingering (r!receiving), light degradation, car sex (in the bed of a truck) MINORS DNI.

note: vi, my beloved, simply had to be next up! also thank you guys for all the love on my first post!! kissing each and everyone of u telepathically <3

You wouldn’t exactly say you’re friends with your dorm mate.

Vi is loud, popular, and constantly flitting around campus like the social butterfly she was clearly born to be. Half the time, she's crashing at a friend’s—or a hookup’s—place, so it’s already pretty rare to see her on the regular.

If anything, you’d say life is easier when Vi’s not around. It’s nearly impossible to get any studying or homework done in her presence. And it’s not just the videos she insists on watching at what feels like full blast or the endless stream of calls she takes on speakerphone for reasons you still can’t comprehend.

It’s the doing push-ups shirtless in the middle of the room. It’s the rare (but no less horrifying) occasions she brings a girl back and thinks she’s being subtle about it. Worse than both? When she decides to talk to you.

She never picks a time when you’re actually free. Never cares if you're neck-deep in coursework. She’ll plop herself into your desk chair (or your bed, whichever’s unoccupied) and lob the most inane questions at you.

"You studying?" she asks, despite the open laptop in front of you and the mess of notes scattered across your comforter.

You glance up with a withering look, irritation already prickling at the edges of your patience. It’s not entirely her fault, but she’s definitely not helping.

"No, I just keep all this out for the fun of it." Your tone is dry, bordering on rude. Vi, as always, takes it in stride.

The corner of her mouth lifts, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Woah, firecracker. Somebody’s in a mood."

You hum noncommittally, trying to drag your focus back to the same damn paragraph you've been stuck on since she barged in. Vi, unsurprisingly, isn’t content to be ignored.

“Know what you need?” she says, standing and casually closing your laptop with two fingers. For one dark moment, you genuinely consider the logistics of getting away with murder.

“I seriously doubt you have any idea,” you snap, prying your laptop back open. “Don’t you have, like, a million other girls you could go bother?”

Vi shrugs, grinning like the question only flatters her. “Yeah, but none of them are you.”

A traitorous flutter sparks low in your stomach. Fuck her.

“Wow. That line usually work for you?”

“You think I’m using a line? I’m wounded.”

“Vi.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest. The question only seems to delight her.

She pauses, pretending to think it over, longer than necessary, just to be annoying. “I was gonna catch a movie with my friend, but she bailed. Come with me.”

You consider, once again, pointing out that she has no shortage of people she could drag along. But something tells you it’d be an exercise in futility.

“Fine. If it gets you out of my face.”

“Wonderful. Catch ya later, roomie!” Vi hops to her feet, pretending like she’s going to shut your laptop again—laughing when you scramble to keep it open.

You watch her leave, resisting the urge to throw something at the door after it clicks shut. Once the whirlwind that is Vi is gone, the silence feels almost sacred. You manage to actually focus, knocking out a good chunk of your work during the blessed hours of reprieve.

It’s nearing seven when you get a text from Vi telling you to start getting ready.

You’d exchanged numbers strictly for practical reasons—shared dorm emergencies, class reminders, the occasional “come let me in.” Definitely not for this.

Still, you don’t argue. You’re not about to dress up either; it’s just a movie. The theater will be dark, and more importantly, this outing is purely transactional. You're earning yourself some peace. That’s the story you’re sticking to.

You stuff your phone, wallet, and keys into the pockets of your sweatpants and head out to meet her out front, just like she told you to.

Vi’s there, leaning against her truck, scrolling through her phone. You walk up and swat at the device—not hard enough to knock it from her hand, but just enough to make her fumble it.

“You’re so funny,” she says dryly, slipping it into her pocket. She opens the car door for you with an exaggerated flourish.

"I learned from the best."

"Aw, you think I'm the best?" Vi holds a hand to her chest and smiles wide.

You narrow your eyes at her. "The best at being annoying."

“I love this little back-and-forth we’ve got going,” she says as she closes the door behind you.

Vi rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat like she’s done it a hundred times. Her grin flashes sideways.

“You ready?”

You buckle in, side-eyeing her with suspicion. “Yep.”

When Vi said “catch a movie,” you, perhaps foolishly, assumed she meant a regular theater. Popcorn. Reclining seats. A sticky floor or two.

Instead, she pulls into a drive-in.

The truck eases into a spot with the bed facing the massive screen. A few other cars are scattered around, but Vi finds a space tucked away from the nearest cluster.

She’s out of the driver’s seat in a flash, and before you can even reach for the handle, she’s at your side, swinging your door open. Weirdly date-like.

The two of you make your way to the back of the truck, and before you can climb in on your own, Vi’s hands settle at your waist. With little warning, she lifts you easily into the bed of the truck like it’s nothing.

Now you’re seated beside her, knees brushing, thighs nearly touching. You're close enough to feel the radiant warmth rolling off her body. The whole thing suddenly feels incredibly intimate. You’re not sure if Vi means for it to feel that way…and that’s maybe the worst part.

You barely have time to untangle the knot in your stomach before a breeze cuts through your sweatshirt, making you shiver. Of course, you hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.

Vi notices immediately. Without saying a word, she grabs a blanket from beside her and tosses it over your lap, casual as ever. You shift under it, trying to find a comfortable position—and in doing so, end up pressed flush against her.

It’s awkward, kind of. Your shoulders don’t sit quite right, and there’s only so much blanket. Vi adjusts first, lifting an arm and curling it around your shoulders. You follow instinctively, arm sliding behind her back so you can rest your head on her chest.

She’s warm. Unfairly so. You soak it in, entirely greedy.

You are trying to watch the movie. Honestly. But Vi’s fingertips are now tracing lazy, featherlight shapes along your shoulder, and it’s impossible to focus. Your heart taps out an anxious rhythm against your ribs.

Vi makes a comment about something on-screen—funny, probably—but you don’t catch it. You tilt your head, intending to ask her to repeat herself, only to realize her face is right there.

Close. Too close.

She’s beautiful, obviously. You’ve known that. But it’s a different kind of dangerous seeing her like this: soft smile on her lips, eyes dipping to your mouth, like she’s already halfway to deciding.

You quickly avert your gaze, suddenly and profoundly invested in the movie. The screen blurs slightly, but you commit yourself to pretending it’s the most riveting film you've ever seen. Still, you're sitting noticeably more tense than before, shoulders stiff, muscles locked, for the next thirty minutes.

“My arm’s falling asleep,” Vi murmurs. “Here, uh, sit like this.”

She doesn't wait for a response. Of course she doesn't. She starts manhandling you like it’s just a normal, everyday activity—like rearranging throw pillows. Within seconds, you’re guided to sit snugly between her legs, her hands steering you as though you belong there.

You sit up ramrod straight, carefully avoiding any real contact with her front because that would be insane. That would probably be the final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

Vi, apparently, did not get that memo.

Because it’s not long before her arms are curling around your waist, slow and deliberate, pulling you gently back until your spine meets her chest. “Sit back,” she says, voice a low hum in your ear, something warm and unplaceable blooming in your chest. "Can't see the screen past your giant head."

"You're one to talk," you bite back with none of your usual heat.

You let yourself relax, just a little. Her hands don’t leave your waist. They start tracing lazy, absentminded shapes, drifting higher in barely-there passes. One finger skims across your sternum, then lingers at the edge of something more. Brushing, just once, beneath the swell of your breast.

“Hey, Vi,” you murmur, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know about you,” she replies, deadpan, her breath warm against the shell of your ear, “but I’m trying to touch your boobs, if I’m honest.” You feel her shrug behind you.

“Can I?”

“That usually work for you?” you ask, arching a brow even though she can’t see it.

Vi chuckles, low and smug, and you feel it vibrate right through your spine. God, of course that laugh is working on you right now.

“Works better when they can see me,” she says, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “Puppy dog eyes’ll get you pretty far.”

You roll your eyes and reach down, placing your hands on top of hers. “I don’t think you’re supposed to admit you have puppy dog eyes. Takes away the charm.”

“You asked,” she says, laughing again. She sucks in a sharp breath as you guide her hands under your shirt. “Guess I don’t really need ‘em now.”

“Guess not,” you breathe, relaxing fully into her as her palms slide up, rough and warm.

She pushes under your bra with slow, sure hands, and you can feel her exhale against your neck.

Her fingers curve around your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing little circles before she rolls them between her fingers, slow and deliberate.

You suck in a breath, shifting in her lap.

Her mouth finds your neck, lips brushing the skin just below your ear. She kisses you there, soft and warm, then again, a little lower, with just the ghost of teeth. Her hands are everywhere now — one pinching lightly, the other kneading and groping, and it’s taking everything in you to stay quiet under the thin blanket.

Then you feel her hand begin to drift, trailing down your stomach with aching patience, fingers brushing the waistband of your sweatpants.

She pulls her mouth away from your neck just long enough to ask, voice husky and careful: “This okay? I'd like a real answer, this time.”

You nod, a little too quickly, arching your back slightly into her hand. “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Vi presses a kiss to your jaw, a quiet thank you, before her hand slides past the waistband. Her other hand doesn’t stop working your nipple, thumb flicking it with practiced ease as her fingers dip lower.

You gasp softly, shifting your hips as her hand finds its way between your legs.

Vi exhales like she’s been waiting for this forever. “Gotta be quiet, baby. We don't wanna get caught,” she whispers, mouth back on your throat.

Vi’s fingers slide lower, finally dipping between your legs — but she doesn’t go deep. Just runs a single finger slowly through your folds, dragging slick up and down with maddening patience.

You twitch in her lap, breath catching. “Vi,” you whine.

“Shhh,” she hums, pressing a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Her finger brushes your clit barely and then circles it. Lazy, light, not nearly enough pressure to do anything but tease.

“God, come on—”

She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Begging already?” she murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear. “Thought you liked acting like you hate me.”

You scoff, shifting your hips again, trying to chase more pressure. Her hand doesn’t budge. “You’re infuriating.”

Vi clicks her tongue, still circling, still maddeningly soft. “You’re always so mean to me, you know that?” she says, voice low and calm, like she’s not slowly unraveling you in the back of a truck. “Always rolling your eyes when I talk to you. Never smile when I say hi. Always got that nasty little attitude.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’re always interrupting my work—”

“Seriously? You still complaining?” Vi cuts in, and then she presses down on your clit, two fingers now moving in firm, tight circles.

Your breath stutters. Words die in your throat.

Vi grins, satisfied. “That shut you up.”

Your hands fly to her thighs, gripping tight, trying to ground yourself as she keeps the pace steady and devastating. Your head tips back against her shoulder, mouth open, eyes wide at the sudden rush of sensation.

She kisses your neck again. The pressure is firmer this time, tongue dragging over the skin before she sinks her teeth in just enough to leave a mark. She sucks there, slow and dark, her free hand sliding up to your chest again, palm curling around your breast as her other hand stays merciless on your clit.

“Lot of complaints,” she says against your throat, lips brushing over the new bruise. “For someone who clearly wants me to make them come.”

You gasp, legs trembling under the blanket. She’s right and she knows it. You hate how much she knows it.

But you’re past the point of arguing now. "That'd be nice," you say through clenched teeth, keeping down the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth.

Vi keeps her fingers moving in those devastating, tight circles—not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to keep you on the edge, just enough to keep your thighs twitching and your breathing shallow.

"I bet it pisses you off that I've got you this wet," she murmurs, her voice thick with smug satisfaction. "And you act like you can't stand me. What's that about, huh?"

You groan under your breath, hips twitching again as she dips just low enough to press at your entrance, teasing it without pushing in.

She laughs softly, low in your ear. “Bet you were getting wet the second I touched you. Just too proud to admit it.”

You bite your lip and say nothing. You shift, lifting your legs and hooking them around the outside of Vi’s, knees wide, body fully open for her. Thank god she parked far enough away from any potential prying eyes.

Vi's breath stutters as her hand slips back between your legs, now with nothing in her way.

“Oh,” she whispers, a grin curling into her voice. “Look at you. Finally acting like you want it.”

You squirm, half in protest, half in need, and Vi presses two fingers inside in one smooth thrust. You gasp, body tightening, walls fluttering around her.

"Do you ever shut up?" You manage to say in spite of your wobbly voice.

She groans in your ear. “I think you like it when I talk. This pussy does, at least.”

You don’t mean to moan (not that loud, at least) but it punches out of you anyway, high and helpless.

Vi’s hand shoots up to the back of your neck, turning your face toward hers in the same second her mouth crashes over yours. Her kiss swallows the sound, all teeth and tongue and filthy satisfaction.

She fucks you with her fingers harder now, thrusts quick and precise, of her palm grinding against your clit. Her mouth stays on yours, swallowing every broken gasp, every hitched breath, every moan you can’t keep down.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she murmurs against your lips, her pace relentless. “So desperate for it. Can’t even pretend anymore, can you?”

All you can manage is a broken moan that vaguely resembles her name. Over and over again, breathless against her lips.

Your hands dig into her thighs for something to hold onto, nails biting through the fabric of her pants. Your hips lift into her, chasing every stroke, every drag of her palm. You’re close. So close your whole body is taut with the anticipation.

Vi feels it—has to—because her voice drops again, filthy and sweet at the same time. “C’mon, baby. I got you. Make a mess all over my fingers. You wanna come for me?”

You nod frantically into her mouth, legs trembling, body pulsing around her fingers. "Yes. Fuck. Please."

“That’s it,” she says, voice low and hot. “You're being so sweet for me. Go ahead, come.”

And you do.

It crashes through you, thighs quaking with the urge to press together, mouth going slack as your orgasm rips out of you. Vi keeps her hand moving through it, fingers working you through to the end while her mouth swallows the sound of your release.

When you finally go still, breathing hard, body limp, sweat cooling on your neck, Vi presses a final kiss to your lips and pulls back just enough to grin down at you.

“You gonna be nice to me now?” she asks, voice smug and breathless.

"Probably not."

Vi laughs as she eases her fingers out of you slowly, deliberately, dragging every last shiver from your overstimmed body.

She sucks her fingers clean, totally unbothered, and leans back against the bed of the truck like she didn’t just finger-fuck you in public.

