#posts that will have approximately three notes

[woradat]

just wonder.. will you write for rodimus? 🥺 I mean, that jump-to-your-soul pic of him have to mean something right??

also do you take any req?

Done with your ex

SUMMARY – just an ego through the roof captain and his ex on the same ship, long trip together

PAIRING – rodimus x reader

NOTE – you take a hint huh. What are you, a government spy? I'm already working on him for a while now. And yes, I do a requests. You can see the rules/details in the pinned post. I just added+edit about few day ago

The loading ramp of the Lost Light hissed open like the universe itself was trying to be dramatic

Rodimus barely glanced up. He was in the middle of arguing with Swerve about whether installing retractable flame decals on the hull would count as 'atmospheric augmentation" or just "unnecessary and definitely going to kill us"

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his optic—and everything in his CPU short-circuited

There you were

Striding up the ramp like you owned it. Like you hadn’t ghosted out of his life with nothing but a pointed sentence and that half-smile that always meant checkmate. Like you hadn’t once told him—flatly, and with clinical precision—that loving him felt like "trying to put a fire out with gasoline"

And dammit if you didn’t look exactly the same. Polished. Poised. Primed for war and polite company. Elegant as ever. Calm as a sunset before a Category Five energon storm

You weren’t flash, never were—but you had that aura. That smooth, coiled presence like a vibroblade sheathed in silk. Oh the look—that faint, unreadable smile like you knew something he didn’t and were gracious enough to let him flounder in ignorance. That same neutral expression you used when pretending not to judge the tactical decisions of people clearly beneath your IQ range. That same stride that said “I’ve already calculated the probability of this going sideways and I brought snacks"

Rodimus froze, his spark dropped so hard it might’ve left a dent in his internals ‘No. Nope. Absolutely not!’

It couldn’t be you

Except, of course, it was. Because the universe loved poetic suffering and apparently it was his turn to monologue through one. He stared. You stared back. Unbothered. Professional. Radiating the exact same emotional energy as someone walking past their ex at a high-society gala—with better posture and zero regrets

Rodimus blinked so hard his optic lens recalibrates “What— what are you doing here?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned to him with a look that was one part serene and two parts smug, tilted your helm slightly. That little angle that always meant “I heard that. I’m just choosing violence later” Your voice, when it came, was like silk over sharpened steel

“Captain. How lovely to see you again”

“You’ve got to be—this is—no. Nope. Absolutely not”

Ultra Magnus appeared like a summoned ghost behind you, arms crossed, expression stiffer than a rusted gear “As I explained in my three prior reports, they’ve been appointed to the crew as strategic analyst”

Rodimus blinked "Three reports?"

“High-level pattern recognition. Crisis forecasting, multi-factional battle simulations, inter-faction negotiation” Magnus went on, tone flatter than the C.I.C. floor “They’ve been correct approximately 91.3% of the time. Statistically, that qualifies them as one of the best. They will be a valuable addition”

You gave a modest nod. Like someone who totally didn’t memorize those numbers already “Besides” you added smoothly

“I’m here for work. Nothing more. You can unclench now, Captain”

Rodimus looked like someone had just served him a steaming mug of his own poor life choices “Right. Work. Of course. Just work. Nothing else weird about this at all. Nope. Totally chill"

You stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that your electromagnetic field skimmed his. Cool, clean, unreadable. Like an encrypted data packet wrapped in charm and sarcasm

“You always did have trouble being chill” you murmured “Still trying to solve everything by flying straight into it?”

“But don’t worry, captain. I’m not here to relive the past”

Rodimus sputtered. Behind him, Swerve audibly choked on a laugh “Oh, Primus, it is the ex. The one who called him ‘reckless with delusions of grandeur' I thought that was a metaphor”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. Just tilted your helm, optics flicked to him—neutral. But your smirk said “I win”

And with that, you turned and start walking down the hall—measured, composed, calculating—like a battlefield was unfolding beneath your pedes and you’d already chosen where all the pieces would fall – Rodimus stared after you like he’d just watched his worst mistake reappear in haute couture and get a standing ovation, as if to twist the energon dagger in his spark just a little further, you said—without turning back

“And for the record… I liked you better before you started trying to be respectable

Rodimus stood frozen, expression somewhere between awe, horror, and very mild arousal

“This is fine” he said out loud “This is great.. This is the best worst day I’ve ever had”

“Wanna talk about it?” Swerve offered

“Wanna be spaced through an airlock?”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes” Drift said, suddenly beside him. Rodimus jumped like he’d been caught digging through a black ops file “I’m not spying..!” “Sure” Drift glanced pointedly at the window “Just… monitoring morale with your face pressed against the glass?” Rodimus shoved a blank datapad into his hands "I’m checking their reassignment logs! That’s normal. Curiosity is normal” "You could just ask” “I can’t just ask! What if they think I still care?” “Rodimus, you’re literally stalking them through a wall" Rodimus made a noise somewhere between static and a dying turbo-ratchet “Okay, fine. Then you ask”

“Me?” “Yeah. You’ve got that wise monk aura. People think your invasive questions are… philosophical" Drift gave him a look so dry it might’ve been illegal in five star systems “If they throw something at me” he said, turning to leave “I’m blaming you”

Rodimus was not asking

He was simply conducting a targeted data acquisition exercise. Command-level intel. Tactical morale assessment. Strategic background audit on one of his newest officers. Perfectly normal captain things. Not weird. Not personal. Absolutely not fueled by the gnawing ache of unresolved emotional abandonment

“So” he began, too casually, sidling up to the corner of Swerve’s bar where Drift was trying to enjoy a moment of monk-like silence and absolutely not entertain any of Rodimus’s mid-spark crises “hypothetically—if someone used to date someone, and that someone got assigned to their ship without, say, any warning whatsoever, that would be… strange, right?”

“Strange. Uncomfortable. Emotionally volatile” Drift didn’t even look up from his cup “So yes. Very you”

Rodimus scoffed. Loudly. Overcompensating “This isn’t about me”

“Of course not” Drift said blandly “We’re speaking in totally neutral hypotheticals about your insanely sharp, tactically brilliant, emotionally impenetrable ex who now occupies a front-row seat in every strategy meeting like an elegantly silent death sentence”

Rodimus’s scowl could have curdled energon “They’re not that elegant”

“They once ended a meeting by folding a datachip in half. With one hand. While smiling”

Rodimus muttered something under his breath about “intimidation tactics” and “showoffs”. Drift, clearly bored of the deflection game, pulled up a datapad with a flick of the wrist—graceful, like a librarian about to ruin your life “Alright. Let’s see what your not at all relevant ex has been up to post-breakup…”

Rodimus leaned in. But not like he cared. More like he was... intellectually engaged. Professionally intrigued. Possibly a little nauseous

“They worked under Prowl"

“PROWL?! You mean—rules incarnate? Mister ‘Let’s Commit War Crimes But Quietly’ !?”

“The one and only” Drift confirmed smoothly “High-level strategy corps. Joint command ops. Dozens of successful missions. Commendations for tactical elegance, command precision—”

“Okay, okay, you can stop reading their résumé, this isn’t a talent show” Rodimus began to pace, movements sharp and erratic like a hovercraft trying to salsa “They worked with me and said I was reckless, but then they go partner up with Prowl? That sentient flowchart? Seriously?”

Drift was already sipping again “Maybe they like the quiet, measured type now. The kind who doesn’t detonate their own escape pod just to spell ‘hello’ in midair”

“That happened one time”

“And it was somehow still in the mission report”

Rodimus groaned into his hands. He imagined you and Prowl standing next to each other, talking shop, making flawless tactical adjustments while not even blinking at each other — It was horrible. It was clinical. It was worse than anything he could’ve imagined

“What else?” he asked, in the voice of someone about to regret every answer

Drift’s optics flicked “They turned down a permanent command position. Said they wanted a ‘change of pace' ”

“—So… they chose this ship. My ship”

“Seems that way”

“Knowing I was the captain”

“Still seems that way”

Rodimus blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again, slower. Like it would change the data “So what you’re telling me is: either they’ve secretly forgiven me and came to rekindle the flame—”

“Highly unlikely”

“—or they came here to watch me fail up close, with popcorn in hand and a tactical spreadsheet”

“That one sounds more plausible”

Rodimus placed both hands dramatically on the bartop and huffed. Dramatically. Theatrically. The only way he could before he declared, straightening up “I’m fine.. I’m a professional. This is my ship. I am not threatened by my ex working with a glorified calculator"

...

..

“…Do you think they ever kissed?”

“Please go to therapy”

—

The outpost was still burning behind you

Fires licked at twisted steel frames and shattered windowpanes, the heat rippling off slagged ground like a second atmosphere. The smoke stung your optics, even with the filters on, but you didn’t blink. Hot Rod stood a few paces away, armor scorched and mouth set in that stubborn line that always came right before he said something reckless. You didn’t give him the chance

“What were you thinking?” Your voice was level. Too level. The kind of calm that meant someone was furious. Hot Rod flinched. Not visibly—but you knew the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker in his EM field when he was caught “I saved them”

He said “I had to”

“You disobeyed a coordinated strategy, blew through our cover, and almost got yourself killed—again”

He looked at you now. Really looked. Heat still clung to him like a second skin, optics burning, frame vibrating with leftover adrenaline. And somewhere underneath all that fire was a flicker of… confusion. As if he still didn’t understand why you weren’t proud of him

“But it worked”

“That’s not the point”

You turned to face him fully, field tightening, anger settling into your shoulders like weight “You’re not a one-mech army, Hot Rod. You’re not invincible. You can’t keep throwing yourself into every explosion and expecting everyone else to clean up after you”

He stepped forward, hands half-raised “I did it to protect other”

“No. You did it because you wanted to be seen protecting other”

There it was. The silence after a sharp cut. His optics widened, and for a moment you saw it, that bare, wounded flicker of a spark hit too close to the truth. But he covered it with bravado—because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did “So that’s it? You think I’m just some attention seeking show off?”

“I think you’re brave. I think you’re passionate. I think you’ll make a great hero one day–”

“..But I also think you’ll never learn how to lead, if you can’t learn how to listen” That hit deeper than the last shot he’d taken in the field

He turned away, jaw locked, fists clenched “So what, then?” he said, voice tight

“You’re walking away? Just like that?”

You hesitated—but only for a moment “I don’t want to. But I can’t spend my life patching up the aftermath of every decision you make on impulse –You always dive first and ask questions later. And I.. I want to build something that lasts. Not chase something that burns” you admitted softly

The silence between you was long and cruel —without another word—you stepped back. Hot Rod didn’t stop you. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what hurt the most

After the breakup with Hot Rod, you took a high-ranking strategic position under Prowl—not romantically, but deeply professionally and intellectually tense

Prowl respected your mindset but hated your moral flexibility and tendency to “go rogue if the math is prettier that way” You – in turn, found Prowl’s rigid morality fascinating and enjoyed poking holes in his logic — Their relationship was legendary among staff—half strategy meetings, half philosophy battles. You both made an unstoppable duo on paper. But behind closed doors?

“That is not regulation protocol”

“Neither is surviving half the war. I’ll take my odds”

Eventually, you left when the war ended, saying something like: “If I stay any longer, I’ll either become you or throw you out an airlock. Neither’s ideal”

The medbay lights flickered once before steadying again. Outside, the sky over the outpost glowed red with the aftermath of an explosion. You stood at the outside, arms crossed, helm tilted just enough to convey “I’m not mad, but I’m seconds away from strangling you with my own field”

The door hissed open with a battered flair, and there he was—Hot Rod in all his half-scorched, grinning, chaos-stained glory. One arm was covered in carbon scoring. His left shoulder was leaking a thin trickle of energon. There was what looked like a thruster casing lodged in his hip plate

And he was still smiling. Of course he was

“You should’ve seen it” Hot Rod said, voice bouncing with adrenaline “I looped around the ridge, came in low—boom! Took out the flank in one go. Didn’t even need backup”

You didn’t look up from your datapad “You told me you’d follow the plan”

“Technically, I did. For the first ten seconds”

“And after that?”

“...It got boring?”

You set the datapad down. Slowly

Hot Rod’s grin twitched “It worked, didn’t it?” he said, stepping closer “Mission success. I’m standing. The ridge is rubble. Everyone’s cheering”

“You nearly didn’t come back”

You stared at him—really stared. All that molten gold, still burning in his optics. His armor still warm from the blast. That stupid, crooked grin he wore like a shield

“You know I hate improvising. Not because it’s reckless. But because it’s you. You gamble like your life isn’t worth anything”

“Hey, come on—”

“Rod”

That landed. His grin faltered for real now

“I’m serious. Every time you run off-script, it’s like you’re testing fate. And I’m the one stuck writing the damage report” You stepped closer, thumb brushing a burn mark near his jaw. The scorch made your spark ache a little. He leaned into your touch without thinking. Like a reflex. Like your hand on his face was the only real thing in the place

“One of these days” you murmured “you’ll pull that stunt and I won’t be there to drag your aft out”

“That’s not true” he said softly

“No?”

“You’d come back for me. Always”

You wanted to argue. But you couldn’t. Not really. Because even now—even furious, even worn out—you were here. And when he leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth his head dipped low down to your jaw, kissing soft like apology, you let him. His hands found your waist. Familiar. Easy. A rhythm you both still remembered

“You love it when I push my luck” he said into your helm

“I love you, Roddy. That doesn’t mean I love watching you destroy yourself”

That hit harder than a mine to the chest. He didn’t pull away. Just held you tighter. You sighed, pressing your faceplate against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly like ozone and energon. Still radiated that wild, sun-hot energy that made you both love and fear him

“Next time” you said into the space between you “you disobey a field order, I’m duct-taping you to Ultra Magnus”

“...Kinky”

You laughed. Just a little. Couldn’t help it “Don’t make me regret loving you”

There was a long silence. No snappy comeback. No flirt. Just a stillness that made your spark ache. His arms tightened around you and for one fleeting, fragile moment—you let yourself believe this would last

—

You are alone in the quiet of the hallway. Staring at the window, the stars wheeling slowly past beyond the glass. It wasn't dramatic solitude—you weren't hiding. Just… decompressing. That was all. Your optics drifted to your own reflection—faint, transparent, caught in the black

And for some damn reason, his voice echoed there instead

“You'd come back for me. Always"

Primus

You let your head fall back with a soft thunk against the reinforced wall. He wasn't wrong

You had come back. Not for him—never that, never openly. But… well. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to avoid the Lost Light, either. And when Magnus had offered the post? You could've said no. You didn't and now here you were. Sharing meetings. Sharing air. Sharing old ghosts

Your fingers tapped against your datapad in a slow, guilty rhythm

“Stupid charming idiot with fire in his optics and no sense of self-preservation” you muttered under your breath. You knew that smile he gave you in the last meeting. Knew it like a habit you never quite kicked and the worst part? That stupid little ember in your spark still glowed when he looked your way

“Okay. Fine. He was right” You let out a small, strangled sound through your vents

Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Just the noise of someone on the edge of "Why am I like this?" and "I could still jump out the airlock and make it look like strategy” You pressed your head lightly against the cool surface of the wall. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the metal and imagine it was hitting you back. No matter how reckless he was. No matter how much he grinned like the universe owed him forgiveness. No matter how much it still ached when you looked at him and remembered the way things used to be. You stood upright again with a snap of your shoulders and a squint of righteous self-annoyance

“Next time he he opens that mouth" you mumbled “I’m going to verbally gut him. Real clean. Sharp. Professional. Something with bite, doubling the sarcasm. Go for the ego. Aim for the hair fins. That’ll shut him up" You narrowed your optics at your reflection—your own face looking smug in the glass “He gets one more pass. After that, I’m escalating. He’s going to wish I never came back”

“Stars, I hope he does that thing with his optics again though…” and maybe—maybe—if you kept throwing enough barbs, you could stop remembering how it felt when he held you like that and made you believe the fire wouldn’t burn

You buried your face in your hand

“..I need therapy"

[playgroundeyes]

ANDREW JOSEPH WHITE BOOKS AS WEIRDLY SPECIFIC AESTHETICS:

Hell followed with us: chunks of flesh rotting on the ground, visible stitches still in, a wild dog lingering near them, too scared to come closer but oh so hungry, the smell of burned camera film

The spirit bares its teeth: slick blood on cracked, black ice, the slippery feeling of wet bone against wood, thick, heavy curtains obstructing the light and sound of the outside world from coming in, a perfect silver spoon, rusting in the edges

Compound fracture: little bits of fractured broken teeth and rib mixed into the gravel of an old hiking trail, the creaking of the trees at night and the red glow of light against wild animal eyes

[ceramini]

✦ STRONG ENOUGH TO RUIN YOU

pairing 𐐪𐑂 gym instructor!sunghoon x afab!reader

word count 𐐪𐑂 approximately 1.2k words (dw im working on making my fics longer)

genre 𐐪𐑂 smut, slow burn, instructor/client tension, fluff, dom!sunghoon, MDNI 18+

synopsis ───── you sign up for personal training thinking it’ll be a harmless way to finally stay consistent. you didn’t expect sunghoon, your cocky, too-pretty, too-hands-on gym instructor who makes you forget how to breathe mid-stretch. what starts with harmless corrections and tension-filled check-ins quickly unravels into something you can’t control. or hide.

nini’s note 🗒️ this is like INCREDIBLY over due (in terms of posting for sunghoon despite him being my wrecker..), but I just saw those photos of sunghoon in the gym and my mind is running. im actually foaming at the mouth he is so fine and his arms are like so big I want him to choke me hard im not even lying also i like how all the enha writers are just going feral abt those pics, I’ve seen like 3 of these already 😭😭.. remember 2 enjoy responsibly + comments, likes & reblogs are very much appreciated <33

𓋜 if want to read something else, check out the ꕀ LIBRARY

You weren’t even supposed to pick him.

There were three trainers available when you signed up. All perfectly qualified, all recommended. You picked the one who didn’t have 40k followers on Instagram. The one who wasn’t always in the mirror with his shirt off. The one who didn’t look like a boyband idol who accidentally wandered into a squat rack.

So why the hell were you stuck with Park Sunghoon?

“Looks like you’re with me now,” he’d said that first day, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You knew what that meant.