You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling under the blanket, when Vi leans in and murmurs, “When we get back to the dorm, I’m gonna take my time with you.”

You blink, dazed, half-laughing. “Oh? You're thinking this wasn't the first and last time?”

She grins. “Nah. That was a warm-up. When we get back, I’m gonna have you naked and on your stomach, legs spread, begging. And I’m not gonna stop until I hear every pretty little sound you can make. Gonna keep going ‘til you’re sobbing into the pillow.”

You exhale sharply, lips twitching as you try not to let the flush crawl up your neck. “That so?”

“Mhm.” She nips at your jaw, just a little. “Might even let you come twice.”

You snort, leaning your head back against her shoulder. “And this is assuming I just lay there and let you do all those things?"

Vi tilts her head mockingly. “You literally just did.”

You glare at her, and she grins wider.

“Well,” you say, still breathless but trying to reclaim some ground, “you’ll have to earn your second chance. I can't be out here rewarding bad behavior, after all.”

Vi scoffs and shakes her head, laughing under her breath. “Unbelievable. You were just coming and whining on my fingers like a slut, and you’re still talking shit?”

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Guess you’ll have to do a better job if you want to shut me up.”

Vi leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “Clearly. Don't worry, we'll fuck that attitude out of you yet.”

You shiver, despite the warmth of her hoodie and her body at your back.

“Can’t wait to see you try,” you murmur.

[dumpywrites]

Forget-me-not - Min Yoongi / Suga

Prompt: “Treat me like yours again for a week before you let me go.”

Prompt request: HERE

Genre/tags: Angst (happy ending), drama, idol Yoongi, engaged au, lots of hurtful pinning

Pairing: Yoongi x she/her reader

Word count: 7.6k

a/n: I've been really down the past couple of days and it turns out it inspire me to finish this story (I've been keeping it on my drafts for months T_T) Also, did you catch that ot7 live??? cus I'm still crying 😭😭😭

“You’re calling it off? Just like that?!”

The taste of the apple that you just bit was suddenly bitter in your mouth. It was a quiet Monday night when you were enjoying your alone time, eating fruits and reading e-books through your tablet. You knew your fiancé was going to come home around this hour. You just did not expect the news he brought along with him. 

It had been a little under a year since both of you decided to live together. You moved soon right after he proposed to you, but his schedule being so full, he was barely even home. 

It was just a blessing and a curse at the same time, him being an idol. While the group activities had slowed down recently, with the other members focusing on solo projects outside of BTS, Yoongi had only gotten busier. Just a few months after your engagement he got to finally establish his own record label. Of course you couldn’t be more happier for him, but higher position also came with higher responsibilities. 

The investor meetings, press conferences, artist assessments, and your man being Suga from BTS himself, still had some idol duties on the sides. 

But you were used to it. You were used to him being booked and busy. You had loved him for the longest time to understand that as much as you hated being far apart from him, you equally loved seeing him in his element, making music, putting smiles on millions of people’s faces. Because Yoongi’s happiness was yours too after all. 

So it was a shocking, humiliating even, for him to just come and said the vile statement he just said to you. He just got back from two weeks of his abroad job, and he chose to bring this news to you as a present. 

“I just think with how things are, I don’t have time for you. This is clearly hurting both of us so it’s better this way.” He said, expression blank and it was hard to read. 

“Yoongi, I’ve dated you for three years before getting engaged to you. I know your schedules and I’m used to it.”

“It’ll be different when we are married.” 

“It won’t.” You argued. 

“It will.” He sighed. “It will only get worse when we get married.”

“You do realize you get breaks and day offs, right? I can wait.” 

“I own a company now.”

You looked at him to see his expression. It was still blank as he stood in front of you. Sometimes you hated how stoic he could be, especially when he wanted to. It was breaking you, but you chose to remain collected. 

“If that’s your priority, then I get it.” 

You stood up from your seat with a big sigh. You saw his pupil moved in a frantic way for a second, before going back to normal. 

“I’ll move, you can have the—“

“One week.” You said, looking at him straight in the eye. 

He looked at you, stopping his sentence. 

“Treat me like yours again for a week before you let me go.” You folded your arms. “After that you can leave and we’ll be on our separate ways.”

Yoongi’s mouth opened, before it quickly closed to a stretched straight line. He looked like he was about to say something but he chose not to. He nodded his head at you, sighing. 

“Okay.” Was all he said to you. 

You took one last look at him before walking away, heading to the bedroom. You wondered if you could catch any sleep that night. 

When moonlight came Yoongi chose to sleep next to you, after all, that was what you had asked him to do. To treat you like his again, even just for the week. You had some hours alone with your mind, you had some thoughts of how you would act when he slip into the covers with you, but when it happened you really didn’t know what to say. For some time he only laid there, unmoved, and you started to wonder if he just fell asleep like that. 

You knew you had told him to do so, but it still didn’t hide the pain you were feeling when he slowly moved closer and hugged you from behind. He knew you were not asleep, of course he did. He always did. He didn’t say anything, just resting his forehead on your head, one hand over your waist to hold you close. You could feel his heartbeat and without knowing, the tears just started flowing on its own. You bit your lips, in hope that he wouldn’t notice, but then his thumb started to draw circles on your forearm. Maybe he noticed, maybe he did not. He chose to not comment about it though, which you were glad. That was why you chose not to say anything either when you felt your shoulder damp, some water droplets fell on your hair and onto your skin. 

DAY 1

The next morning you were awaken by noises coming from the kitchen. You thought he would be up in his studio at this hour, him being a light sleeper and all, but it seemed like he was cooking something at eight in the morning, judging by the delicious smell. You quickly brushed your teeth and head out to check on him. 

“Are you cooking?” You asked, slowly approaching him in the kitchen. 

“Yeah.” He said as he stir the rice on the wok.

You looked at him, giving him a funny look. 

“What?” He raised one of his eyebrows before turning up the stove’s heat, adding some minced meat on what seemed to be fried rice. 

“Nothing, it’s just that you don’t usually cook so early in the morning.” You said, retreating back and took a seat on the dining chair. You sighed, figuring it was just his acts for the week. 

“I haven’t cooked for you in a while.” He said, still string the food. “I also thought you would be up a little later.“

“I smelt the food, plus it was odd to find you in the kitchen at this hour instead of in your studio.” 

“You could, you know… sleep some more. If you want to.” He said with his back facing you as he cooked. 

“I’d rather watch you cook.” You smiled, even though he couldn’t see. 

Soon he came to the dining table with two plates in his hands, one that he placed in front of you, and one for himself. The smell of the food filled the room and you started to salivate. It was just a simple dish but knowing who cooked for you made it different. Yoongi went back to grab two glasses of water for both of you, before finally sitting down across of you. 

You were a tad bit anxious seeing the piercing look on his eyes, waiting for you to take a bite. And when you did, he immediately wanted a feedback. 

“So?”

“I like it. Has the right amount of spiciness.” You said with food still in your mouth. “You should cook this more often.” 

Your expression dropped when you realized that your request was soon about to be impossible, given the situation. Quickly, you looked down, choosing to focus on eating instead. 

“Glad you like it.”

You ate in silence after that, the kind of quiet that wasn’t as sharp as before. There was still pain between you, but it had been placed in the corner for now, like a box no one wanted to open just yet.

When he stood to rinse his plate, you said without looking up, “Do you remember the first time we made breakfast together?”

He paused at the sink. “You tried to make pancakes but used salt instead of sugar.”

“And you still ate them like an idiot.”

“I was trying to impress you.”

“By eating salted cement?” You asked with an amused smile. 

He grinned too. For a moment, the version of Yoongi you missed most stood there in front of you. Not the artist with the world on his shoulders. Just a man who once came to your apartment with multiple packets of different sizes of pads because he got too shy to ask which would be the appropriate one.

You watched him dry his hands, eyes focused on the towel. Something in his jaw tightened.

“Right.” You bit your inner cheek, trying to compose yourself. “How’s Namjoon by the way? I miss his little kid.” You started another topic, to drift away. 

“His son is doing fine and so is he.” He said and started eating as well. “I think his wife is expecting another…” 

“Really?! Wow, look at him… And to think he told us he didn’t want any children before…” You chuckled. “That guy is whipped. I’m happy for him.”

Yoongi looked at you and smiled. “Yeah.”

You and Yoongi had never mentioned anything about wanting kids in your life. The topic just somehow never came up. You used to want children in your family, but lately with how things with your work and Yoongi’s schedules, you figured it would be too much. Plus, you always had fear of change, and the idea of pregnancy scared you just a bit. But you had never heard anything from Yoongi if he wanted any or not. It would be too late to ask anyway. 

“Have you ever thought of having kids?”

You almost choked on clear water. “I’m sorry?”

“We never really talked about it before…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“Do you?” You shot the question back at him.

“I never really thought about it but, I’ve always thought that I want whatever you want.”

Clearly not. You thought to yourself. “I… I used to want it. But seeing how busy both of us can be sometimes, I don’t think it’s possible. There’s enough people in this world anyway, we don’t need any mini me around.” You giggled. 

“A mini you sounds adorable.” His smile quickly faded when he seemed to realize his words. 

“I don’t think so. Kinda not possible with how we are now after all…” You gave a sad smile. 

“I—”

“No, let’s not talk about it.” You heaved a sigh and gave him another smile, even though you started to feel your eyes getting teary. 

The rest of the day was spent with the two of you just watching your old favorite movies together. You didn’t cuddle, but both of you rested your heads on each other and it was enough comfort for you. 

DAY 2

This time when you woke up, Yoongi was still asleep. Movie marathoning was fun until it was four in the morning and both of you overslept on the couch. You found Yoongi sleeping, head resting on your lap, and the urge to run your finger through his hair was high, but you didn’t want to risk waking him up in the process. He looked so calm, and you missed just seeing him like this. He always looked like a cat, especially when he was asleep. He would even sometimes let out noises that sounded like a purr. 

You let yourself sleep more, maybe another ten minutes. 

The sound of the phone ringing could be heard from the table, Yoongi’s ringing and vibrating on it. He took the call and sounded like he was never asleep. Sometimes you wonder how he could behave so inhumane like that. 

He looked up when he noticed you staring. “What is it?”

You hesitated. “Let’s go out after your call.”

“Out? Don’t you have meeting today?”

“I’ve taken the week off.” You simply said.

Yoongi hesitated for a moment, before speaking. “Where to?”

“The bookstore cafe. The one near the station. Remember? That place… we haven’t been there in a while.” You fidgeted with your fingers. “We used to go all the time.”

He didn’t answer right away, and you wondered if he’d say no. Maybe the week you asked for was already too heavy for him. But he just nodded. 

“Yeah. Okay. After the call.”

The cafe was exactly the same. It smelled like spiced tea and old pages, the lighting was still dim in that warm, cozy way, and the bookstore shelves remained haphazard and charmingly messy. There was a new girl behind the counter, but the man who used to run the place, Mr. Han, was still stood in his usual spot by the register, glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“Well, well! Look who crawled back from the dead…” Mr. Han said with a teasing smile.

You laughed. “Don’t say that, you’ll scare the tourists.”

Yoongi offered a polite smile, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “Sorry we disappeared.”

“You two were the royalty of table six.” Mr. Han said, nodding toward the back. “You left a hole when you stopped coming.”

That made Yoongi pause. You tugged him by the sleeve toward your old booth before he could slip into guilt.

The booth was still tucked into the corner, the cushions worn and soft from years of use. It had seen a lot. Your first real conversation after weeks of quiet flirting, being in all masks and hoodies, your first fight over miscommunication and missed texts, Yoongi’s confession on an evening when he looked terrified and brave all at once, to when you could finally date in normal attire after deciding to publicize your relationship. 

You slid into the seat and glanced across at him. “Do you remember that night you asked me if I’d be your emergency contact?”

He snorted. “I remember the shock in your face.”

“You asked me if I want to be the first one to get called if you die… with the straightest face.” You argued. 

“You still said yes.”

You shrugged, smiling as you looked to the ceiling. “I was so in love with you.”

He flinched. It wasn’t visible, not really. But you knew Yoongi too well. You knew how his eyes darted slightly when something hit too close, how his fingers tightened a fraction against the cup of coffee he had in his grasp. You didn’t push. 

You looked out the window and said, “We had some good memories here.”

“Yeah.” Was all he replied back. 

You spent two hours there, talking mostly about books you never had time to read and music he’d been working on. You showed him a ridiculous meme on your phone, and he actually laughed. He laughed like he used to. The wall between you cracked just slightly.

When it was time to go, you thanked Mr. Han and waved goodbye. Outside, the wind bit at your cheeks, and you tucked your hands into your coat pockets. Yoongi hesitated beside you.

“You looked really happy in there.” He said, his voice soft.

“Because I was.”

He glanced over. “It’s been a while since I saw you like that.”

You met his eyes. “That’s what happens when you disappear into work.”

He didn’t defend himself and just nodded quietly. But he didn’t walk away either. He walked with you to the car, his shoulder brushing yours the entire way.

At night before you head to bed, he pulled you gently and placed the lightest kiss on your temple. It could be just you but you saw a glimmer of hope in him. Or it could be the agreement playing the part. 

DAY 3

You were awoken by Yoongi’s eyes staring at you. He greeted you with a warm smile, uttering a good morning to you. You smiled back, scooting closer in his embrace, salivating the moment. 

This was how a normal morning goes for you, at least when he was home. Sure you would always miss him when he went away for his concerts, tour, or any other job that required him to be not home, but every time he came back, the feelings would always just reset. It was so easy, so effortless, to forget when you see his face and feeling him close to you again. He made it easy. 

“Any plans today?” He asked, resting his chin on top of your head, embracing you still. 

“This,” You smiled with your eyes closed. “This is the plan.” 

“As much as I’d love that, we gotta eat something.” He chuckled. 

“Nope.” You giggled. 

You ended up snuggling and sleeping in for the next two hours and a half, until you heard your own stomach rumbled. 

The day was supposed to be a slow day with little to no work to do. Yoongi had some songs that needed quick revision, but nothing he couldn’t do at the comfort of his home studio. 

You decided to bring him some coffee to his studio. There he was leaning back on his chair with his headphones on, bopping his head a few times to the beat that was unheard. 