What you didn’t expect was how good he’d be at his job.

Firm, focused, never distracted, even when your breathing stuttered, even when his palm slid to your lower back and your brain short-circuited. He’d press your shoulders down, tap your thighs, adjust your grip with long, capable fingers. Always murmuring soft corrections like:

“Back straight, baby.”

“Stay with me.”

“Just like that. You’re getting better.”

He always said your name like it tasted sweet.

And now here you were, halfway through week five, sitting on the gym floor with your thighs trembling, heart in your throat, and his hand still on your waist.

“Need help stretching it out?” he says, voice low.

You should say no.

Instead, you nod.

You’re on your back. Hips tilted. One leg bent.

Sunghoon is kneeling beside you, gently moving your leg across your body as he leans over.

“Relax,” he murmurs, fingers firm on your outer thigh. “Let me guide you.”

You swear his voice gets lower every time he touches you. A slow, patient growl. You squeeze your eyes shut as the stretch deepens.

“Good girl,” he says suddenly. “Just breathe.”

Oh fuck.

You don’t know what part of your body clenches first.

“You always tense up when I say that,” he muses, amused.

You peek one eye open. He’s grinning. Smirking.

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says, stroking up your leg with his thumb. “But it’s okay. It’s cute.”

You shove his shoulder weakly. He doesn’t move an inch. You feel his grip tighten, just slightly.

“You know,” he says softly, “you’ve been a real good client. You always listen. Always do what I tell you.”

There’s a pause.

“Would you keep listening if I told you to spread your legs for me?”

Silence. Then—

You do.

Without a word. Breath shaking. Core throbbing.

Sunghoon’s eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I thought so.”

You’re up against the mirror.

His fingers are inside you.

Your cheek is pressed to the glass, the fog of your breath smudging your reflection. His body is flush behind you, strong, firm, solid, guiding your hips back into his hand, where he’s curling his fingers in slow, purposeful strokes.

“See how pretty you look?” he whispers, biting your ear. “Can you see how wet you are?”

You whimper. He speeds up.

You try to close your legs but he clicks his tongue.

“Ah—uh uh. Don’t run. Let me stretch you, baby.”

He spreads his fingers. You gasp.

“Already so tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock. You gonna take me like a good girl?”

You nod frantically.

“You want me that bad?”

“Sunghoon, please—”

He leans forward, lips against your jaw.

“Beg.”

You’re already halfway gone. Voice cracked. Mind empty.

“Please fuck me. Please—need it so bad—I’ll be good—”

You cry out as his palm lands against your ass, sharp and quick.

He groans behind you.

“Then get on the bench.”

The workout bench is cold on your skin.

You’re bent over it now, cheek pressed to the padding, thighs parted the way he told you. Your leggings are halfway down, soaked through, your body still trembling from his fingers.

Sunghoon stands behind you, breathing heavy, a flush spreading down his chest, biceps flexing as he strokes himself, slow and hard.

“God, look at this fucking ass,” he growls, palming the curve of your hip. “You really let me do this here?”

You nod, whimpering. “Wanted you— wanted this—”

He leans over, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks. Every time you show up in those tiny shorts, acting shy—”

His cock presses between your folds and you gasp, arching.

He slides it through your slick, groaning.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. All for me?”

You can barely answer. He slaps your ass again— not hard, just enough to make you flinch.

“Answer me, baby.”

“All—fuck—all for you, Hoon.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice. It’s high, messy. You’re already unraveling, and he hasn’t even put it in yet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now take it.”

He sinks in slowly.

Not teasing, not fast, just… deep.

You both moan when he bottoms out. One hand grips your hip, the other slides under your stomach to press against your clit.

“You’re so tight,” he says against your spine, voice wrecked. “Fucking perfect.”

You cry out as he starts moving, steady thrusts, grinding into that spot that makes your knees buckle. His cock fills you completely, like it was made for you, and his abs brush your back every time he presses forward.

“Shit, you’re taking me so good—” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Let me ruin you, baby. Let me make you forget your own name.”

You do.

You can’t say anything but his name. Over and over again.

“Hoon—Hoon, please—please—”

He grabs your hair, pulling you back so you see your fucked-out reflection in the mirror.

“Look,” he growls. “That’s what I do to you. That’s what you look like when I fuck you dumb.”

You’re already crying a little, not from pain, but from the overwhelm. He notices, slows down just slightly.

“You okay?”

You nod frantically. “More—please don’t stop—need you—”

He wipes your tears with a shaky hand, eyes dark.

“Yeah? You want me to break you, baby?”

You say yes so fast he laughs, but it’s breathless, desperate, like he’s just as gone.

“Say it again.”

“Break me, Sunghoon.”

He grabs your wrists, pins them behind your back, and lets go.

You’re cock drunk by the time he starts whispering praise.

“Taking me so good—god, you were made for this.”

“Such a perfect little body—fuck, I’ve been dreaming of this.”

“Gonna cum for me? Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

You’re gone. You can’t stop shaking.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me. Make a mess.”

You do, hard. Loud. Full-body, leg-shaking, soul-leaving climax. You scream his name, you cry, your body locks up around his cock like it never wants to let go.

Sunghoon loses it.

“Fuck—fuckfuck—gonna fill you up, baby—shit—”

He buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, hips jerking, hands gripping you so tight you’ll probably bruise. You can feel him twitching inside you, groaning against your shoulder, dropping messy kisses onto your back as he rides out the wave.

He pulls out slow, hands still gentle, watching your cunt drip with his cum.

“Shit,” he says softly. “That was—fuck.”

You just lay there, legs spread, brain fried.

Sunghoon grabs a towel, wipes you clean, helps you sit up. He kisses your temple, holds your face in both hands.

“Was that okay?” he asks, genuinely.

You nod, tears still drying on your cheeks.

He kisses you again, soft this time. No smirk. No games.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he murmurs. “Even if this doesn’t mean anything. Even if it’s just once.”

You blink. “You think I’d let you hit raw and not mean it?”

He laughs, then kisses you again, and this one feels like a promise.

TAGLIST ───── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto @jinxedly @seokjinthescientist @hoonprksung @eunvyue <3 you can join my taglist through this doc! —> here

[witherby]

HI HI. SAME ANON :33anon here!!!

omg???? jfc christ? that was so good im shaking my cup for more 😭 i think the fact my ask is being used as a power shower is silly... i love it keep up the good work!

(side note ive done metamorphosis may i be 🎆anon.... i will be yapping at you on a later date o7)

Welcome to the club 🎆 I am smooching ur cheek

Hahaha...wouldn't it be so silly....if I used your ask again.....to post the second part hahahaha.....isn't that the silliest idea hahahaha.........

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 2 of 2)

Masterlist is Here!

"Let me make sure I've got this straight."

Everyone stiffens in their seats. When Batman says things like that, it means he is very, very close to yelling. Batman never yells unless his patience has reached its limit, his emotional threshold has bubbled over, or he hasn't slept in over six consecutive days. Given his usual activities, it could very well be a combination of the three, and the current situation is not helping.

"You —" he points a gauntleted finger at Manhunter, "— realized my child was showing signs of developing their powers six weeks ago, and told no one."

He turns to Superman and Diana next, talking through clenched teeth.

"And then you two, today, realized the same thing, indirectly told them they would no longer have a place in my home, and then they vanished under your cape."

He places his hands on the meeting table. Inhales. Exhales.

"No one attempted to reach out and express their concerns to me, the father, in either incident."

He slams his fists on the table. The wood splinters under the impact. Everyone flinches with it.

"AND NOW MY CHILD IS MISSING! DID I FORGET ANYTHING? DID I LEAVE ANYTHING OUT!?"

The silence afterwards is deafening. Bruce yanks his cowl off and slams it to the floor, running his hands through his hair.

"The Watchtower is under lockdown until further notice. We do not leave until either I find my kid, or I figure out how to track them down."

"Batman," the Flash chimes in, "I feel for you. This is a bad situation, but we can't all stay here; I have to —"

Bruce rounds the table and crowds Barry into his seat with near-inhuman speed. His eyes are wide and wild and his teeth are bared.

"We do not leave until I find them."

The lights briefly turn red and an automated voice comes over the intercom, alerting them that lockdown protocols have initiated. The heroes watch as blast shields cover the windows and the Zeta tubes deactivate, effectively blocking their only ways out.

Green Lantern re-enters the room from the observation deck with a determined expression.

"Checked the monitors and surrounding galaxy. Skies are clear, and earth-side we should be fine for at least a couple hours, so I went ahead and triggered the protocol."

"Hal!" Barry protests. "C'mon, I'm gonna be late to work again! It's not as easy for some of us to maintain our civilian covers, you know!"

"Well, then it sounds like we gotta find our missing Mouse fast."

Bruce presses a button on his gauntlet and pulls a small ball out of it, rolling it to the center of the table. A hologram screen pops up and shows a picture of you sitting in Tim's lap and enthusiastically looking at something on his computer with him. To the right of the image, a wall of text begins to appear, detailing observations made about your growth, health, and development of your powers.

"You already knew," Diana mutters, like the words have been punched out of her. Clark holds his head in his hands.

"Why didn't you tell us then, huh?" Oliver frowns. "Didn't think we could benefit from that information?"