“Yoongi?” You called upon entering the room. He didn’t seem to notice you until you placed the cup of coffee on his table. 

“Oh, thanks.” He said after removing his left earpiece and took a sip of the beverage. “Just a few tuning and I’ll be done.” 

“Take your time.” You said, taking a chair next to him. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Never.” He said without meeting your gaze as his eyes went back to the monitor screen. 

You gulped, suddenly feeling a bit tensed and leaned against the seat.

“Do you wanna listen?” 

“Oh?” You were taken aback. “It’s done already?”

“It’s just the instrumental. Jungkook will sing the song.” He said after clicking some buttons. 

“What’s the title?” You rested your hand on top of the table. 

“Haven’t really decided on it but…” He stopped and removed his earphones entirely. “Here, let me show you the lyrics.” He handed you his notebook. 

You skimmed through the lyrics and wondered to yourself. Since when did Yoongi learn to write corny and cheesy love song? And the more you read through it, the description, the tiny mentioned details, it sounded like he was so smitten that he had to pour his entire feelings out on this song. Mind you this was the same guy who wrote and performed Daechwita. 

“You’re telling me you wrote this?!” You said while still re-reading the lyrics. 

“What’s with the judgmental look?” He looked at you in disbelief. 

“It’s just— Yah, have you ever even fell in love like this?! This doesn’t sound like you.” You frowned.

“I wrote this years ago.” He smiled, taking another sip of the coffee you made him. “This was way before we were even a thing.” 

Your expression turned sour. “So it’s about an ex?”

“Silly, it’s about you.” 

Your eyes widened in surprise. “It’s about me?!”

He puffed a breath and smiled, showing his gummy grin. “It clearly said, you looked through me beyond the glamour.” He pointed at the notebook that was still in your hands. “You were quite literally our makeup artist’s assistant for two years.”

It was true. You used to work under Big Hit for a while until you decided to resign. You and your friends took a huge risk and decided to start your own private brand, and so you needed to step back from the company. 

The job was how you met Yoongi and the rest of the boys. Somehow you would often get assigned to do his makeup. Yoongi was rather quiet the first few gigs, but judging by the cold exterior you thought he’d be rude, but he ended up being the sweetest man you had ever known. Second to Jimin of course because that man’s an angel. 

It was that one time you accidentally dropped a bottle of foundation on the floor. You just started the job, barely four weeks into it, and you already did something so fatal. You arrived early and there wasn’t anyone in the room, but the sound of the breaking glass was loud enough. The door soon opened and you were expecting it to be the head makeup artist, but much to your surprise, it was Yoongi who peeked through the door, asking about your well being. 

You were lost for words as your vision only went back and forth from your hands to the shattered glasses and the complexion colored mess on the floor. Seeing your shocked state, Yoongi calmly called the cleaners and told you to take a seat. There were multiple apologies and thank yous came out from your mouth before he just took out his phone from his pocket. He tapped on the screen and browsed through his apps before handing the phone to you, shocking you even more. 

“Here, just order the same one, the instant delivery is quite fast.” 

You were begging to pay him back, but Yoongi was a man of his words, so he kept resisting. One day you just showed up at the set and got him iced americano to show your gratitude, even though you knew the price tag wasn’t equal. And the rest was history. 

“Didn’t know you were into me like that.” Even though you were rolling your eyes, your cheeks couldn’t hide the pinkish glow. 

“I thought I told you that I basically had a huge crush on you when we first met.” He snickered. 

“You did, I just didn’t expect the romantic song…” You tried to avoid his gaze. 

“Come on, you genuinely think I would just buy you a bottle of overpriced makeup if I don’t have any ulterior motive?! Money was tight at that time, you know!” He laughed. 

You couldn’t help but to laugh as well. “To think that I fell for the sweet guy who helped me. Turns out he had malicious intent.”

“In my defense I would still help you nonetheless. I’d probably cover for you and makeup some bullshit. But the whole buying a new bottle was a smart way to get our connection going.” He proudly smirked. 

“We were so dumb back then, huh?” 

“I guess so.” He shook his head and smiled. 

“But I don’t regret a thing.” 

You said without thinking. You watched as the sparkle on Yoongi’s eyes went off and he quickly turned back to his computer screen. 

You spent that night looking at his back facing you, wondering if he ever regretted meeting you. 

DAY 4

You woke up with your bed empty. It wasn’t something that was new to you, in fact, you knew exactly where he was. 

This time when you found him in his studio, a low tune was playing. He turned his chair to your direction instantly upon hearing the door creaking open. 

You peeked with a tea in hand. “Were you up all night?”

“Only been here since five.” 

You carefully took a seat next to him, studying his facial features. He seemed distressed, you could clearly see the creases forming on his forehead. 

“What’s bothering you?” You asked. 

“You said we’d treat each other like before, right?”

Your eyes widened, but you remained calm. “Yeah?”

“Then let’s play music and just sit with me.”

At first you didn’t think too much about the song choices he made. Sure you had listened to them but so what, you were aware that both of you had similar taste in music. But by the time the third song played, your heart clenched. It was your playlist. The one he’d made for your third anniversary. 

When “free love” by HONNE started playing, you knew it was over for you. You could recall exactly when the song started playing, and Yoongi had a bouquet of peonies in his hands, walking sheepishly to you in your old apartment. He had never gotten you any flowers before. You just couldn’t see the appeal in buying impractical things when there were many more ways to show love. Everyone who had ever dated you were made aware of that. But one day you randomly mentioned that you sometimes wondered how would it feel to receive flowers romantically. Hence, why he did it. 

You remembered how it was awkward at first, both of you bursted into laughter for a good minute, before you took the flowers from his hands, and took his lips in yours. 

You turned to look at him, surprised. “Is this our…”

His eyes stayed on the screen. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you still had it.”

“I never deleted it.” He leaned back on his seat. “It’s a nice playlist to come back to when I’m stressed.”

You didn’t know what to say to that so you didn’t say anything. Instead, you stood up and moved to the center of the studio room. Yoongi watched you with confusion in his eyes. 

Then you held your hand out. “Dance with me.”

“Are you serious?!” 

“Very.”

He raised an eyebrow. A small smirk appeared on his lips. “You know you suck at dancing.”

“You see women who dance well all the time, I’m seasoned differently.” You giggled. 

That made him laugh. A real one. The kind that showed his gums a little, made his eyes crease at the corners. You hadn’t seen that laugh in months. 

He did take your hand.

You danced barefoot in the studio, swaying slowly across the carpet as if time hadn’t moved at all. Your fingers curled in his shirt. His hand rested on your lower back, warm and familiar. It wasn’t romantic, not fully. But it was close. Too close.

I can't get you all that stuff

But I can give you all my love

Free love

Are the simple things enough?

I got to give you all my love

Free love

When the song ended, neither of you let go right away. And when you looked up at him, he was already looking down at you.

“Do you ever miss us?” You asked without giving further thought.

His breath caught. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. Like the words were right there, sitting behind his teeth, waiting to be let go.

“Let’s not talk about missing things today.” 

You nodded slowly, expression turning cold. “Okay.”

You stepped back, but your fingers lingered on his. He let them go last.

Soon he went back to his chair, eyes glued back to the multiple screens in front of him. You sat there in silence, not wanting to bother him but reluctant to leave. Your tea halfway empty, now cold, sitting on the desk. 

There was an opened notebook on the far left corner of his table. With some torn pages stuck in the middle, some looked crumpled and had torn edges. Some crossed-out lines, lyrics with arrows leading to new ones, some even scratched out entirely.

Your eyes fell on a section dated not many weeks ago. 

Daydreams don’t have deadlines. But love does, doesn’t it? How long can she wait before she stops?

Your whole body froze after you read the words. 

“I wasn’t going to use those lyrics.” He suddenly said, noticing where your attention was. 

“Is this about… us?” You asked with a cracked voice. 

Yoongi heaved a big sigh. “I didn’t know how to let you see me break.” 

“You thought I can’t handle it?” You asked, feeling offended. 

“I couldn’t handle you seeing it.” 

“That’s selfish.”

“I know.” 

A beat passed.

“Did you write that song for me? Or for you?”

“Both.” He simply said. 

Out of the blue, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You got a text from Namjoon’s wife, Jieun, asking if you were free for the day.

Retreating from your seat, you told Yoongi about it and left him be in his studio. After giving her a call you found out that she wanted you to join her picking some baby clothes with her. Said because this time she was having a girl, maybe she needed help from you, with your background in stylist and all. Most importantly, she just wanted to catch up with you. 

“Do you think we got too much pink items for her?” Jieun said as she picked another pink baby dress. 

“There’s no such thing as too much pink.” You said, humoring the lady.

“It’s a bit stereotype-y though…” The mother frowned. 

“We could get some purple stuff too, her daddy is a Bangtan member after all…” You giggled. 

“With that logic, if you and Yoongi ever decide to have one, you should buy purple clothes for them as well.” She laughed. 

Your expression dropped gradually as you heard her words. You laughed away in hope she wouldn’t notice, but it seemed that it was already too late. 

“I’m sorry, was that a sensitive topic?” She asked with a worried look. 

“No, don’t worry.” You smiled, assuring her. 

“Your expression dropped when I mentioned that.” She walked closer to you. “Is everything alright? You could always tell me.”

You shook your head, sighing. “Things aren’t doing well between me and Yoongi…” You said as you took a seat on a random bench at the mall. 

Jieun gasped, immediately taking the seat next to you. “What happened?” 

“He wants to call off our engagement. It was just so… sudden??? He literally just came back from being away for weeks, and he came back just to tell me that?” The tone of your voice hitched. “Even told me that he’s gonna move out from our house… I… I don’t understand…” You looked down, tears started to form in your eyes. 

Jieun rubbed your shoulder, feeling herself getting teary as well. She hugged you. “Have you guys talk through it?”

“We have, and his only reason was because he thinks he’s too busy and it’s just gonna hurt both of us in the long run.” You sighed. “I told him that I’m already used to him being busy. I think I’ve told you before that even though I miss him, it’s always worth it the second I get to see his face again.” You bit your lips, trying to muffle a cry. “All he said was that he got a company now, which I can’t argue. So, I ended up agreeing…”

“Goodness… So that’s it? He’s just gonna leave???”

“I told him I want him to treat me normally and toss our problems aside for a week before leaving me.” You shrugged, mustering a grin even though you had tears rolling down your cheeks. “It’s what I came up impulsively…”

“I can’t believe Yoongi just decided it like that. I thought he was a rational person… You guys have been together for years, for heavens sake!” She said with anger. “When is he leaving?”

“I don’t know exactly, we haven’t really talked about it but our agreement’s supposed to end in three days…” 

“You should definitely try to talk to him about this again. It doesn’t sound like him to just decide things recklessly like that.” 

“I don’t know… he seems pretty content with his choice and I don’t think I can change his mind.” 

“You have to at least try, but if he still won’t budge, screw him. He doesn’t deserve you then.” She then gave you a hug again, caressing your back.

You let a few more tears flee as you hugged her back. 

On your way home you got a call from Yoongi, telling you there was an urgent meeting he had to attend. 

You spent the night alone again. 

DAY 5

By the time you woke up Yoongi was already up eating a toast with a coffee on his hand. You didn’t know when he got back or if he even slept in the night before, but you weren’t opposed to see him nonetheless. 

He fixed you a tea, added the right amount of honey, and asked if you wanted the same toast like he had. 

He seemed… calm. 

“What do you have on your schedule today?” You asked.

He glanced at his phone, then shrugged. “Nothing urgent. I’ve moved some things.”

That surprised you. He never moved things. Not for anyone. Not unless it was extremely crucial. 

You stared. “Why?”

“You asked me for the week.” Yoongi looked up, brow furrowed. “What do you want to do today?”

You swallowed a big lump. “I want to spend today with you.” 

You ended up in the park. It was the one near your old apartment before you moved into the bigger penthouse. Before tour dates. Before investors and board meetings and five day vanishing acts. Just the park with the willow tree you liked to sit under. The one where you had your first big fight but shared a kiss right after.

You brought boba tea. He brought a notebook. You sat beneath the willow and slurped the drink in silence, watching as Yoongi occasionally scribbled something down in that same black notebook from the studio.

“I thought you said you’ve moved things, but you’re writing lyrics?” You asked as you leaned closer to sneak a peek. 

“It’s nothing, I’m just scared that I’ll forget this…” He said, turning another page. “And I don’t want to.”

The wind rustled the tree above you, and you watched the way sunlight flickered between the leaves, golden and soft. Your heartbeat raced. 

“Well, I wouldn’t.” You said with a smile. The wind blew to your hair and you closed your eyes, feeling the breeze. 

“How do you know?”

“I don’t forget things that mattered.” 

And once again, Yoongi quietly nodded without a word. But he did put down the pen and stopped writing. 

You followed your heart and rested your head against his side, hugging his arm as you did. He still turned tense every single time you did something touchy in public. You knew it came with the job. He probably had it embedded in his mind that he had to do the least physical contact with the opposite gender, knowing eyes and cameras were everywhere. Even after you went public, it took him months to get comfortable going out without the coverups. 

You figured the habit would had stopped by now, but apparently not. 

“I’m sorry.” He suddenly voiced out. 

“If you’re sorry then don’t give up on us.” 

“I don’t want to continue hurting you.” 

“Yet you’re doing it right now.” 

He didn’t answer.

But you didn’t move away when his fingers slipped in between yours.

That night, you lay in bed beside him. You didn’t talk. You just curled toward each other, the space between you finally gone. And when Yoongi reached for you in the dark, tentative, slow, afraid. You let him. You let him hold you the way he used to.

Because tonight, for the first time in a long time, you felt like he truly meant it. 

DAY 6

You woke up to the sound of rain.

It wasn’t the light, soothing kind. It was heavy pounding against the windows, tapping hard against the glass like the sky had something urgent to say. You rolled over instinctively and found Yoongi still asleep beside you, his arm wrapped loosely around your waist. He was still holding you. He looked peaceful. 

For a long time, you didn’t move. You just watched him breathe, watched the way his lashes flickered slightly like he was dreaming. His features, usually so sharp with exhaustion, looked softer in the morning light. Younger. Like the version of him from the early days, before the CEO titles, before the international press, before he started measuring time in missed calls and delays.

He stirred, opened his mouth without opening his eyes. “You’re awake.”

“You’re sleeping in.” You commented. 

“It’s raining.” 

You stayed in bed most of the morning. No alarms. No calls. No meetings. It was the first time in… God, months that there wasn’t something else tearing him away. And maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was the way his hand found yours under the blankets, but something about it felt different. Softer. Realer.

Eventually, you wandered into the kitchen together, sleep heavy and still in your pajamas.

Yoongi made pancakes. He burned the first batch and cursed under his breath, and you laughed so hard you had to sit down. He pretended to pout, but there was color in his cheeks that hadn’t been there in weeks.

Yoongi turned off the stove and came to sit across from you at the small dining table. He carefully placed the two plates on the table, with as he bit his inner cheeks, admiring his artwork. You ate in comfortable silence. 

You were washing the dishes when he suddenly asked from where he was seating. 

“Do you still believe in us?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were done with the dishes but you still had your back facing him, as you busied yourself wiping the plates just to avoid looking at his face. 

Part of you did. Part of you still saw the man who made you laugh with flour on his nose, who kissed your forehead when you couldn’t sleep, who wrote a love song in a spiral notebook just to keep from forgetting.

But there was another part. Smaller, quieter, but louder in recent months, that had grown weak and tired. Tired of holding everything up alone. Tired of waiting for your fiancé to look up and see you again.

So you told him the truth.

“I want to.” You sighed. “But I don’t want to keep holding onto something that you can easily decide to let go.” 

“Don’t say easy.” He quickly defended. “It was never an easy decision.” 

You finally turned and met his eyes. They looked slightly red and both of his hands were balled into fists. 

“I was tired.” He said softly. “I can bear the work but I can’t stand listening to you on the phone being all happy but then catching you cry yourself to sleep.” He looked down, feeling ashamed. “And I know you keep saying that you don’t mind, but I do… I mind it. I don’t want you suffering like that.”

“Honest to God, I don’t care how many times I have to cry.” You snapped. “I cry because I’m a human being with emotions. But it pays off. It always pays off seeing you come home to me. Because I love you, damnit. I fucking love you and I hate you for giving up.” Your voice shook, a single tear fell down from your right eye. 

Yoongi’s face crumpled like he had been slapped.

“I can’t give you a normal life…” His voice sounded so helpless and it broke you. “And I can’t just leave the responsibilities of the dream I’ve built in years.”

“I understand.”

Of course you did. You could never make him choose. You wouldn’t even dare. That wasn’t even logical. 

“I have my closure.” You said as you harshly wiped your tears. Forcing a smile, you took a deep breath. “We still have today and I don’t wanna waste it.”

The rain continued into the afternoon, thick and steady. You stayed indoors, the two of you moving through the house like a memory you both wanted to relive. Watching old dramas with your legs tangled on the couch. Sharing a blanket and a single bowl of popcorn. Pausing the show to argue about plot twists like you used to. You played the old board game that had been sitting on the rack for so long that it sprayed comically thick dust when you grabbed it. 

He kept reaching for you. Little things. A hand on your knee. His pinky curled around yours. Resting his chin on your shoulder when you went to get more snacks. 

And you let him. Because unlike what you said to him, you too were afraid of forgetting this. 

You ordered pizza and had Korean bbq for dinner. It seemed improper, impersonal. But both of you loved just sitting down and indulge in random what ifs, while sticking some beef and alcohol down your throats. 

You missed seeing his gummy smile. You missed him being a smartass and hearing his random philosophical thought about the whole society. You missed… him. 

If you knew it was going to be like this, maybe you shouldn’t had asked for the week. It would had been gentler for your heart. 

And when he climbed in beside you that night, he finally reached in and kissed you. You kissed him back. His fingers moved slowly across your body, like he was afraid you’d break just by a mere touch. His lips moved from your mouth, your cheek, down to your neck. By the time he reached your chest, your tears had fallen freely. 

It didn’t take him long to substitute the small hiccups to loud moanings of his name. 

DAY 7

The sound of items being stuffed and moved woke you up. Zipper dragged loudly, your mind immediately picked up on the situation. 

He was packing. 

It was the final day. Of course you didn’t expect him to stay much longer but it still felt so surreal seeing him packing his clothes and knowing the real intention behind it. 

You got up with your body still bare nude, you pulled the bedcover slightly over your chest. Your eyes met for a second, but he still kept going. You wanted to ask. Hell, you wanted to scream, cry, beg him to stay, but nothing came out from your mouth. 

“I ordered lunch.” He said, still busy with the packing. 

You didn’t realize that it was already noon. You quietly nodded and went to quickly shower yourself. You convinced yourself that you had accepted it all during the shower thinking session. 

You were about to get up and wash the dishes when he suddenly asked you. 

“Dance with me?”

You looked at him like he had gone insane. “There’s no beat.”

“I don’t care.” 

So you stood and you danced. No rhythm. No real steps. Just swaying and vulnerable, his forehead pressed to yours. And even now, no tears. Maybe it had all been dried up at this point. Maybe you really had finally came to terms with everything. 

“Do you remember when we danced like this in my old apartment?”

“In your old kitchen. I tripped on the rug and took you down with me.”

He chuckled lightly. “You kissed me afterwards.” 

“You looked beautiful in that moment. Like someone real.” You confessed. 

“I think I forgot how to be real for a while.”

You looked up and were surprised to meet his glassy eyes. 

And here when you thought you had accepted everything, he cupped your cheeks and your walls broke down again. 

“Give me a chance.”

“Wha— Yoongi, I thought you were leaving today.”

You panicked, cupping back his face so now both of you just grabbing each other faces like a couple of idiots. 

“Give me a chance,” He repeated. “But not out of obligation. Not because of what we had. Because I know we still can be.” 

Your heart thumped painfully. 

“I’ll find someone to train and take over my day to day. It’ll be a long process but if you’re willing to wait, I will have time for you…” A single tear quickly fell down and a desperate smile appeared on his lips. “I can’t promise you anything really, I hate myself for that. And I hate myself even more because I know you deserve better. Even though I know you deserve someone who would never make you feel neglected… I still can't think I can live without you.”

His voice finally broke as he sobbed. It was the very first time in years and years of knowing him. Sure you had seen him cry once or twice, whether from a good movie, to actual sadness. But never like this. 

Funnily enough, still, both of you were holding each other faces. You started breaking into tears too, finally after being in state of shock. 

“You don’t get to say all these things now and expect me to forget what it felt like when you asked to give up on us last week as if I meant nothing to you.” 

“I don’t expect that,” He said. “I just want a chance to earn your trust again, and a chance to be strong for myself.” 

“If I say yes,” You shuddered. “I don’t want it to be a restart. I want a repair. You have to rebuild from the cracks, not erase them.”

“I know.” He nodded, sniffing. 

“I need time.”

“You have the rest of my life.”

Your breath hitched. “I need you to stop thinking I’m weak because I can take it.” Finally, a smile appeared on your lips despite the tears raining down. “Because I can’t imagine living without you too.”

Yoongi exhaled, shoulders sagging with relief. But he didn’t reach for you right away. His hands were shaking, you felt it against your skin. He finally dropped his hands from your face. He waited.

You didn’t though. Instead leaned forward and pulled him in. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. He held you back like someone who knew exactly what he had almost lost. He then kissed you like you were oxygen he desperately needed to survive. 

There was so much to learn, so much to fix. But you were sure you could face anything as long as you got him by your side.

Thank you for reading! 💍

[angstama]

01; spaces between us | l.jn

pairing: dad!lee jeno x f!reader (ft. na jaemin)

genre: angst, slight fluff

synopsis — three years after divorcing jeno, you've found a careful rhythm in co-parenting your son jun. the old fights about his work schedule and emotional distance have faded into polite exchanges and shared custody arrangements. but when small moments of connection start to feel like second chances, you begin to hope that maybe you could try again. though, it all falls apart when jeno asks to introduce jun to his new girlfriend. suddenly, you're forced to confront a devastating truth: the man who claimed he "wasn't good at relationships" during your marriage has apparently learned how to love properly—he just needed someone else to do it with.

a/n: hey lovelies~ was not expecting the pilot draft to do so well omg i had to start on the series asap!!!! this chapter was hitting the core :"))) please enjoy and stay tuned for chapter 2!!!! also made some minor changes from the pilot for the plot huehuehue

chapter music: you're losing me - taylor swift

sbu m.list | pilot draft | next chapter

you weren't sure how you had reached this point where cup noodles had become your weekend ritual, where your eyes constantly darted between the wall clock above the television and the hazel-colored door, constantly awaiting for someone to show up. but this was your life now, a reality you always seemed to struggle to grasp even three years after the end of your marriage.

you know the sound of his keys before it hits the lock. sunday, 6:48 pm, three minutes later than usual because traffic on fifth street backs up after six-thirty. you've memorised these details without meaning to, the way you once memorised his coffee order and the exact spot on his shoulder where he carries tension.

"mummy!" jun's backpack hits the floor with the thud of too many library books as he wriggled out of jeno’s arms and launched himself into your legs. "junnie!" you beamed, , crouching down to scoop him up.  "did you have a good time with daddy?" you cooed excitedly, nuzzling your nose into his neck as he lets out a burst of giggles that instantly tugged at something deep in both your and jeno’s chests.

"mhm! daddy got me a new pokémon pack!" jun announced proudly, pulling out his binder and flipping it open to reveal the latest additions, carefully tucked into the sleeves you and jeno had filled together since his third birthday.

"ah, junnie... sshh," jeno gently tapped his son’s shoulder, trying not to smile too widely. jun’s eyes widened as if remembering something crucial. "oh right... secret," he whispered, bringing a finger to his lips with an exaggerated hush, sealing the silent deal he and his father clearly had.

jeno scratches the back of his head, smiling at you sheepishly as he braced himself for the usual lecture about spoiling jun. instead, you just shoot him a knowing smile, pretending not to have noticed the secret exchange between father and son. “okay, junnie. go unpack your bag first.”

you watch as jun runs off, his backpack bouncing behind him. jeno lingers for a second before following you into the kitchen instead of settling into the living room like he usually does and your heart does this stupid fluttering thing you thought you'd trained out of it.

"coffee?" you asked, already reaching for his mug. the blue one with the chip on the handle that he never throws away.

"if you're making some anyway," he says, leaning against the counter in that familiar way. close enough that you catch his cologne—the same one he's worn for years, the one that used to linger on your pillow.

you shouldn't notice these things anymore. the way he automatically opens the cabinet to grab the sugar. how he still knows which drawer holds the spoons. the fact that he washes his mug without being asked, like this is still his kitchen too.

"jun's been asking about the camping trip again," you say, handing him the coffee. your fingers brush when he takes it, brief and probably accidental, but your skin remembers the way it used to burn with every touch.

"memorial day weekend?" jeno chimed. " ah i was thinking we could do han river. remember that spot we found when he was four?"

we. the word hangs between you, heavy with history. you do remember—jun's first successful s'more, jeno teaching him to fish while you read on the blanket, the way the three of you felt like a unit that weekend instead of two people trying to figure out how to be parents together.

"he'd love that," you say — and you mean it.

jeno’s eyes drift to the half-eaten cup of noodles tucked in the corner of your desk. he exhales, a quiet sigh that carries more concern than judgment, and without a word, he gets up.

you watch him curiously as he disappears into the living room, only to return moments later with a styrofoam box in his hand — the dinner he’d brought earlier and quietly left on your sofa.

"you really need to cut down on these," he says, nodding at the noodles as he tosses the cup into the trash. "it’s not good for you, y/n."

his voice is soft, almost too gentle for a scolding — like he’s trying not to overstep, but can’t help caring anyway. you blink at him, caught off guard by the gesture and unsure how to respond to the quiet care in his actions. for a moment, you can’t find the right words. you wish it didn’t still affect you. the way he notices, the way he always has.

but it does. and you hate how, after everything, that old, familiar ache of love still manages to stir in your chest.

jeno lingers after jun shows him every single pokemon card twice. lingers while jun brushes his teeth. lingers by the door after hugs goodbye, keys in his hand but feet planted firmly on your doormat.

"you okay?" he asks, and there's something in his voice you can't quite name. concern, maybe. or something deeper.

"yeah, just tired."" you lie, because you're not okay—you're hopeful, which feels infinitely more dangerous.

he nods, remaining still as he studies your face like he's looking for something specific. "you know you can call me, right? if you need anything. even if it's not about jun."

the words settled in your chest like a promise. like maybe he's been thinking about more than just co-parenting too. like maybe the careful distance you've built around each other is finally cracking in all the right places.

"i know," you whisper.

he almost says something else. you can see it in the way his mouth opens slightly, the way his eyes search yours. but then jun calls goodnight from his room, and the moment dissolves.

"see you next week," jeno says, and you watched him walk to his car, wondering if he looks back. wondering if he feels it too—this pull toward something that might be possible again.

that night, you fell asleep thinking about han river. about the way jeno looked at you when he said "we." about the camping trip and coffee in matching mugs and all the small ways you've been building towards something without naming it.

and maybe that was naive of you.

"someone you're seeing?" the words come out strangled, like your throat forgot how to work. jun is in his room packing his overnight bag, humming the pokemon theme song, blissfully unaware that his parents' carefully constructed peace is crumbling in the kitchen.

jeno shifts his weight, suddenly looking anywhere but at you. "her name's soomin. we've been... it's been a few months now."

a few months. while you've been reading meaning into coffee rituals and shared glances, he's been building something real with someone else. while you've been hoping the way he said "we" about camping trips meant something, he's been saying "we" about someone entirely different.

"a few months," you repeat, testing how the words taste. bitter. they taste bitter.

"i wanted to tell you sooner, but..." he trails off, running his hand through his hair the way he does when he's nervous. "things are getting serious. she's important to me."

important. the way you used to be important, before work deadlines became more pressing than date nights, before his silence became louder than your attempts at conversation, before you both stopped trying to find each other in the space between exhaustion and resentment. "i didn't know you were dating again." you bit your lips.