"My child, my discretion," Bruce hisses. That shuts Ollie right back up. "This is everything I've been able to passively observe about their ability. They can latch onto any shadows in their immediate vicinity, up to a range of approximately one hundred feet, and until now has only used them for pathfinding, like solving puzzles or looking for small objects. What just happened today with Superman's cape is the first discovered instance of them being able to traverse into darkness itself."

"That's why the Watchtower is locked down," J'onn realizes. "If they can only travel so far with the shadows, chances are high that they're still in here."

"Yes."

"How do we pull them out if we find them?" Arthur speaks up, arms crossed. "Last I checked, no one else has shadow powers."

"Do what you can without risking injury to them or yourselves. If you can talk them out, that will be the ideal tactic. Any more questions?" Bruce waits a few seconds for anyone to speak up, then dismisses the holo-screen and rises to his full height. "Then everyone fan out, cast some shadows, and get to work."

--

Arthur is having no luck. He checks the furniture that was already casting shadows, like tables and beds and appliances, to no avail. Calling to you and feeling around those dark spaces isn't gonna get him anywhere.

Clark and Diana had picked up his cape and hunkered down under the fabric, gingerly asking you to please come out, Uncle Clark and Auntie Di are very sorry they implied what they did, they never meant to scare you, please please please come back.

Barry is zipping around the whole tower, checking high spaces and low, calling for you with a mixture of urgency and concern.

Ollie uses his body to cast a shadow under the fluorescent lighting and Dinah crouches in the space of it, patting the ground gently and urging you to appear. She insists everyone is worried and looking for you because they want you to be safe.

Bruce is frantic. He's visually very composed, but Hal can see the tremble in his hands as he slowly and methodically checks every single shadow he can find or create for signs of you.

"Bruce," Hal mutters, watching him check his cape for the fifteenth time in just as many minutes. "Bruce, sit down and breathe for a bit."

"Don't mention breathing," Bruce snaps. "This is unprecedented. I'm working with zero useful information and three of my teammates contributed to this situation in the first place. Can they just exist in darkness forever, or is there a limit before they get spit back out? Can they even get back out? Is there oxygen wherever they are? Are they safe or in any kind of distress? If you don't have answers to these questions or haven't found them yet, I don't want you talking to me."

He turns to check his cape again and almost runs right into J'onn.

"There was a shadow moving in the training room," he noted. "When I approached to investigate, it melted away. I found it important to tell you that Flittermouse seems to be active and uninjured judging by the ease in which that shadow moved."

The Manhunter leaves them again, phasing through the walls to continue searching for you. Bruce pulls his gloves off and rubs his face, sighing.

"Hal."

"I forgive you," comes the immediate reply. Hal places a hand on Bruce's back and offers him a thin smile. "You're a dad who's scared for your four-year-old kid. I think you're entitled to a little bit of bitchiness."

Bruce hums.

"Just a little bit, though. Like fifteen percent more bitch than your baseline. Which is to say, if you talk to me like that again I'm going to make a giant cartoon hammer and beat you to death with it."

Both men hear you giggle. Their heads whip around in the direction of the sound, and find a small, child-shaped shadow moulded into the corner. It's a strange thing, to look at a shadow with no source. It would be frightening if it wasn't you.

"Mouse?" Bruce immediately calls, stepping towards you. The giggling stops and the shadow shrinks. He crouches down, palms extended. "No no no! Don't go, don't go anywhere, please. Can I talk to you?"

You don't respond. Bruce isn't entirely sure if you can, in your current form. You haven't run away yet, however, so he inches just a bit closer.

"I'm...there's...." He stops and starts, searching for the best words to use. "Mouse, there was a misunderstanding. No one is making you leave. I'm not going to give you up or send you away, I promise."

"...m e t a h u m a n..." you mutter. Both Bruce and Hal shiver. It sounds like darkness itself whispering directly into their ears, faint and echoing and all-encompassing.

"Yes, that's what people with skills like yours are called," he confirms.

Your shadow doesn't move for a while. Bruce shuffles closer, palms extended, and is about to ask you to come out, but then your entire form wobbles and starts shrinking even more.

"...n o m e t a s i n G o t h a m..." you say, and the sadness in your voice is so potent Hal has to brace himself against the wall.

"No!" Bruce says, pressing his palm against the wall just a second too late. You dissolve and disappear. "That's not — ffffffuck."

He presses his forehead to the wall and closes his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to avoid screaming. It takes a while.

"They're not going to talk to me," he eventually says. "They're scared of me, of that damned rule I —"

He cuts himself off and rubs a hand down his face.

"You have to do it."

"Me? Specifically?" Hal asks.

"You're their favorite uncle." Bruce pushes himself off the floor and rests his hand on Hal's forearm. "They adore you. They ask when you're going to visit Gotham again all the time. If anybody's gonna get them to understand that they're not in any trouble or danger of losing their family because of something I did, it's gonna be you."

"Whoa. No pressure," Hal says. He knows it's true though — you absolutely adore Hal, and the feeling is mutual. You feel almost like his own kid. He's just as scared as Bruce is about your current situation. "Okay...alright, I got this. Listen, tell the others that Mouse probably isn't gonna come out for 'em. Go hang out in the meeting room and gimme an hour alone. I'll bring them back."

Bruce nods, but he seems hesitant to leave the part of the hall where they spotted your shadow. Hal gives him a small nudge and he eventually turns away, his boots clocking softly against the floor.

Hal inhales slowly, holds it, then exhales for a count of ten.

He's got this.

--

He does not have this. Hal walked into an empty corridor and flicked all the lights off, choosing to sit in the darkness and try calling out to you for almost thirty minutes. There's been no luck.

He sighs and uses his ring to construct a small bear, illuminating the immediate space around him in green, and makes it walk around.

"Y'know you used to love playing with my constructs," he murmurs. "We had this game I made up, where you would chase after whatever toy I made as fast as you could and try to catch it. I let you win a lot."

He makes a construct of you as a much smaller infant, not yet able to walk, crawling eagerly after the bear.

"You'd grab the little toy and hug it tight, and then come show me you got it. And I'd scoop you up and give you a cookie before we did it all again. We had to really tone down the cookie part because you got sick one time. Bruce made me sleep on the floor for a week. Not even one of the million couches in the manor. The floor. It was the worst."

He hears the surrounding darkness around him giggle. Hal leans against the wall and heaves a large, relieved sigh.

"Hey, kid," he says softly. "S'good to hear you."

You don't respond. He tries not to feel discouraged, instead seizing the opportunity presented.

"I'm not gonna ask you to come out, but if you don't mind...I'm kinda lonely. D'you think we could play that game again?"

Hal vanishes the constructs and makes a new one — a small, stuffed bat toy. He makes it flap its little wings and flop in circles.

"Think you can catch it? This one's a bit feisty."

Nothing happens for a few seconds. Hal feels himself growing nervous, and he's about to abandon the idea and suggest something else, but then the bat just vanishes. The construct is sucked up into the shadows, like darkness itself came up and hugged it into the void. A knot in his chest comes undone.

"That," he says, "was awesome. Okay, here's another one. Even feistier than the last."

This goes on for a while. Hal makes something for you to chase, you emerge from the dark just long enough to pull it in with you, and the process is rinse and repeat. Eventually, though, you come out of the shadows more and more, staying out of it longer and longer to chase around the conjured toys, until you're just tossing them into the shadows with gleeful little cheers.

"Got it!" You cry, jumping up to reach another one, this time shaped like an owl. You're panting from exertion and grinning widely at Hal, just standing and hugging it to your chest. "I win?"

"You win again," Hal agrees, expression painfully fond. He adores you wholeheartedly. "C'mere and get a victory hug, kid. Don't have any cookies on me, but we'll do a raincheck on that."

You go to him easily, practically collapsing in his lap, and rest your head against his chest while you idly pet the glowing owl toy. The area is bathed in dim green, enough to see each other without strain but still casting more than enough shadows for you to hide in again if you wanted.

"Fantastic job," Hal murmurs, kissing the top of your head. You nuzzle into his chest even more, hiding your face. "We definitely have to do that again some time. Don't you think?"

You start to nod, but the motion is jerky. You hesitate, then shrug, hugging the toy tighter.

"Oh, Mousey," he says, running his fingers through your hair. "You didn't think your powers would make Uncle Hal stop wanting to play with you, did ya?"

You slowly nod again, curling in on yourself.

"Well, that's just plain wrong. I love you, honey. Everybody loves you, y'know? You're smart, and adorable, and soooo much fun to be around," Hal insists, giving you a quick squeeze. Your mouth twitches like you're trying not to smile. "And it's gonna be way more fun now that you have cool shadow powers! Hide and seek might get a little challenging, but we'll make it work."

"...and Daddy?" You mutter. "Will he...want to play, too?"

"I know Daddy would love to play any game you wanted," Hal swore. "Daddy loves you more than anything in the whole wide world. And you know what else?"

"What?" You ask, lifting your head. You look at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows, hanging onto his every word.

"Sometimes Daddy makes mistakes. Like creating dumb rules he shoulda broke years ago."

You look away, snuggling further into Hal.

"What if...Daddy don't wanna break the rule?" You whisper.