“i don’t see where i’m wrong here! i’ve been showing up for jun!” jeno’s voice cracks with frustration as he throws his arms up, glaring at you like you’re the problem — like he resents you. and in that split second, it felt like he hates you.

not just angry, but hates you.

and you can’t explain the way it broke you. how your chest caved in like something vital had just collapsed. how your lungs forgot how to breathe. how suddenly, standing in front of him, you feel like something shameful.

something unwanted.

“for me, jeno! me!” your voice breaks in the middle of the word, like your chest can’t hold the weight anymore. you hit your palm against your chest with each syllable like you’re trying to make him feel it — your absence in his life, your slow disappearance in the marriage you tried so hard to save.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t flinch. he just stared at you — tired, distant, like something in him left the room before his body did.

“i'm not just the mother of your child. i'm your wife.”

jeno looks at you, and for a second, you almost see a flicker of the old him — the one who used to trace hearts on your wrist during coffee shop dates, who whispered promises into your hair on tired mornings. but it’s gone before you can hold onto it.

“i can't do this,” he says. quiet. not even angry anymore — just empty. “i can't keep pretending like we’re still in love.”

your breath catches. “so you’ve just... stopped trying?”

he closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s trying to find the strength to be honest. “i stopped trying when it felt like everything i did pushed you further away.”

“you wouldn’t even go to therapy with me,” you whisper, the betrayal cracking out of your voice. “you shut me out, jeno. you barely spoke to me. you let me do all the emotional heavy lifting while you poured everything into work and came home just to be jun’s dad — not my husband. not my person.”

he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. because deep down, he knows it’s true. he made the choice — slowly, quietly — to retreat. and now he’s standing in the wreckage of it.

“i thought having a family would fix it,” he admits finally. “that if i worked hard enough, loved our son enough... it would make up for not knowing how to love you the way you needed.”

your voice is small now, broken down to its rawest pieces. “and you only realised that after we were married? after we had a child?”

jeno nods. ashamed.

there’s a long silence between you. jun’s toys are scattered across the hallway. the faint hum of the fridge is the only sound in the room now.

it was then jeno finally looked up, eyes glossy and jaw clenched.

“i think we need to end this,” he says.

and even though you knew this would come— even though your body had been bracing for this for months — the words still hit like ice water down your spine.

“does jun know?” you ask quietly, your voice barely holding itself together.

the thought of your son — your little boy — interacting with jeno’s new lover sends a hollow ache through your chest. it twists in your gut, sharp and mean, fed by a fear you’re too ashamed to name: that maybe, somehow, she’ll be better. that jun might love her more. that you’re not enough.

you swallow hard, the words catching like glass in your throat. the fear of being replaced — not by jeno, but by someone who could take your place in your son's world — gnaws at you slowly, cruelly.

"no. i wanted to talk to you first. make sure you're okay with it."

okay with it. as if there was a choice. as if you could say "no, your heart isn't ready for this, please keep pretending we might find our way back to each other". as if you have any right to his future when you couldn't figure out how to share his present.

“and if i said no?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “would you hate me for it?” he exhales slowly. there’s something in his eyes — regret, maybe. or even guilt. “never,” he says. “but i’d ask you to reconsider. for jun… and for the love we used to have.”

"i'll think about it." you hear yourself saying. jeno's shoulders relaxed, and you realise he was braced for a fight. the kind you used to have, when you'd pick apart his choices and he'd shut down until you were both bleeding from words that couldn't be taken back. but you're different people now. better at this. better at putting jun first.

"thank you," he says, and the relief in his voice makes you want to scream.

jun appears in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, pokemon cards clutched in his free hand. "ready, daddy?"

"ready, buddy." jeno's whole face transforms when he looks at jun, soft and open in a way that used to be reserved for you too. "we'll see you sunday, yeah?"

you nod, not trusting your voice as you watched them walked to jeno's car with jun chattering about something that happened at school and jeno listening with the patience you always admired. they drove away, and you're left standing in your suddenly too-quiet kitchen with just enough sound to remind you that he’s gone — again.

the silence that follows feels heavier than his words.

she’s important to me.for jun. for what we used to have.

you lose jun somewhere between the pasta sauce and the frozen vegetables.

one minute he’s weighing the merits of sphagetti and fusilli — a deeply serious seven-year-old debate �� and the next, you’re standing alone in aisle twelve, heart thudding, dread curling in your stomach.

“jun?” you called, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. “junnie, where are you?”

you retraced your steps, glancing behind shelves and around carts, the quiet anxiety growing louder with every passing second because he’s way too small, too curious and despite all your talks about stranger danger, still too trusting for his own good.

you find him in the cereal aisle, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a stranger, surrounded by a battlefield of pokémon cards spread across the linoleum like it’s a sanctioned trade summit. a wave of relief washing over you when you see that he's okay.

"and this one," jun is saying, holding up a holographic card that catches the fluorescent lights, "is charizard. he's like, the best one ever. daddy says he's worth a million dollars but mommy says daddy exaggerates about everything."

the man beside him laughs. a warm, familiar kind of sound that you don’t register why it makes your chest tighten. though you can't see his face properly from this angle. his dark hair falls across his forehead as he leans over the cards, and there's something familiar about the way he moves, but you're too focused on jun's safety to process it.

"your daddy sounds like he knows good pokémon when he sees them," the man says, his voice jogging something loose in your memory.

“jun,” you say, relief overtaking annoyance as you rush over. “what have i told you about wandering off? and talking to strangers?” you grabbed him by his shoulders, though still careful enough to not hurt him.

"but mommy," jun protests, scrambling to his feet, "he isn't a stranger anymore. we're friends now. he has the whole first generation set!"

the man stands up too, brushing off his jeans, and you're about to thank him for keeping jun safe when he looks directly at you and everything stops.

"...l/n y/n?"

and just like that, it clicks.

na jaemin.

your old academic rival. the one who made every constitutional law class feel like a boxing match. the one who challenged your arguments until you dreamed in rebuttals. the one you couldn’t stand because he was too smart, too smooth, and made everything look effortless while you drowned in outlines and caffeine.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “well, well. if it isn’t the future supreme court justice herself.”

you feel heat rush to your face. the nickname stings in a different way now — laced with everything you never became. “jaemin. hi.”

jun tugs at your sleeve. “mommy, you know uncle?”

jaemin’s gaze drops to your cart full of juice boxes and goldfish crackers, then to jun still clutching his pokémon binder, and you feel the weight of his attention settle on your shoulders.

"you're a mom," he says, and there's something in his voice you can't quite place. surprise, definitely. but also something else. something that makes you want to straighten your shoulders and defend choices you're not even sure you made consciously.

"yeah, this is jun. jun, say hi to uncle jaemin properly."

jun waves, suddenly shy now that introductions are being made official.

"is he jeno's?" jaemin asks, because of course he remembers. everyone remembers your college relationship, how you and jeno were practically attached at the hip from the first year of university onwards.

"yeah," you confirm, watching his face for... what? judgment? surprise? "he's jeno's."

jaemin glances around the store like he's expecting your ex-husband to appear from behind the cheerios display. "where is jeno? parking the car?"

and there it was. the question that makes everything real in a way that divorce papers and custody schedules somehow don't.

"we're divorced, actually."

the words hang in the air between you. jun, oblivious to the weight of adult conversations, has gone back to organising his pokémon cards by type.

you hate how much the word still weighs in your mouth.

jaemin blinks, brows rising. “really? you two always seemed so… settled.”

settled. the word tastes wrong in your mouth, but you can't argue with it. you were settled. safe. predictable. everything jaemin wasn't.

"life happens," you say, which is your standard response to questions about the divorce. noncommittal. true enough.

but jaemin is looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. there's something almost calculating in his eyes, like he's reassessing everything he thought he knew about you.

"so no supreme court then?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice that you recognize from law school. the same tone he used when he was about to dismantle your argument piece by piece. "no changing the world one constitutional interpretation at a time?"

jun tugs on your sleeve. "mommy, what's supreme court?"

"it's where the most important judges work," you tell him, then look back at jaemin. "and no. turns out life had other plans."

"what are you doing now?" jaemin asks, and there's something in his voice that makes you stand a little straighter. curiosity, maybe. or that old competitive edge that used to drive you both crazy.

"community legal aid," you say, trying not to sound defensive. "helping people navigate the system who can't afford big law firms."

now jaemin looks genuinely interested. he leans forward slightly, the way he used to when a professor posed a particularly challenging hypothetical.

"community legal aid," he repeats slowly, amused. "cool."

"it's not exactly the supreme court," you say, but there's less bitterness in your voice than you expected.

"no, but it's real. it's making a difference for actual people instead of just writing opinions that other lawyers argue about." jaemin pauses, studying your face. "no wonder i haven't seen you around. i even did environment law for awhile in hopes to see you." he chuckles.

"what about you?" you ask, deflecting.

jaemin grins, and it's the same cocky smile that used to make you want to argue with him just to wipe it off his face. "corporate law. making rich people richer, mostly. not nearly as noble as what you're doing."

jun, who has been listening with the selective attention of a seven-year-old, pipes up: "are you a lawyer too, jaemin?"

"i am, buddy. your mom and i used to study together."

"study together" is a generous way to describe the way you and jaemin used to go head-to-head in every class, turning study groups into intellectual bloodbaths and making everyone else uncomfortable with your barely concealed competitiveness.

"you should give mommy your number," jun says with the casual confidence of a child who hasn't learned that adult relationships are complicated. "then you can study together again."

you laugh nervously, ready to wave it off, but jaemin is already pulling out his phone. "that's not a bad idea, actually. i'd love to catch up properly. maybe over coffee instead of in the cereal aisle?"

you hesitate.

coffee feels… dangerous. not in a thrilling way — in a past-life-kind of way. like sitting down with jaemin might open up a version of yourself you’ve carefully folded away.

you’re not sure who you’d be across that table anymore. and worse, you’re not sure he’d still respect her.

but there’s something warm in his eyes. something not just nostalgic, but curious.

you glance at jun, who’s back to sorting cards. and then at jaemin, who’s waiting without pushing.

“…okay,” you say finally. “sure. coffee.”

“still the same number?”

you shake your head. “new number. new everything.”

you exchange phones. it feels surreal to see na jaemin slide into your contacts between jun’s pediatrician and grocery rewards hotline.

“i’ll text you,” he says, and you just nod.

“it was good to see you,” he adds. “really.”

// to be continued

[isufferfromyd]

To the two goobers that followed me, here's a lil sneak peak at the next chapter:3

Mira settles on one side of the couch, Zoey right next to her. Rumi picks the other side of the couch. Zoey shoots her a look, eyebrow raised. Rumi offers a shrug in return and turns to the TV.

(She’s weirded out. Why are you acting strange? You’re making things awkward.)

Popcorn is passed around with casual touches that set Rumi’s skin on fire until the bowl is set in Zoey’s lap.

The blanket draped over her knees turns into armour, but it does nothing to stop the heat that crawls across her chest when Zoey leans in to say, “told you we’d pick a good one.”

Rumi smiles, too tightly. Something claws at the inside of her chest, scraping against her ribs, lighting her skin on fire. She doesn’t need to look down to know her skin is betraying her. But she is quick enough to drape the blanket over herself, hide and stifle the desire that’s pulling and pushing on her insides.

(She can tell something’s wrong.)

(You’re wrong. You’ve always been wrong.)

It’s been weeks. Maybe a month. Maybe over a month, Rumi can’t tell the way work makes time blend together. Every time they touch her, fleeting and innocent and oftentimes unintentional as it is, it leaves her starved. She wants more. Needs more. But Rumi can’t ask for it and she doesn’t have it in her to initiate it.

Still, that desire persists, unwavering.

Rumi bites the inside of her cheek and stretches her legs, lets the tops of her feet nudge against Zoey’s thigh, hoping it reads as normal. As harmless. Zoey’s eyes catch hers for a second. Just long enough. A smile flickers there, soft and unreadable. Rumi’s pulse stutters, and both of their attentions are back on the movie.

Rumi allows the film to comfort her. To be enveloped in the familiar security of it. The warmth it brings and the laughs it still pulls from her, even if she knows it by heart. It’s comforting. Zoey and Mira chuckle beside her. Zoey pokes fun at how obvious the foreshadowing in the music is, Rumi argues general audiences don’t notice anyway. Mira rolls her eyes when the romantic lead says she’s in love and Rumi has to chuckle at the exaggerated groan Mira gives.

But then she catches Mira and Zoey exchange a look, something soft and secrete and knowing and her heart stutters once more.

Something warm blooms in her chest at the way they only seem to have eyes for each other for that fleeting moment. And at the same time, something hot and sharp settles in her stomach.

(You’re not wanted.)

She untucks her feet from under Zoey.

(They’re making space for you and you can’t even appreciate it.)

Rumi shuffles more into the cushions of the couch.

(They are better off without you.)

That, catches her attention. That makes her hear the voice as not her own. Or at least, not fully, her own. She’s had that thought before. It started off as a whisper of a whisper, years ago. At times it grew louder, other times it was overpowered by the love and support of her friends. Her family. The last time she’d heard it this clearly, she offered her sword to Celine.

The coldness of it makes her shiver.

“You okay?” Zoey whispers off to the side.

Rumi blinks, “hm?”

Zoey nods at the screen. The credits are rolling.

Oh.

She must have zoned out. “You’ve been starting off,” she whispers again. Rumi’s brows knit together at the quiet tone of Zoey’s voice. She finds her gaze drifting off to the other girl at Zoey’s side. Mira’s asleep. One arm curled around Zoey’s middle, her face slack, peaceful. Glasses folded and set aside on the arm of the couch. One leg tossed lazily across Zoey’s. The kind of comfort that comes from years of knowing each other’s weight.