Hal curls around you almost protectively, kissing your head again.

"Then he's a big, smelly dummy, and I'll take care of you instead," he promises. "You can live at my house, and I'll still bring you to the Watchtower to hang out with everyone and play games, and maybe, if you're extra good, I'll take you on vacation in outer space. I'll show you things you've never seen, like planets with four moons, and people as tall as skyscrapers, and space food that turns your hair all different colors. It'll explode your tiny head!"

"Nooo!" You giggle, grinning. "I don't want a exploded head!"

"Hmm...you drive a hard bargain kid," Hal says. "Okay, I won't give you explodey-head food. But only because you said so."

He lets you get your laughter out, then gently pats your back to regain your attention.

"I know you're very scared," he says, "but I promise this doesn't change the fact that you are so, so incredibly loved. I bet if you gave the others a chance, they'd be more than willing to prove it. Especially your dad."

You tighten your grip on the owl in your arms, bottom lip wobbling for a moment.

"Could you give him a chance, Mouse?" Hal asks. "If you don't want to, that's fine. We can work an arrangement out and always try again a different day. But I know he would be really, really excited to see you again."

You stare at Hal, face tight in contemplation. He waits patiently, continuing to rub small circles in your back.

His patience is rewarded when you bury your face in his chest again, nodding.

"Want daddy," you whisper. Hal settles you more securely in his arms and immediately rises to his feet, relishing the burst of satisfaction and relief in his chest.

He takes you back into the meeting room. Bruce immediately stands up from the table when he spots you curled up in Hal's embrace, hands twitching like he wants to hold you himself.

He moves with all the carefulness of someone approaching a wild animal. His face is uncharacteristically open, broadcasting his worry for you and relief that you're unharmed.

"Hi, sweet pea," Bruce mutters, silk-soft, and that's all it takes to make you start sobbing and reach for him. Your father doesn't hesitate, sweeping you up and giving assurance after assurance that you are just as treasured and loved as you've always been, that he is so happy to be your dad, that you belong in Gotham and that will never change no matter what.

The lockdown gets lifted from the Watchtower. Several heroes, after conveying their relief and gratitude over your safety, take their leave. Diana and Clark stay behind to apologize profusely, both to you and Bruce, for implying that you would ever be unwelcome in your own home just for being different. It's easy for you to forgive them, but Bruce is grinding his jaw a bit, so they excuse themselves for the night and take their leave.

"Well." Hal claps his hands together and yawns. "I'm ready for a drink and a bed. What do we say we hit the road, huh? C'mon, B, let's get Flittermouse back home. I've hit my daily quota for adventure."

Bruce nods, walking with you back to the Zeta tubes. You've already nodded off in his arms, drained from your stressful day.

"Thank you, Hal," he says, preparing to warp home. "Come by after the kids are in bed. Let me repay you properly."

"Y'know, normally I'd be all over that," Hal smirks, "but I'm seriously beat. Can I cash my reward in tomorrow?"

Bruce gives him a small smile. "Whenever you want. Come by anyway, if you like. We don't have to do anything."

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you later, then." Hal crosses his arms and relaxes against the corridor wall, smiling down at your dozing form. "You take care. Both of you."

Bruce thanks him again, disappearing in a flash of light. When Hal drops by later that evening, he finds his boyfriend asleep with you in his arms, clinging to his shirt and drooling on his chest as you coast peacefully in Dreamland.

Before joining the cuddle pile, he finds that sitting on the nightstand, written in a combination of pen and crayon, is a contract holding both yours and Bruce's signatures:

The rule against Metahumans in Gotham is hereby null and void forever and ever.

Signed by: Daddy & Mousey

[theonottsbxtch]

MISSION PISS OFF YOUR BROTHER | LN4

an: this was also a 2k celly thing i forgot to write/post i apolgise. enjoy a crack fic lol

wc: 585

request: can I please get a crack fic of lando and piastri!reader getting caught (I’m tryna thing of something outlandish here) stealing Oscar’s helmets or even something as petty as his water bottle just for fun and to get a reaction out of him 😭😭 and then obviously returning them lol

It started, as most stupid ideas did, in the McLaren motorhome kitchen at approximately half past bored.

Lando was leaning against the counter, sipping a sweet iced coffee he didn’t even like, and she was sitting on the worktop like she owned the place, legs swinging, staring into the fridge with the kind of intensity usually reserved for pit strategies.

"Do you reckon he’d notice?” she asked, head tilting. “If his bottle's missing?"

Lando raised an eyebrow. "Oscar?"

She gave a solemn nod. “He’s got that one he always uses. The white one. Bit scratched at the bottom. If I took it, he’d spiral.”

There was a pause, long enough to pretend they were considering not doing it, and then Lando grinned. “What if we take it... and leave clues. Like a ransom.”

She gasped, eyes lighting up. “With photos. Mysterious locations. Emotional manipulation.”

“You’re sick,” he said, admiringly. “Let’s do it.”

The first disappearance went unnoticed.

They’d expected a full investigation, maybe even a team-wide email. Instead, Oscar simply grabbed a different bottle and carried on like an emotionally stable person. Rude.

So they escalated.

Next to go: the helmet. Not his main one, obviously, they weren’t lunatics. But one of the perfectly-polished, display-only helmets that sat proudly in his driver’s room like a shrine to aerodynamic symmetry.

She stuffed it into a McLaren tote bag. Lando filmed it. He provided the soundtrack, mission: impossible theme hummed very badly.

They left a note behind. If you ever want to see your lid again, bring three oat biscuits and an honest compliment to Bay 3. No funny business.

By the time Oscar walked in and discovered it missing, Lando and she were hiding behind a storage crate nearby, watching on the CCTV screen above their heads like two deeply unserious goblins.

He stared at the note.

He blinked.

Then, slowly, he turned and said, “Are you two, are you actually mental?”

Lando almost gave them away by snorting.

Oscar didn’t follow the instructions, of course. He didn’t negotiate with helmet terrorists. So, naturally, they upped the ante again.

Helmet selfies began to appear around the garage. One of her wearing it while dramatically holding a banana like a gun. One of Lando pretending to cry while holding a sign: "He just wanted to race :("

They even Photoshopped one of the helmet in a bubble bath. It was disturbing. Artistic, but disturbing.

Oscar's eye twitched when he saw it.

"Right. I'm done." He stood up mid-lunch and declared, “I want my bloody helmet back. I don’t care if I have to call Zak.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Lando said, emerging from behind a curtain with the most guilty face imaginable.

Oscar pointed at him like he was summoning thunder. “Try me.”

Eventually, they returned everything.

The helmet was pristine. The water bottle had only a little glitter in it. Barely noticeable.

“Why do I let you in my life?” Oscar muttered as he inspected his things like they might be booby-trapped.

She beamed at him. “Because I’m family, and Lando’s too fast to catch.”

“That’s not even.” He stopped, looked at the bottle again. “Is this… lavender-scented?”

She shrugged. “Therapeutic.”

Oscar sighed the long, pained sigh of someone who realised this was his reality now.

Lando, who had somehow managed to stick googly eyes on the side of Oscar’s helmet mid-conversation, high-fived her behind his back.

It was, they decided, a mission well executed.

As Oscar has still not found the banana photo taped inside his locker.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine@obxstiles @dongyeonssimp @gr4cier4cie

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Masterpost and Prologue

dead on main fic, intro + four chapters.

Summary: The Red Hood starts off his righteous campaign with a lot of nerve but no legal identification that will let him behind the wheel of a car. Public transportation really doesn't have the panache he needs to start off as a fearsome crime lord, so he needs a driver. He finds Danny Fenton, a grungly college student trying not to be noticed by any government agencies or vigilantes.

to subscribe to this post, on mobile open the notes and click the bell on the upper right hand corner of the post. on desktop, open the notes at the bottom and press the bell on the right edge of the notes.

Links will be added to chapter list as the story posts. Chapter one will go up on July 14th. Updates are approximately every other day.

LINKS/ chapter count

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

prologue

“No, Habibi,” Talia said calmly into the phone. “I will not falsify you an American non-commercial driver's license for motor vehicles. If you cannot prove yourself to Gotham without American motor vehicle operating permissions, you will never prove yourself. Rise above this challenge.” Talia covered the phone for a second but he could hear her talking to someone else about tile options.

“It's an unnecessary challenge,” Jason argued, doing his level best not to let his tone go up. It was undignified to whine. He was a man now. “The important parts of the challenge are the tactical planning and the skills.”

Talia sounded like she was filing her nails. “Tactically plan to take the bus. Or walk. Walking is free and healthy.” 

Jason made an indignant sound but she mercilessly hung up. The worst! She made the top three of his worst mother figures, easily.

“She's just doing this so I can't go drinking.” He scowled into the air. “I don't even want to!” His voice broke mid whine, which was an insult to add to all the injuries visited upon him by the cruel whims of women who weren't even his legal guardian. He was an adult in most countries!

The worst part was that Talia didn't care about underage drinking. She just didn't want to hear shit about enabling him from Bruce when he eventually figured out that Jason was alive, 19, and in Gotham. His passport claimed he was 21 because it had to for him to travel alone, but she knew damn well no one used their passport as ID in bars. 

He couldn't just go get a license. Jason sulked viciously and threw himself into fixing his plans to accommodate for this. 

He was legally dead and living under a fake name. If he tried to sign up for the driving exam, it'd be too much scrutiny on his paperwork. But he was not taking the bus around as a crime lord. It lacked panache. More importantly, it didn't go where he wanted it to go.

Fine. He didn't need her help. He didn't need anyone's help. He just needed to download Uber. 

That was how Jason wound up wiping a mob lieutenant’s blood off of his hand onto his pants so that he could use the guy's touch screen phone. Victor Woodward's account put in a request for a ride to the Gotham police headquarters. He killed time kicking ass in all the Words with Friends games that Victor had ongoing, which was really gonna surprise anyone who normally played with that boob. Victor’s last ever play was ‘cat,’ for fuck’s sake.

A few minutes later, a skinny teenager pulled up in his clanker and opened the door. Jason put on a smile and hefted his duffle bag a little higher on his shoulder. 

“Hi! Victor?” The guy, Danny, waved his phone at Jason.

“That's me!” Jason lied breezily. “Can I put this in the trunk?” 

“Go for it.” Danny popped the trunk open from inside the car. He watched Jason with his big blue doe eyes.

For an instant, Jason thought that Danny might have seen something. Paranoia reared up. Was there blood visible? Was it easy to tell that the shapes in the bag were heads?”

The moment passed. Danny cleared his throat and whipped his face forwards again. “Normally I say to sit in the backseat, but I'm not sure that's enough room for your legs. Either is fine.” 

Jason got in the car and let satisfaction wash over his body as the weirdly timid kid pulled them out into traffic at a snail’s pace. Whatever. They wouldn’t get stopped for a traffic violation when the driver was cautious.

He’d done it. His debut as the terrifying Red Hood, hunter of the wicked and bane of the Batman, was launched. And he didn’t need a license to do it.

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby chapter one | myg

chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance.

Chapter one content warnings: angst, my bad humour should be its own warning, as should blond Namjoon!

Word count: 3.5k approximately

Authors notes: Thank you all, so much for the bit of love you showed the teaser for this story so far. It made my nervous ass feel better about posting this now. Please feel free to drop any feedback in the comments if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters just let me know in the comments as well

The soft hum of conversations and the clinking of coffee cups filled the air as you sat by the window of a cozy café in Seoul, your hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. Across from you, your three-year-old son, Han, played with the edge of his muffin wrapper, his tiny fingers tugging at the paper as he pouted in concentration. His dark, expressive eyes—so much like his father’s—reflected the afternoon light, and for a moment, your chest tightened with the weight of memory.

Yoongi.

The name still lingered in your mind like a bittersweet melody, one that had played over and over again since the day you left.

It had been the hardest goodbye of your life. The night before your flight back to Y/H/C, you had stood in Yoongi’s small apartment, his touch warm yet hesitant, as if he didn’t want to let you go. His career was just beginning to take off, and your studies had come to an end. There was no place for a “you and him” in the whirlwind that followed. You had tried—really tried—to stay in touch, but with each missed call and unanswered message, the distance between you stretched until the connection eventually faded into nothing.

Not because you wanted it to.

Not because he did.

But because life had a cruel way of pulling people apart.

And now, years later, you were back in South Korea, working as a doctor at ASAN, raising your son, and navigating a life you never imagined you’d be living alone.

“Y/N…?”

The sound of your name made you tense. The voice—deep and familiar—sent a wave of unease down your spine.

You turned, your breath catching slightly.

“Namjoon!” You exclaim 

He looked different from the last time you saw him, yet still entirely himself. His platinum-blond hair was slightly tousled, a striking contrast to his deep brown eyes that flickered with a mixture of warmth and surprise. A simple earring caught the light as he tilted his head, his sharp features set in an expression of disbelief. He wore a cream-colored jacket over a hoodie, casual yet effortlessly put together—though there was something almost hesitant in the way he stood, as if unsure of how to approach you after all this time.

His face lit up with a mixture of shock and warmth as he pulled you into a brief hug.

“Wow,” he said, stepping back to take a better look at you. “I can’t believe it’s really you. How have you been?”

You offered a small smile, settling back into your seat. “I’ve been good. Busy. I moved back here recently—working as a doctor now.”

Namjoon nodded, listening intently as you spoke, but before you could continue, small arms wrapped around your leg.

“Eomma, I’m hungry.”

Han’s sleepy eyes blinked up at you before he noticed Namjoon, his tiny body stiffening as he clung to you shyly.

You reached for the muffin you had bought earlier, unwrapping it carefully before handing it to him. But as you did, you saw it—the exact moment Namjoon pieced it together.

The way his gaze flickered between Han and you.

The way his easygoing expression shifted into something unreadable.

The way his eyes darkened with realization.

“Yoongi-hyung… he doesn’t know, does he?”

His voice was quieter this time, laced with something cold—something close to disbelief.

Your hands stilled for a moment.

You knew this moment would come eventually. But you still weren’t prepared.

Lowering your gaze, you shook your head. “No.”

“He doesn’t.”

Namjoon exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair as he sat down in a chair. His platinum strands shifted slightly, falling into his eyes before he smoothed them back with a tense sigh.

“Y/N… why?”

His question was firm, demanding an answer—not out of anger, but out of sheer confusion.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your cup. “You know how we left things, Joon. I had to go home, and Yoongi had his idol obligations. Part of that meant no ‘us.’ What was I supposed to do? Call him and say, ‘Hey, remember the night I left? Well, surprise! Give up on your dream for me’?”

Your voice dropped into a whisper, not wanting Han to hear the frustration laced in your words.

Namjoon frowned, his jaw tightening. “He would have worked something out.” His voice softened slightly. “Y/N, he was a complete mess when you left.”

Your heart twisted at the thought.

You had wondered. You had agonized over it.

But you had never allowed yourself to ask.

Because if you did—if you knew—it would have broken you.

“It wouldn’t have been fair to ask him to choose between his passion and me,” you murmured. “You know that. He had the world at his fingertips, and I—I had Han.”

You glanced your son, watching as he happily munched on his muffin, chocolate crumbs coating his chubby cheeks, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside you.

“And we’ve been doing just fine,” you said, more to yourself than to Namjoon.

But Namjoon shook his head. “Han deserves to know his father.” He hesitated before adding, “And Yoongi, he deserves to know about him.”

A lump formed in your throat.

“How, Joon?” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough for him to notice. “How do I waltz back into his life after all these years and tell him something like this?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied you carefully, his brows furrowed in thought. His hoodie shifted slightly as he leaned forward, his fingers loosely clasped together on the table.

“You don’t waltz back in, Y/N,” he said finally. “But you do tell him.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words.

Deep down, you knew he was right.

You sighed, swirling your coffee absentmindedly as Namjoon stood to leave.

“Yoongi still has the same number,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Do with that information what you will.”

You didn’t respond, only nodding as he gave you one last pointed look before walking away.

As Han happily finished off his muffin, you found yourself staring at your phone, your fingers itching to type in a number you had long since memorized but never dared to use.

Life had torn you and Yoongi apart.

Could it be pulling you back together?

You shook your head, pushing the thought away before it could take root. You couldn’t let yourself think like that—not now. Not when Han had to be dropped off at preschool . Not when you had a shift at ASAN  to get to.

With one last sip of your coffee, you packed up and left the café, pushing all thoughts of Min Yoongi to the back of your mind.

The chaos of the ER was exactly what you needed. The steady rhythm of beeping monitors, the shuffle of nurses moving between beds, the clipped voices of doctors giving orders—it all grounded you, washing over you like a familiar tide.

Medicine was where you thrived.

You moved through your rounds hours later, after checking on your patients, you make your way to the nurses station, grabbing a new patient file. It was second nature to you, your hands moving efficiently as you flipped through the next intake chart—

—Reading the name attached,you felt your heart stop.

Min Yoongi.

You scan the intake information, reminding yourself, to take deep breaths. 

Patient presents with a possible dislocated shoulder.  Pain management administered upon entry.

Patient is insured through HYBE ENTERTAINMENT.

Fuck.

Your grip on the chart tightened.

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize you. You hoped he was too out of it from the painkillers and adrenaline to even notice. Maybe—

Your hope was dashed the moment you stepped into the room.

He was surrounded by Namjoon, Hoseok, and a stern looking manager, their conversation halting the second they noticed you.

Namjoon was the first to react. Dressed in an oversized beige sweater and dark trousers, he leaned casually against the edge of Yoongi’s hospital bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. Eyes meeting your gaze immediately, glinting with mischief. You shot him a sharp look—a silent, Don’t. Not right now.

To your relief, his expression softened, and he gave you a barely perceptible nod of understanding.

Hoseok, on the other hand, was much less subtle.

He sat perched on a chair beside Yoongi’s bed, elbows resting on his knees, wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into distressed jeans. His black hair was neatly styled, a contrast to the bright pop of yellow from his sneakers. The moment he saw you, his eyes widened, his lips parting in silent shock.

But before he could say anything—

“Y/N…?”

Your breath caught.

Yoongi’s voice was soft, drowsy from the medication, but it still sent a ripple through you. His dark eyes, glazed over with pain and a sedative they’d administered, blinked sluggishly at you.