[gali-vue-la]

do y'all ever think about what happened after the third movie.

i dont, often, because i dont like the third movie. ive only watched it once, so i could be wrong about some things, but i was just thinking today about how things would've gone on in the days and weeks and years after.

mostly, about hiccup, because all i ever think about these days are hiccup and toothless. i was thinking about how, for a large part of his life, everything about hiccup has revolved around toothless and dragons. how it was, really, the first thing he'd ever done that got more than a glance from someone else. more than a "get back inside before you mess everything up more" from his father, from anyone.

we see two of hiccup's inventions in the first movie: first, the mangler, which was built, designed, and operated with the intent to help his village, to hunt dragons, to be like everyone else. it is dismissed outright, he is dismissed outright, and later, it is crushed under the foot of a monstrous nightmare that intends to kill him. we don't ever see it again, it is never thought of or acknowledged again, and i can just picture the wood rotting apart, the metal sinking into the earth until no trace remains.

then we see toothless's tailfin. everything it represents is contrary to what the mangler was; it does not help the village, it does not hunt dragons, it makes hiccup even more of an outlier than he already was. it is the only of hiccup's inventions thus far to have been taken seriously, the only thing anyone else has ever put value in. we see gobber, at the end of the first movie, with a tailfin he constructed for hiccup, for toothless, from hiccup's destroyed design and what must have been his notes, because it is the only invention that they have ever cared about, the only one they have bothered to take a closer look at. it comes, in turn, with the arrival and acceptance of dragons.

following that, we see so many, countless, of hiccup's creations. i wont even delve into the shows, because i could be here for hours.

in the second movie, we see his glide suit, his sword, his leg. even little things, like where he stores his map, his little compass, and the tailfin, which carries over from the first movie, with improvements—every single one of these once again revolves around toothless and dragons. every one is important when it comes to saving berk and the dragons from drago's clutches.

his glide suit, we later see, is furthered in the third movie, and by then, each of the "main gang" has their own flight suit. it's vital in defeating drago and outsmarting/outmaneuvering him. it is something hiccup so clearly adores, something he needs toothless to use and something that furthers the connection between them. he uses it to fly alongside him, he uses it to soar the skies, he uses it like a pair of prosthetic wings.

his leg, too, is so entangled in what has become him-and-toothless, that it is specifically designed to be different to the walking attachment when he's flying with toothless. there was no need to make it different, and yet, flying and dragons and toothless are so important to him that they have their own spot, their own design, their own piece of themselves in something hiccup cannot live without. it's like a key in the lock that is toothless's tailfin; they cannot fly without this specific, unique design of hiccup's prosthetic leg. this specific, unique design of hiccup's prosthetic leg that serves no purpose other than flying with toothless.

this brings me to my original thought: his sword. Inferno.

It is a blade, yes, but like everything else hiccup has made since the first movie: it is so entangled in everything that makes dragons dragons that it is almost inseparable. Zippleback gas and Nightmare gel are what make it Inferno and not a mere skeleton of a sword. except it's not infinite, and it's not forever, and with no dragons around after the third movie, he will run out of gel, and he will run out of gas, and inferno will become a skeleton of itself. something that no longer works like it should, like hiccup designed and built it to.

what do you think happens, when that day comes?

hiccup is so entangled in everything that makes dragons dragons that they are almost inseparable. what do you think became of him, in those days and weeks and months and years after? do you think he broke down every time he had to give up one of his creations? do you think he became numb, despondent, as he watched so much of his hard work become unusable? useless, once more, like he had been? do you think he fell back into the boy he once was, before dragons? do you think he felt worthless? Hiccup, the dragon master, without dragons? do you think he struggled?

I do. I think it was horrific, and excruciating, and enough to break a lesser man.

i think he used that blade until the day he ran out of gas and gel. i think he couldn't bear to use it after, strong as it still may be, because it didn't work right. it didn't work like he intended it to. i think he hides it away, because he can't bear to look at it, but he keeps it close, under his bed, maybe, or in a chest that's always closed, because he can't bear to be apart from it, either.

I think he used his scale armour until it broke apart, reached for shedded scales to grind to paste and fix it and instead scraped fingernails against the bottom of an empty bucket.

i think he ran his fingers over his glide suit, over every one of toothless's prosthetic tailfins over and over and over again until he realized they were wearing beneath his touch and the oil from his hands, and then i think he hid them away, so he'd never be tempted to touch them again. so he could never lose them, so he could never ruin them. so they'd last forever, even though they'd never be used again. i think he can picture them, perfectly, in his mind, every single detail and every single second he spent making them, but he's terrified that if he touches them, if he ruins them, he'll forget, and he'll have nothing left.

i think he did the same with his notebooks and designs, filled to the brim with sketches of not only his inventions, but of dragons, of toothless, of his tailfin, of every gear and mechanism he used, because he's terrified of losing them. he's terrified of forgetting how he made it, of just how long each metal boning had been, of how he fastened the leather, the angle of the curve it needed to be to fit perfectly against toothless's tail without chafing or being too loose. i think that it stays in him, in his hands and in his bones and in his mind, instinctively, that even five or ten or one-hundred years later he could still make that tailfin with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back and i think that it would be perfect, but i also think that he is more terrified than anything that he will forget how to. i think his breath stutters when he works with pulleys, and i think he has trouble wrapping leather around metal for the rest of his life.

i think that one day, with the wear, and the tear, and the strain of use, that his leg breaks. i think it shatters apart as he gets out of bed one morning, because his hands shake when he tries to check on it, when he tries to maintain it, and he hasn't been able to do more than oil it in quite a while. i think it breaks apart like glass, with metal strained and torn and weak, and i think that he falls apart when it does. i think he doesn't move, for a long, long time, fallen to the floor without anyone to catch him like there used to be, and he holds the pieces in his hands like they're more precious than gold, than anything else, because to him, they are. i think he tries to piece it back together, but the important parts are shattered, and it keeps falling apart and he doesn't have enough hands or fingers to keep it from doing so. i think that he stays there until someone finds him, and i think it takes hours even then, while someone holds his hands in their own to stop them from shaking, until they get gobber, and I think gobber makes his new leg for him, because hiccup can't.

i think gobber makes his new leg with a flight attachment, i think he makes it exactly the same as the previous one, because he can't imagine anything different. i think he does it because he's scared of what it'll do to hiccup if he doesn't.

i think that at the end of the third movie, so much has been taken from the village, from the people of berk, and from the dragons, but i think it takes and takes and takes even more from hiccup. how many things, do you think, he has made, that he holds and sees and touches after, that are rendered useless? how many things was he working on? how many designs are in his notebooks that will never become real? that he will never get to test and try and experiment with? how many ideas do you think he had, waiting for the right moment, that he now can't even bring himself to write down?

how many ideas does he have, after? how many times do you think he starts reaching for his notebook, for a piece of metal in the forge, for a hammer, before he realizes, what for? What's the point?

how many times do you think he realizes that so many of his ideas are useless once more?

[charafansmile]

Anyways that aside I think toriels biggest actual flaw is that she doesn't know how to approach kris. She'll read the parenting books again and again, ask around town, bake them their favorite food, take them to therapy, pray and pray and worry worry worry. But she can't quite communicate with them to ask them how she can help.

Learning about their friendship with susie clearly calmed her down alot, she must see alot of kris in susie. Or maybe even dess? But that's speculation.

Her and kris are close, and she's hardly what I would call authoritarian like I would carol. Their relationship isn't so strict that shes even upset at the church clothes being lost, turning it into a joke and telling kris to come up with an excuse since susie the guest. Kris is fine swearing (singing swears) in front of her. She barely scolds them for eating the entire pie, and prior to that basically dropped her grounding threat once she learned the reason they didn't return her calls was that they were hanging out with a friend.

Yes she was strict with asriel. But asriels not kris. I think it's a fair to assume that given how she's a foil to carol who IS super controlling that shes taken the reigns back when raising kris after dess's disappearance. Not so much that she's neglectful, I don't think that's a fair reading of her character, but things are going to slip by. Especially when kris is actively hiding things from her, and seemingly wanting to keep her in the dark.

Which comes back to the chapter 4 scene, the scene where they do want her to be worried, where it's finally warranted, where they want to come home after going through all of that and see she's okay and be worried over by her. But she's not. Because she thinks their better, or getting there. She knows their with susie, she knows they are finally talking to noelle again, and probably that they were going to study at her house. Every time she's attempted to call them they've from her perspective ignored them. And well. Just like how kris has a life outside of being her child for her to worry over, she has a life outside of them. Should she have left the house unlocked? Probably, she should have also called kris to tell them she canceled choir practice.

I'm not going to fault her for drinking on a weekend and bringing a stranger home, she's a grown woman and allowed to do those things, and admittedly I think people are fixating on the 'she was drunk!' Point too much. I'm not going to bring up the slashed tires or blood stain when I'm not even sure she knows HOW to clean up blood or if that's what it was AND she was specifically keeping the tires a secret from susie and kris so it's not like she's going to tell them why she's not stressed about them anymore. From her perspective, they dont even know about them.

But that all gets me to something I've not seen discussed yet, which is that chapters 1&2 were setting up kris & toriels relationship to later inverse it in 3&4. Down to the phone calls. If the numbers in the phone hadn't been deleted than we COULD have called toriel to check on her, much like she could have called us in chapter 1 if not for the dark worlds. Toriels reasonings to worry over them have been assuaged at each instance, and while WE have the 4th wall knowledge to know that she should be worrying harder, she doesn't. Likewise, kris (and susie) spend all of chapter 4 trying to save her. Only for her to be fine, at home, dancing and happy. Completely unaware of the hell they just went through for her sake. Completely unworried when that's finally what kris wants.

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event v 2025

Reader Style: gn/afab Character: Izou Vibe: Non-Con Rating: NSFW Ending Style: Bad Prompt: Yan's out of the bag Gift Giver: Anon Requested (⌐■_■)

Summary: Happenstance puts you on the Moby, and a few days of enjoying tea with Izou seals your fate.

Content Notes: drugging, kidnapping, shibari, suspension bondage, temperature play, non con, 18+ mdni

It had been happenstance that had found you aboard the massive ship known as the Moby Dick. It could’ve been anyone who had done what you’d done. It just so happened to be you that did it.

You who saved one of the Whitebeard Pirates purely by accident. Probably not even saved from death, so much as maybe just spared them injury.

That had been enough, however, for the crew and Captain to offer you something in return, and all you wanted was to go to the neighboring island. Travel had been treacherous, and the ports had been closed for so long. You just wanted to go over to your old island and visit until the ports opened back up. Nothing major.

The hand that offered to carry your bags was as immaculate as everything else about him. Izou was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen in your life, and he’d been flattered by the words that had escaped you before you had sense enough to stop them.

Who calls a pirate beautiful? Especially a commander of an Emperor?

But he took the words in stride and invited you to take tea with him. Gave you a quiet place to eat during the chaos that was meal times, and kept you feeling safe while you stayed on a ship full of exceptionally powerful men. Not that you expected anyone would do anything to you, considering that you were on the ship as repayment.

With your destination island in sight, you were almost sad to leave. It was a brief trip, barely a week’s time between the islands, and you’d come to know a few of the crew well, and Izou especially. By his request you were having one more cup of tea with him before you departed, the Moby already docked at port.

The tea was delicious, and it was the last thing you remembered clearly.

-:-

-:-

It’s disorienting, when you start to wake up. You can’t seem to move anything well, but you can move. Your joints ache, and your jaw hurts. There’s something snug against your face, and something soft, but immovable, lodged between your teeth.

The same softness is woven through your joints, and as you start to come around more, you realize you’re bound in silk, dangling a couple feet off the floor. You can squirm, but not enough for it to matter. 

You can see Izou’s knees, tucked neatly, with tea laid out before him, just inside your field of vision, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at him. There’s a heavy silence between you and you can feel the ship lurch. The groan of the wood as it bobs in the waves makes you whimper.

You’re already out at sea.

“How kind of you, to decide to stay with me.” Izou says quietly. Closing your eyes, you shake your head.

“True, not as yet. But worry not, sweet flower, you’ll come around in time.” You can hear him stand up, but you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. Tears drip from your lashes onto the floor, your naked body shivering in the dimly lit room.

“Let's start by getting you to look at me again.” He says, and you can feel his hand on the back of your head and the metal shifting of the teapot. For a split second you’re scared he’s going to pour scalding tea on your skin, but for a few seconds nothing happens.

The first drip is hot, like wax against your back and you jerk, but the motion sends more droplets onto your skin, making your body tense against small pains that fade quickly. He’s poured the tea onto the silk, and it’s feeding down the cloth, dripping on your skin after it’s cooled down enough to no longer burn you. But it’s still hot, and it still hurts.

Panic claws it’s way into your throat as the silk holding you saturates, heating up from the tea as it soaks down to your body. You cry and thrash, trying to shake off the hot tea, but you can’t raise your head to look at Izou, and the thick silken knot in your mouth makes it impossible to try and beg. Especially with how sore your jaw is, and you aren’t even sure you can move it at this point.

“Well, we’re out of tea.” Izou sighs, holding your head in place as the hot tea soaks all of the silk. It only takes a few seconds for it to cool enough to not actively hurt, but you’re panting and sobbing, even as your body stills. 

He places the empty pot on the back of your head, it’s uncomfortably warm, but not burning hot.

“I’m going to get more hot water to make tea. For your own sake, sweet flower, this pot better be right here when I get back.” He warns. “Or our conversation will not be pleasant.”

Hanging from the silken binds, you sob quietly, doing your best to stay still so the heavy cast iron pot on the back of your head doesn’t fall. You can’t look up, and you can’t let your head hang down either. You need to stay perfectly as you are.

The point is not lost on you.

When Izou returns you’re shivering. The hot tea has cooled significantly and now you’re wet and cold and naked. The shivering isn’t helping you maintain your position for the teapot, but maybe your whimpering sobs are enough, and Izou lifts the pot off the back of your head.

You drop your head immediately, completely broken attempts to say thank you disappearing into the silk gag, but the desperate sounds should be enough. You can’t move your jaw, and everything hurts. You’re freezing, and you aren’t sure you’ll ever be able to move your limbs again. He was gone for so long. It didn’t matter if it was five minutes or five hours it felt like an eternity to you.

Izou makes a new pot of tea, sitting in silence as he works through the ritual of it all. In the few minutes it takes him to work through the process you get control of yourself. When he slides a cup along the mat and into your view, you regard it for a moment, before lifting your head enough to meet his gaze.