It took everything in you to keep your composure. To not word vomit about Han, about how you’d missed him, about how you’d hurt him, he just didn’t know it yet.

He looked different—his usual sharp presence, softened by the way his body curled in on itself with pain. His dark hair was slightly damp with sweat, curling at the edges where it peeked out from under a backward cap. A loose, oversized training shirt draped over his frame, wrinkled from being bunched up during the medics’ initial examination. His plaid training pants were askew, one leg tucked slightly over the other as he shifted in discomfort. He looked both exhausted and stubbornly alert, his tired eyes flickering with something unreadable as he stared at you.

You forced a small, professional smile and stepped forward, rubbing sanitizer between your hands.

“That’s Dr. Y/N now, Yoon,” you said, keeping your voice light as you approached his bed. “What happened?”

Yoongi exhaled heavily, shifting slightly. “Dance practice,” he muttered. “Missed a step. Fell. Landed wrong. Heard a pop.”

You nodded, your medical instincts taking over as you stepped closer. “It could just be dislocated. Do you mind?”

He shook his head, wordlessly giving you permission.

“Think you can work with me here and get this shirt off?”

Yoongi gave a small nod, and you moved carefully, gripping the hem of his loose shirt. You peeled it up slowly, mindful of his injury, and suddenly, there he was—

The toned torso you never thought you’d see again.

Your fingers faltered for just a second, memories flashing through your mind—of warmth, of whispered laughter, of fingertips tracing along bare skin in the dim glow of the moonlight.

But you shoved it all down.

Because right now, he wasn’t your Yoongi.

He was your patient.

Your professional mask slipped back into place as you assessed his shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. The way it hung unnaturally confirmed your suspicions. It was definitely dislocated.

“You’re lucky it looks like it's only dislocated,” you told him, grabbing a pair of gloves. “It’ll have to be popped back in, but it’s pretty straightforward.”

Yoongi gave you a slow blink, his expression unreadable.

“You done this before?” he asked.

You scoffed, flashing him a wry smile, slipping the gloves on. “Once or twice, on a prop mannequin. You’re in good hands.”

He huffed a small laugh but winced at the movement. You placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“Okay, I’m going to count to three. Try to relax.”

Yoongi gave a slow nod, bracing himself.

You counted—

One.

Two.

Three.

With a practiced motion, you maneuvered his arm back into place. A sickening click filled the room, followed by a sharp grunt from Yoongi as his shoulder popped back into its socket.

Then, silence.

You glanced up at him, watching as the pain slowly faded from his features, replaced by a weary sort of relief.

“All done,” you murmured, gently placing his arm back in a comfortable position.

Yoongi exhaled deeply, his gaze locking onto yours. His eyes weren’t as clouded now, the adrenaline cutting through the haze, just enough for something else to settle in—

Something that made your heart race.

Neither of you spoke.

Not even as Namjoon and Hoseok exchanged glances. Not even as the manager checked his watch. Not even as the weight of years pressed between you.

The silence stretched—

Until Yoongi, voice still slightly hoarse, finally broke it.

“You’re back.”

A statement. Not a question.

You swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I am.”

And just like that—

Everything you had been running from finally caught up with you.

It was too much. The moment stretched too long, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like an avalanche. You had to get out.

Clearing your throat, you forced your voice into professional detachment. “A nurse will be by soon with a sling and some less intense pain relief,” you said, avoiding his probing eyes. “You’ll be fine as long as you take it easy on that shoulder for the next few days.”

You turned to Hoseok, fixing him with a firm look. “Make sure he actually rests,” you instructed. “I mean it, Hobi. Don’t push him in practice for a bit.”

Hoseok blinked at you for a second before his lips curled into something between a smirk and genuine amusement. “You still bossing people around, huh?”

Your mouth quirked at that, but you didn’t respond.

Yoongi murmured your name again, softer this time, but you spun on your heel before he could say anything else.

Then, the moment you were safely out of view, you ran.

Down the hall, past the nurses’ station, until you slipped into the first empty supply closet you could find.

Only then did you allow yourself to breathe.

The walls closed in around you, the dim light flickering above as you leaned back against the shelves, pressing a hand to your chest to steady your racing heart.

Yoongi.

Seeing him again had cracked open something inside you—something raw, something you had buried under years of silence and distance.

You had imagined this moment countless times, wondered how it would feel to stand in front of him after all these years, how it would feel to tell him about Han.

But nothing could have prepared you for the real thing.

For the way your name sounded in his voice again.

For the way he looked at you, even through the haze of pain, like he was seeing a ghost.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the emotions away.

Ten minutes passed before your name came crackling through the hospital speakers.

“Dr. Y/N to the nurses’ station. Dr. Y/N to the nurses’ station, please.”

You inhaled sharply, straightening. Time to get back to work.

By the time you reached the nurses’ station, you had smoothed your features into neutrality. But when you saw Namjoon waiting for you, arms crossed, an amused yet knowing expression on his face, you sighed.

“What now, Joon?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Namjoon wasted no time. “How is he, really?”

“His shoulder’s back in place,” you replied. “He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, physically,” Namjoon said, tilting his head. “But he’s pretty confused as to why you sprinted out of the room like the building was on fire.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

“Don’t try to deny it, Y/N.” Namjoon shook his head, cutting you off with a look.

You exhaled sharply. “Fine,” you admitted, voice softer now. “But, Namjoon—excuse me for needing a moment.”

His expression gentled. “You’re allowed to have that, Y/N.”

There was a pause, then, quieter, “But what do you want me to tell him?”

Your breath hitched slightly.

You glanced toward Yoongi’s room, watching as a nurse helped him into a sling.

Making up your mind, you turned back to Namjoon and nodded.

“Tell him I have the same number too.”

And with that, you walked away.

Because there were other patients who needed you. Because you weren’t ready to face whatever this was yet, for whatever emotions would crack if you walked back into that room.

But also, because you wanted to give him the choice you should have years ago. Later that night, after a long shower washed away the tension of the day and Han was finally tucked into bed, you curled up on the couch, nursing a cup of tea.

Your phone vibrated on the table.

You reached for it absentmindedly—then froze when you saw the numbers on the screen.

Yoongis.

Your heart stuttered as you stared at the message re adding the contact.

Yoongi: Dr. Y/N, huh?

Simple. Friendly. Safe.

But beneath those three words, you knew what he was really saying.

He was giving you an opening. A chance to start again, to bridge the years of silence.

If you wanted to.

You swallowed, fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally typing your response.

Y/N: Have been for two years now. How’s that shoulder?

You hesitated—then hit send before you could second-guess yourself.

Seconds later, your phone vibrated again.

Yoongi: painkillers got it feeling good.

You chuckled, shaking your head. You could practically hear his voice in your head, deadpan and a little loopy from the medication.

Y/N: Enjoy the sedation high while it lasts. Be gentle on it, okay? And don’t forget to keep taking the pain meds in the morning once the sedation wears off.

A beat of silence. Then—

Yoongi: You really are still bossing me around after all these years huh?

Your lips curled into a smile.

Y/N: Someone has to.

You hit send and waited.

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Finally, his response came through.

Yoongi: Goodnight, Y/N.

You exhaled slowly, warmth unfurling in your chest.

Y/N: Goodnight, Yoongi.

You locked your phone and set it aside.

And for the first time in a long time—

You felt like maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something. But how could you upend both Han’s life, your life and Yoongi’s?

You didn’t have just yourself to think about anymore.

You had Han.

And Yoongi… fuck Namjoon is right, you know he is he deserved to know.

Your breath hitched as doubt wrapped itself around your chest like a vice. Yes, once he knew about Han, you had no doubt he would be there for him. That was just who he was.

But you?

Would he resent you for keeping this from him? You wouldn’t blame him if he did!. Would he see you as nothing more than the person who had kept his son from him for all these years?

The guilt settled like a stone in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting.

A sob broke free from your throat before you could swallow it down. You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but the weight of everything was too much—the what-ifs, the fear, the shame.

You didn’t even hear the soft footsteps on the stairs.

“Eomma?”

The small voice made you freeze.

You turned sharply, wiping at your eyes as Han stood in the doorway, his messy black hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, voice laced with concern.

God, he looked so much like Yoongi in that moment.

Your heart clenched as you quickly forced a smile, shaking your head. “Nothing, bubba,” you murmured, opening your arms for him. “Come here.”

Han didn’t hesitate, climbing into your lap with the trust only a child could have. He tucked himself into you, warm and small, his cheek pressing against your chest.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just held him, breathing him in, letting the steady rise and fall of his tiny frame ground you.

Then, quietly, you asked, “Bubba… do you ever think about your appa?”

Han was silent for a moment, his little fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. Then, shyly, he whispered, “Yes, sometimes.”

Your throat tightened.

You swallowed past the lump forming there, stroking a hand through his soft hair.

You had told yourself you were protecting Yoongi. That keeping him in the dark was the right choice for the three of you.

But in doing so, had you only caused more pain?

For Yoongi.

For Han.

For yourself.

You pressed a kiss to Han’s forehead, whispering against his skin, “I’m sorry, baby.”

He didn’t understand the depth of your words, but it didn’t matter. He sighed sleepily against you, completely safe in your arms.

You stayed like that until his breathing evened out, his little body growing heavier as he drifted back to sleep. Then, carefully, you carried him back upstairs, tucking him into bed with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

You lingered for a moment, brushing his hair from his forehead, watching the peaceful way his lashes fluttered against his cheeks.

Then, as you straightened, reaffirming your decision.

No more running.

You couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t erase the years of distance. The hurt Yoongi would feel when you tell him

But you could try to fix this.

One way or another. You would fix this you had too.

[catscidr]

// taking care of your dogboy (hsr edition!) //

i. note — sry i havent been posting yall i got a job + ive been working on three cosplays at the same time bc my local con is coming up lmao (´ཀ`」 ∠) however the brainrot never stops. it only takes a break. a little break of approximatively. a month. ish. ......... anyways dog hybrid hsr boys brainrot !!! lmk if we want more of this with more boys •ᴗ• comments and asks are appreciated hehe ii. includes — blade, gepard, boothill and gn!reader iii. cw — slice of life stuff turning into smut, possessive behaviour, overstim, slight dom/sub dynamics, real messy stuff, manhandling. use of the word "hole" to keep reader gender neutral iv. wc — 1,9k

blade is a mutt riddled in scars and dirty bandages from living on the streets and fighting to survive.

you think he might be some german shepherd mix, but he refuses to let you swab his teeth n gums for a dna test (last time you tried you narrowly avoided a punch to the face. he apologized in his own way afterwards), so whenever people ask, just say he’s a rescue to avoid revealing that you actually just… don’t really know what breed he is. they usually drop the subject and simply go on their merry way, seeing as he wasn’t the type of pup to appreciate affection from strangers anyways– it’s rare for you to leave the house in the first place, though.

you had to switch to a remote job because blade is just so persistent when it comes to you. although possessive is a much better descriptor, because he doesn’t let anyone near you. whenever you leave to get groceries he ends up practically breathing down your neck from how close he gets— acting as if he were your literal shadow— glaring at everyone that gets too close to you. you’ve made it a habit to always go to self-checkout lane so blade doesn’t scare off the cashiers.

the second you get home he’s all over you, determined to rid you of that outside stench and replace it with his own. you started packing your grocery bags in a way that nothing will break if (read: when) you suddenly drop them on the floor, all because you’re so familiar with blade’s impatience.

he holds you still by engulfing your body with his, knees caging your hips as he grinds into you, shallow and deep. blade’s growls and huffs fill your ears just as much as his cock fills your hole, his knot kissing your tightness from the outside.

“do you like this? like how i have to fuck you every time you decide to go outside again when you could stay here,” with me blade omits, his tail swishing back and forth on the bedsheets behind him, the sound just barely grounding you to reality.

your grocery bags were long forgotten on the foor (as they usually are), your mind too foggy to function. clawing at the sheets, you try to crawl away from blade’s grip— to no avail.

he tuts, craning his head to bite down onto the skin where your shoulder meets your neck. “i might just need to mark you for extra precaution,” he bucks into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. you hear squelching, the constant plap! plap! plap! from his thighs smacking against your ass and whine, broken babbles leaving your kiss-bruised lips.

“b-blade, y’can’t- ah,” he shushes you by plugging you full of his lengthy cock, his knot almost threatening to press inside of you. you whimper, feeling lightheaded from a mix of both nervousness and arousal.

he soothes the hickey he left on your neck, licking it languidly as he stills to bask into the way your hole throbs around him. warm and tight and oh so tempting.

“shit, wanna fill you. wanna… have everyone know they can’t have you. you’re mine, mine to love ‘n mine to fuck,” you’re not lucid enough to process his thinly veiled confession, too busy writhing your ass back against him in a feeble attempt to get him to continue moving.

you might want to invest into some good concealer or into those skin coloured tattoo patches to cover the bruises and bite marks blade’ll leave on you if you want to continue being a functioning member of society. you can’t really be walking around in public as if a dog had just mauled you right before you left the house, can you?

gepard is a golden retriever because of COURSE he is. similarly to blade, he likes to invade your personal space a lot— not because he’s possessive, but because he’s extremely protective of you.

the random bruises you used to randomly notice on your body faded as soon as he came into your life. gepard’s soft, lingering touches healed them; gently placing a hand on your hip before you bump into sharp furniture so it doesn’t hit you, redirecting your head to his shoulder as you nod-off in the train before you bang your head, and so on.

it’s a full-time job and he’s working 24/7, always on the lookout for anything that could possibly hurt you as you saunter off… wherever, without a care in the world— because he took care of everything!

he would clean the apartment for you, cook (though you usually insist you do the cooking; a human doesn’t have the same taste in food as a hybrid), and even act as your own personal alarm clock. gone were the days of being woken up by loud, blaring beeping. gepard woke you up with forehead kisses instead, making your mornings much more pleasant.

but poor geppie, he’s always taking care of you; so take care of him, won’t you?

every so often you’ll sit in his lap to help him get rid of whatever stress he held in his body. your hands will knead at the muscles in his broad shoulders, all while you simultaneously kiss away the strain in his face. his brows are furrowed as you do your best to soothe his muscles; you never forget to smooch his cheek, nose and the corner of his lips.

though the attention and gentle acts of affection always ends with your hands lower than they should be.

“ah ah, no touching, remember?” you murmur in his ear playfully. you had been at it for what felt like hours; gepard’s cock and abdomen was smeared with the remnants of his cum, skin tacky from his previous loads. your hand shows no sign of stopping, not even when he begged oh so sweetly.

“c-come onn. just… jus’ wanna kiss…” and who were you to deny your sweet boy? your lips find his in a heartbeat, his tongue swiping over your own sloppily as he breathes you in like a depraved man.

the only condition you had when you did this was for him to keep his hands to himself— at least until you both decide to move on to something else. until then, his fists clench the sheets beneath the both of you, and his ears stay flat on his fluffy head.

“i’m… i’m close again, g- aah, please, please…!” he begs, cock weeping precum as you continuously jerk him off. you smile, absentmindedly rocking your hips to the rhythm you held him prisoner to— gepard was too engulfed in the warmth of your hand to notice, anyways. “cum whenever you want sweet boy,” you purr, and he keens as he buries his face in your neck, his hips lifting off the bed ever so slightly as they meet your hand and he thrusts, riding the high of his orgasm.

sticky cum coats your hand for the nth time; you relent your grip on his cock for his sake, instead choosing to shower him with chaste kisses all over his face. gepard whines, taking ahold of your waist weakly as he breathes into the crook of your neck.

“geppie, your han-“ he cuts you off, swiftly switching positions so you’re now laying on your back as he hovers over you, chest rising and falling quickly, catching his breath from the intensity of his orgasm. gepard’s tail wags slowly behind him as his hands creep up from your waist to your chest just as slowly- you feel his cock harden against your pelvis, precum spilling from his pinky tip.

“‘ts my turn now,” he huffs, leaning down to nip at your neck.

boothill is the most obnoxious dalmatian hybrid you’ve ever seen (not that you’ve seen many, or at all). but he’s made your life so fun so you can’t be too mad at him

he’s always dragging you out of bed to go do something— could be going to the park nearby or sit in the living room playing video games on your dusty console, it doesn’t matter because he’ll MAKE you step out of your cozy nest!!

you’re glad he’s friendly, because you’re not sure how you would handle such an excited hybrid when you left the house. people come up to the both of you to chat and he indulges their questions, essentially leading the conversation (while you stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to say).

boothill is also great with kids, unexpectedly. 9 times out of 10 when you go to the park he ends up playing with someone’s child, bright smile on his face as he messes up their hair with a rough hand. they’ll throw a frisbee for him to go catch and he’ll do it happily, or he’ll even… teach them how to beat people up.

(you stare mortified as he teaches a little girl how to throw a proper punch only for her to then punch her parent when she leaves boothill’s side. you go up to them and apologize profusely, forcing boothill to bow with you.)

he also loves to help you out, even though he’s not the greatest at household chores— but he definitely tries! though he is a stellar cook, which never fails to surprise you whenever he’s on dinner duty. he just… really sucks at everything else.

it’s… mostly because he just has so much energy. he sweeps the floor? nope, he’s picking off the pieces of the broom off of the floor because he accidentally broke it. he’s fixing your bed? nuh uh, you’re throwing out the ruined bedsheets because he accidentally tore them to shreds somehow.

so, with all of these accidents happening because he’s just brimming with energy 24/7, you started purposely exhausting him. or, rather, gave him the green light to exhaust you until he tires himself out.

“booth-aah, w-wait, you’re being too…!” you fall over on top of his hard chest, keening at the new angle his cock reached inside of you. he repeated his assault on the spot that made you see stars as your jaw gaped, broken moans leaving your lips.

“don’t tell me y’re tapping out.. haa, already!” boothill grunts, his grip on your hips tightening. he throws his head back with a loud moan, abs tensing as he nears yet another climax— the 5th one of the night. maybe, maybe not. you lost count after the third one.

you bury your face into the crook of his neck, focusing on the feeling of his cock plugging you full instead of the soreness, the burn in your muscles that came from your knees holding you up on his lap.

watching you riding him will always be his favourite thing in the world, even if he always ends up fucking up into you and taking back control at the end