Izou’s smile is small, but significant.

“There we go.” He says before taking a drink of tea. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Keep that feeling in your heart, sweet flower.

“Once I finish this cup, we can discuss your future on the ship.”

[parkjihoonswifey]

🐍 anon here!

I was reading a whc ff when I got the idea of “why not have Suho meet someone at the hospital after he wakes up from his coma” a strangers to friends to lovers kind of thought.

Just pure pure fluff cause god he needs everything good to happen to him after whc 1 💔.

(Love your works as always!!)

A/N: my love, my pretty, my 🐍 anon. I've been working so hard on a different blog ( @skzdominate check it out) that I ended up closing requests for this one and not fulfilling anything. when I logged back in and saw my baby requested I knew I had to write this immediately.

p.s Tumblr gave me a content label. thanks a lot guys 🙏🏾

Title: Room 207

Pairings: post coma! suho x sick! reader

Warnings: sickness?? idk

The first thing Suho feels is weightlessness. The second is pain.

Not sharp, but dull and constant — like his body’s been asleep for too long and only now remembers what it means to be alive. The lights are too bright, and the hum of machines too loud. There’s a comforting scent in the air. Clean linens. The faintest trace of flowers.

He’s in a hospital.

His eyes adjust slowly, and he becomes aware of the IV in his arm, the stiff ache behind his eyes, the tug in his chest with every breath. And then, a soft voice, somewhere to his right.

“Oh— You’re awake.”

His head turns sluggishly, and that’s when he sees you.

You're in the chair by the window, blanket over your legs, a nasal cannula tucked under your nose. A paperback book is resting in your lap. You’re not wearing hospital clothes, but your skin is pale, your eyes a little tired. Still, you smile — gentle and real.

“I was wondering when you’d open your eyes,” you say, voice light, like this is normal.

“…Do I know you?” Suho asks, raspier than intended.

You chuckle. “No. I’m in the room next door. They said you might wake up soon, and I figured someone should be here when you did.”

“…Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t like being alone when I wake up. Thought maybe you wouldn’t either.”

It takes a while for it all to register. But even through the haze in his mind, he knows you’re sincere. And for some reason, that truth — that kindness — is the first thing that makes his chest hurt in a different way.

“…Thanks.”

You tilt your head. “What’s your name?”

“Suho,” he says.

You smile again. “I’m Y/N.”

And just like that, something shifts. Quietly, but irrevocably.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Suho learns things in pieces.

He learns he’s been unconscious for weeks, maybe longer. He learns that the world moved on while he slept, but not too far — the school year hasn’t ended yet, the sun still rises and sets.

He also learns that you're always there.

At first, he thinks it’s coincidence. Maybe you're just passing by, and you wave through the window or knock on the door. But soon it becomes a rhythm—your gentle knock at nine in the morning, your book in hand, your blanket slung over one shoulder.

You never stay long. Sometimes just ten minutes. Sometimes more. But it’s enough.

He finds out you have a chronic lung condition — something you joke about, though it clearly wears on you. You’ve been in and out of hospitals your whole life, and this time’s no different.

“Isn’t it boring?” Suho asks one day. “Sitting with someone who can barely move?”

You raise a brow. “Better than being bored alone. And I like talking to you.”

He wants to say the same. Wants to admit that your presence has become the only part of his days that feels warm. But Suho’s not great with feelings. Not yet.

Instead, he just nods. And you smile, and go back to reading aloud from the book you brought.

Days become weeks.

Suho starts healing — slowly. He’s able to sit up on his own. The scars don’t hurt as badly. And every time you show up, it feels less like chance and more like routine.

You bring puzzles. Movies. Candy you’re not supposed to eat but sneak him anyway.

“You’re kind of a bad influence,” he teases.

You stick out your tongue. “You love it.”

He does.

It’s terrifying how easily your laughter becomes the background music to his recovery.

Sometimes, he finds you asleep in the chair beside his bed, arms curled around a pillow, chest rising and falling too lightly. He wants to wake you, but never does. Instead, he tucks the blanket tighter around you, heart full of something quiet and tender.

He doesn't know what this is — this friendship, this comfort — but it feels like hope.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

One rainy afternoon, you show up with wet hair and a flushed nose.

Suho frowns. “You’re sick. You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

“I live here, remember?” you sniffle, pulling the blanket up to your chin. “Besides. You’d be bored without me.”

He scowls, but his voice is soft. “You need to take care of yourself.”

You blink, a little stunned by the sincerity. Then, softly, “So do you.”

He doesn’t reply, but his hand drifts toward yours on the bed. His fingers brush against yours — hesitant, unsure.

You intertwine them.

The room is quiet except for the rain tapping the windows and the steady, shared rhythm of your breath.

That night, he can’t sleep.

He keeps thinking about your hand in his. How natural it felt. How scared he is that your smile might disappear when he leaves this place.

The door creaks open sometime after midnight, and your silhouette appears.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper. “Can I stay?”

He nods.

You settle into the chair beside him, blanket and all. He watches you tuck yourself in like it’s your second bed. And it kind of is. You’ve made this place feel like home.

“Suho?” you say after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you woke up.”

He turns his head to look at you. Your eyes are closed, but your words hang in the air like something sacred.

“…Me too.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Your stay is extended.

Something about your lungs not recovering fast enough. Your doctor is cautious. You’re frustrated, but you don’t complain to Suho. Instead, you say, “At least I get to bother you a little longer.”

He doesn’t say it, but he’s relieved.

You both fall into the routine even more deeply now — breakfast in his room, trying to help him walk, movie marathons with one earbud each, inside jokes that no one else would understand.

He even learns how to make those dumb origami cranes you’re obsessed with. Your room fills with them — on your tray table, taped to the wall, tucked under your pillow.

One afternoon, he finds a folded pink one with a small note inside: “thank you for making me laugh again.”

He keeps it under his pillow.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The shift from strangers to friends was quiet.

The shift from friends to something else is quieter still.

Suho doesn’t even notice it at first — how his heart lifts when you walk in. How he always listens for your voice in the hallway. How the thought of leaving this place without you physically hurts.

He watches the way you tug at your sleeves when you’re nervous. The way you read with your lips moving silently. The way you look at him like he’s not broken at all.

He’s never had someone see him like that before.

And the more time he spends with you, the more he realizes he wants you to see all of him. Not just Suho the patient. Suho the fighter. Suho who made it out. Suho who was himself

Just… Suho.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The day eventually comes when the doctor tells him he can be discharged.

You smile when he tells you. “That’s amazing.”

He nods, but there’s hesitation in his chest. “…Yeah.”

Your smile falters a little. “You’ll be back at school soon. Back to real life.”

He doesn’t know how to say it — that this felt like real life. That it was the first time he didn’t have to wear armor around someone.

That leaving you feels like the hardest part.

You sit in silence for a while. The air is thick with something unsaid.

“…I’ll miss you,” you say quietly.

His heart cracks and fills all at once.

“I’ll miss you too.”

You reach into your blanket and hand him something. A folded crane, this one made of soft yellow paper.

Inside is a tiny note: “don’t forget me, okay?”

He swallows. “Never.”

Then, bold with the weight of everything he feels, he takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. Just once. Gentle. Barely there.

Your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away.

Instead, you smile — so softly he thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Three weeks later, he comes back.

He walks down the hallway — stronger now, no IV, slight limp— holding a little paper bag.

He knocks on the door to Room 207, and when you answer, your face lights up.

“Suho?!”

“I brought you the strawberry milk you like.”

You laugh — startled, disbelieving. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything,” he says. Then, more shyly: “I was hoping we could… keep hanging out. Outside this place.”

Your cheeks flush pink. You reach for the milk, then for his hand.

“I’d like that,” you say.

And Suho — the boy who survived fist fights, violence, silence, and grief — realizes this might be the beginning of something even braver than healing:

Love.

A/N: did I break your heart be honest?? requests back open soon when I can push out enough requests now!!

[jungkoode]

Bringing this game back.

C:E!Joon meets KGP!Joon. And FMU!Jungkook because why not, I love this fictional man and he brings ✨chaos✨

YOU. YOU have created something divine. You dropped two war-forged apex predators mid-powerplay into a street noodle dimension and sandwiched them around a stoner in Sonic pajama pants who calls every authority figure “bossman.” This is Shakespearean. This is art. This is a multiversal HR violation.

AHHHHHH I missed the jungkoode universe soooo much, let’s begin.:

📍 Hong Kong backstreet. Midday sun. Someone yelling about stolen squid. The air smells like oil, traffic, and fate making a joke.

BAMMM. 💥 MULTIVERSE GLITCH.

C:E!Namjoon appears mid-wall slam—gloves askew, breathing hard, clearly about to violate several sections of the Consortium’s HR guidelines. His violet eyes narrow instantly as he registers the unfamiliar skyline.

Across the street—pop. KGP!Namjoon manifests mid-sentence, briefcase in one hand, silenced pistol tucked at his ribs, jaw tight. He doesn’t move for a full second. Then he inhales like someone just canceled a ten-year plan with a glitter bomb.

And then—oh, and then—thump.

Between them appears FMU!Jungkook in Sonic pajama pants, no shirt, one sock, blinking blearily with his hair doing That Thing™. He turns in a slow circle.

“…Nix?”

No answer. He frowns. Looks around again.

“Oh my god. The weed was too strong.”

C:E!Namjoon speaks first, sharp and resonant like a missile launch. “This is not the Consortium’s urban tier.”

KGP!Namjoon, already exhausted, checks his watch mid-snarl. “I was in the middle of an international negotiation—”

FMU!Jungkook just points a shaky finger. “Why are there two men dressed like final bosses from John Wick 6: Bureaucracy Edition. Is this a prank? Am I dying??”

C:E!Namjoon turns to him slowly, pupils narrowing like he’s assessing a bug that accidentally hacked a military satellite.

“You are… a local organism?”

FMU!Jungkook: “Okay rude first of all. I’m a man. Second of all, I smoked like half a joint and now I’m seeing Dior twins doing a silent staring contest in the middle of Mong Kok, so someone owes me a fruit juice or a medical intervention.”

KGP!Namjoon finally cuts in, still calm, still furious. “That is not my Jungkook.”

C:E!Namjoon raises a brow. “You know him?”

“No,” KGP!Joon replies immediately. “But he looks like someone who sets fire to his own apartment and calls it a growth arc.”

Jungkook: “Okay rude. That only happened once, and it wasn’t even my fault.”

C:E!Namjoon finally turns to him, confused. “You don’t belong to either of us.”

FMU!Jungkook looks up. “THANK YOU. Been trying to tell that to capitalism and fate for years. No one’s owning me, bossman. I belong to the streets. And Nix in bed. Sometimes.”

C:E!Namjoon blinks. “He uses… idiomatic fragmentation. I cannot parse this dialect.”

FMU!Jungkook: “Get in line, robot.”

KGP!Namjoon’s eye twitches. “This is beneath me.”

C:E!Namjoon crosses his arms. “If we are here, there is a purpose.”

FMU!Jungkook throws both hands up. “Okay Neo from IKEA, if you dragged me outta Nix’s bed for a moral arc or whatever, you’re gonna have to talk slower. Also, like. Lower. I’m still high.”

Both Namjoons ignore him.

KGP!Namjoon: “This is a multiversal breach. It must be contained.”

C:E!Namjoon: “Agreed. What is your rank?”

KGP!Namjoon: “Supreme Commander of Kkangpae. Seoul HQ.”

C:E!Namjoon, tilting his head like a judge on a planet no one’s heard of: “I am Chief Architect of the Epitaph Algorithm. I coordinate twelve sectors across five galaxies.

FMU!Jungkook: “Bro you guys are roleplaying and I’m just trying to find a 7-Eleven.”

KGP!Namjoon, annoyed: “Are you always like this?”

FMU!Jungkook: “Always like what? Sexy? Confused? Shirtless? Yes.”

C:E!Namjoon, icily: “He is distracting.”

KGP!Namjoon: “He’s a walking liability.”

Jungkook: “I’m a GIFT, actually.”

The two Namjoons glance at each other—one cold, one calculating, both deeply offended to be forced into this multiversal Tinder rejection of a scenario.

So now they’re stuck. In a crowded Hong Kong alley. Two warlords posturing at each other while FMU!Jungkook squats on the curb with street noodles and mutters, “this is just like that time I took NyQuil and watched The Matrix.”

[sunliights]

rowan had been something good for them… now what was she? a bittersweet memory? it’s her own mind filling those blankets. grey hasn’t said anything to suggest they have any regrets about their relationship but she had to wonder how things slot together for them. if they’re glad that they got to try it or if it makes things more challenging. trying to juggle how they might feel while dealing with her own feelings feels a bit like walking a tightrope blindfolded and not knowing how far down the ground is. she supposes that she might not know anything relatable to their experiences with drugs or death but she can relate to how they might feel about their relationship. it’s something worth connecting with grey about if nothing else. the way they’re so quick to slip out of their sweater now is something that might’ve made her laugh at any other time, now she just stares with a little disbelief. apparently they would give her the clothes off their back to make her happy. she takes it. bundles it up a little and brings it into her chest to hold close. she should probably offer to give them the one that she has on right no, since the grey clouds still hover above them and she isn’t sure if they might crack into rain. she doesn’t offer it just yet though. she wants to stuff her nose into the material or something as equally ridiculous. she holds back though, swallowing down her emotions in favour of gratitude. “thank you.” it should settle her, shouldn’t it? they’re willing to give her this. unless it’s guilt that drives the action. not that she feels they have anything to feel guilty about but considering the new share of honesty and just how much honesty there has been, maybe that’s it. she could keep listing off maybes but the thing she has to focus on is when they agree to her question. if she wants to. putting the ball in rowan’s court is a precarious thing to do because she’s someone likely to dive for it before thinking better about the bigger picture. “i think…” her tongue darts out, wets her lips because they suddenly feel so dry. she feels like something she’s been yearning for is being dangled in front of her and she just has to reach out to grab it. she just hopes someone else doesn’t come along and snatch it away first. “i think we could. try again. if you’re willing to talk to me now.” it’s not a condition for grey exactly. no punishment for how things were before. she just needs to know things won’t go the way that they did last time. when they got too lost in their own head and she couldn’t reach them. “i don’t mean you have to tell me everything. you’re entitled to have things for yourself. everyone is. i think i’d just like to know sometimes. if you’re having a hard day. if you want to tell me why or not, that’s up to you. i just don’t want you to feel like you have to hide things from me. maybe i can’t help but i can be here, you know?” she might very well want to help but she knows that she doesn’t have all the answers. she could read up and research for nights on end but she knew every experience was an individual one. the only one she wanted to focus on was grey’s and how she’d fit into that. “i’m not gonna treat you different or anything like that. there’s no free pass if you’re being an asshole or something,” though she doubts that would happen, “i just went to understand you.” in ways that she clearly didn’t before. no matter what she thought that she did. she glances up from where her gaze has dropped to the sweater that she now clutches to herself. maybe she won’t need it. though maybe what she’s asking for is too much. they’re only just let themself become open to sharing things with her and now she’s asking for an all-access pass to the backstage that is their mind. she feels her shoulders relax a little when she breathes next, head tilting as she looks at them. “what do you say? is it too soon… or?” maybe they need time and she can respect that. today has been a lot for the both of them and she doesn’t want them agreeing because they feel like it’s some sort of limited edition offer.

"i know– it was just –" they mumble, "i knew it would. and i REALLY liked you– i remember the first time you came into the shop. it felt like the first time something good had happened to me in YEARS." they explain, genuine smile crossing their face. their gaze is clouded with the memory, and for once that look they get when they're remembering something doesn't feel like a threat. relationships at the beginning of sobriety can be dicey, but they always thought that they were smart enough to juggle it all. it wasn't until they got to the point where it felt too late to mention it, that they realized it had been a bad idea to lie about it all. the way she agrees with them makes them feel so SEEN. like even though they had worked so hard to conceal this part of themselves, they had been way more truthful than they thought in the time they've known each other. because they knew they weren't fragile, even if they felt that way. anyone with this much on their shoulders would struggle, but they had stopped crumbling under the pressure. that was something they could be PROUD of. they don't know how to feel when she says that existing is strong enough, because it was something that they had always been resistant to. when they got a new key tag, they always called brodie. when they got their blue key tag, he had asked them why they don't put it on their keys, and they had struggled to answer the question. the answer was because they were ashamed of this, but he had told them something similar. being here, being alive, being clean, that was the hard part. the part they deserved to be proud of. and yet, they had always been resistant to the idea, like they couldn't believe they had done this in the first place. they wonder if she knew just how much they thought about her, or if she thought about what songs they would write about her– maybe she didn't. but maybe it's because they miss her so much, that they day dream about all of the things she might miss about them. it feels so much less pathetic, now that they know she was missing them too. and maybe they're overblowing it, but with the amount of time they spent thinking to themselves about all of the things they missed about her, like the sound of her laugh, or the way she liked her coffee, or all of the time they spent together, they hoped she was thinking the same way. it made it easier to cope with if she did. "yeah– i feel really lost too," they nod, looking down at her. it makes their chest ache to think about those first few days they were apart, and it honestly hadn't been so long since they had that fateful conversation. it felt so silly, looking back now, to not just tell her. but they always struggled to trust how anyone would react to anything, let alone something THIS intense. it's not exactly casual dinner conversation. and when she agrees that she does want another sweatshirt, it only takes an instant before they're stripping theirs off. it's not exactly warm enough for them to be in the white wife pleaser tank top they have underneath, but they can't help it. they'd do anything if it made her happy– give anything for her to feel comforted. so they hold out their sweatshirt, evergreen with yet another band's logo emblazoned on the front. if grey was one thing, it was predictable. maybe that's why they spent so much of their time screaming NO GOOD by knuckle puck behind the wheel of their beaten down pickup truck. they had always been so obsessed with the pop punk scene, had always loved the fearlessness that came with crowd surfing or moshing, and they always felt so safe there. no one was going to ask them if they wanted a bump or if they wanted to buy something like H – and it made them feel so CLOSE to mickey even after he was gone. so maybe they've got a million of these types of sweatshirts, but they were so thankful they had them now that they had the opportunity to offer one up to her.

then she's asking if they’d ever be able to give it another go, and they feel like they must be dreaming. because they can’t imagine that she’s actually saying exactly what they want to hear. they guessed it took too long to answer, because they’re watching her overthink the question. walking it back so they don’t feel under pressure. but everything in them wants to shout YES over and over. trying to play things cool has never really been their strong suit. “yeah— if you wanted to—“ they reply, but now it’s their turn to overthink things. they just got through detailing their pattern of bad behavior, and on top of that, lying to her for months. would she even WANT to be with someone capable of that? sure, she asked, but maybe it was a curiosity not an invitation. "i miss you. i miss us." it's a start, and hopefully it leads to the things they've been daydreaming about.

[ajastu]

god okay. sorry for yet another text post. but i'm just still thinking about the argument that veilguard is bad because the only option re: morality of your player character that it gives is kindness.

Now, to preface. I understand where this criticism comes from. Veilguard IS a departure from the general scheme of the previous games, in several aspects. And i understand how people would be upset at not having quite the same kind of options/ways to influence the world. It took me some getting used to, also.

What i do disagree with, however, is using that to claim that the game is bad, irredeemable, and also meaningless n soft or whatever.

Because it's really not. It's just different, with a different narrative focus. I've played the previous games several times, and as i said before, origins is in first place for me. Veilguard is a very close second. And i'm not more right or wrong in this opinion than someone who thinks datv is the worst game in the series.

You can still make choices that will influence the world in wildly different ways, they're just not... ''genocide or no genocide'' kinds of choices. Which i can see how some people would not consider the difference significant enough to be interesting for them personally. Which is whatever, im not their dad, i dont really care.

However. I think it's kind of weird to say that ''the game made me resent being a nice person'' or that "kindness you dont have the choice not to offer isnt worth a lot"

Like, game criticism aside. That is just an objectively weird thing to say.

There are ways to phrase that particular dissatisfaction in a way that will not make most people side-eye you. This is not one of those ways.

The thing is, it was a deliberate choice in characterization. Since game development at AAA scale is. an incredibly complex beast, i suspect there were many different reasons for it, and not all of them purely narrative. It is also not 2009 anymore. We are not getting another Origins, like, probably ever.

But. Rook is established in the very second cutscene to care about other people. It makes sense narratively, too, with Varric being the one to recruit them. Their backstory also shows that they gravitate towards the 'moral' choices. It's not bad writing. It's deliberate.

That does not mean that everyone has to like it. And i don't think the people who are upset about the change in this gameplay aspect are stupid or wrong.

We are all different people with different preferences, and i really am sorry if the game ended up being a disappointment for you. I know how it feels, and it does suck.

But i also do think it might be worth to examine the way people choose to phrase this complaining. The claim that kindness is somehow diminished in value if you aren't offered the choice to be cruel alongside it. I just think that, like. misses the point of what kindness is?

I know what those people mean when they say it, i just...fundamentally disagree with the sentiment. And i think phrasing it in this way is incredibly weird. sorry 🤷‍♂️

There is a better way to talk about this particular complaint. I just never actually SEE that being done. and i do think a lot of it comes from not actually engaging with the source material people are trying to criticize. Like, the person i sort of quoted earlier explicitly said they have not finished the game. If you never give something a chance in the first place, if all the information you have is second-hand, then i do not find your criticism valuable in any way. There is no substance to it, no backing. You are not proving a point, you're just chasing your own tail at that point. There isnt even a bone to chew. You've only heard of the bone. you havent actually experienced it.

Another part is people being too twisted up in the emotion of disappointment to actually see that they're not making compelling arguments, necessarily, and that they're actually being a tar pit.

I know not everyone thinks as much about the push towards dismissing the value of kindness for kindness' sake as i do. But like. It really is very weird to see this insistence that game bad bcs it didnt have the option to do a murder to an innocent person, or something. While also dismissing the horrible things we Are shown as 'not in your face enough'.

And honestly, personally? I dont love origins or any of the other ones specifically for the ability to choose the evil options. It's never even been a choice for me, because you can very well play the games without having to make the bad choices. theres always a workaround. And that workaround doesnt even harm u in any significant way. there isnt an actual like. terrible complexity here. I enjoy the dwarf politics quest a lot but ultimately, knowing the outcome? its EASY to choose Bhelen. Unless you're playing a dwarf noble origin, i guess. Rip Harrowmont 🙏 you would have made a terrible king.

And again, my personal opinion is not more right or wrong than that of someone who adored the prev dragon age games exactly because they allow you to make some terrible terrible moral choices.

At the end of the day. why are people still so pissed about a game that came out almost 6 months ago that many of them havent even played in the first place? Relax. take a walk if you can. Maybe move a snail out of the road if you find one. There tends to be a lot of them after it rains. Think about the ones that didn't make it. Try to find compassion for lives so easily dismissed. Maybe that will make you think about whether or not kindness on its own really is so lacking in value.

[vaguely-concerned]

it really is hilarious how little objective quality has to do with how much I'll love an RPG. larian makes games that are objectively very good, but don't really resonate with me personally when I play them, for whatever reason. bioware makes games of wildly erratic levels of quality that cause my soul to vibrate at pitches heard only by dolphins and god.

[ungraceds]

for   a   split   second   ,   it   felt   like   the   stars   had   finally   aligned   and   they   were   finally   going   to   have   each   other   back   in   their   lives   .   but   she's   pouring   cold   water   all   over   him   ,   drenching   him   in   their   reality   ,   and   forcing   him   to   face   it   .   something   he   doesn't   want   to   do   ,   not   when   it   means   complicating   possibly   having   her   back   by   his   side   .   "   yeah   ,   did   i   not   say   that   we're   going   to   be   optimists   ?   that's   kind   of   what   it   means   ,   car   ..   to   ,   you   know   ,   be   positive   and   hopeful   ,   and   shit   .   bringing   up   the   past   isn't   gonna   help   with   that   .   "   but   she   clearly   doesn't   agree   ,   bringing   up   his   mother   and   the   pr   relationship   he'd   been   thrust   into   by   his   manager   .   frowns   down   at   her   ,   gaze   boring   into   hers   as   he   tries   to   talk   her   off   of   hypothetical   cliff   ,   "   my   mom   doesn't   like   anybody   ,   that's   kind   of   her   thing   .   she's   just   ..   like   that   ,   i   told   you   that   back   then   ,   too   .   she   doesn't   think   anyone's   good   enough   for   me   ,   even   somebody   who's   perfect   .   "   like   her   .   "   and   julieta   was   nothin'   to   me   ,   and   i   was   nothing   to   her   .   i   know   that   must've   felt   terrible   but   that's   why   you   don't   read   that   stuff   ..   i   don't   .   i   learned   not   to   a   long   time   ago   .   "   it's   easier   said   than   done   ,   and   deep   down   ,   he   realizes   that   but   he's   clinging   onto   his   desperation   to   see   this   through   .   "   i   never   wanted   you   to   be   my   secret   --   i   still   don't   .   you   don't   have   to   .   we   can   figure   it   out   and   make   it   work   .   we   can   .   "   fingers   tighten   on   her   chin   ,   but   he   can   tell   that's   he   losing   her   ..   that   she's   slipping   through   his   fingers   all   over   again   despite   just   getting   her   back   sheer   minutes   ago   .   well   ,   not   fully   back   but   it   was   a   start   .   swallows   around   the   tightness   forming   in   his   throat   and   nods   ,   emitting   a   breath   .   "   i'm   not   giving   up   .   "   says   stubbornly   ,   eyes   trailing   along   her   face   ,   "   i'll   respect   your   wishes   and   boundaries   but   ..   i'm   not   letting   this   go   .   we   can   be   friends   ,   sure   ,   but   that   doesn't   mean   it's   gonna   stay   that   way   forever   .   "

what’s   important   is   this   ,   right   now   .   why   can’t   we   focus   on   that   ?   she’s   looking   at   him   like   he   grew   a   second   head   ,   manicured   brows   knitting   together   over   hazels   .   is   he   serious   ?   does   he   not   see   why   she’s   bringing   it   up   ?   “   right   ,   so   we   don’t   ,   and   just   pretend   like   everything   is   going   to   be   all   sunshine   and   rainbows   –   or   whatever   .   ”   sounds   bitter   ,   gaze   now   avoids   his   .   she’s   moving   ,   leaning   back   against   her   vehicle   as   arms   defensively   crossing   over   her   chest   .   “   how   do   you   want   me   to   forget   about   all   the   extra   bullshit   ?   ”   looks   at   him   finally   ,   hues   finding   his   ,   “   your   mother   never   liked   me   ,   the   whole   fucking   world   thought   you   were   with   some   other   girl   and   i   had   to   –   god   ,   i   had   to   see   what   everyone   said   about   you   two   ..   how   much   they   loved   seeing   you   with   her   .   ”   sad   laugh   falls   from   her   lips   ,   and   she’s   running   her   digits   through   her   hair   .   and   i'm   not   dating   that   girl   ,   by   the   way   .   she’s   guiding   her   gaze   to   his   ,   digits   curling   around   her   chin   ,   forcing   her   to   look   at   him   ,   and   just   as   hues   lock   with   his   ,   she’s   speaking   up   .   “   it   did   matter   to   me   .   ”   tells   him   ,   “   it   matter   a   whole   lot   .   do   you   know   how   difficult   it   was   for   me   to   see   you   with   her   ?   to   pretend   like   –   like   we   were   nothing   out   in   public   ?   to   be   your   secret   ?   ”   allows   words   to   hang   in   the   air   ,   before   saying   …   “   i   don’t   want   to   be   your   secret   anymore   ,   scotty   .   ”   needs   to   protect   herself   ,   to   think   of   what   would   be   best   for   her   ,   so   carina   insists   ,   “   i   won’t   be   .   so   if   we   become   friends   again   ,   we’re   staying   friends   .   that’s   all   we’re   gonna   be   .   ”   even   if   she   misses   him   desperately   .

[good-enemy]

Finally started watching severance, I'm a few episodes in and I have several questions, first off why does Helly only seem to own 1 pair of shoes

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN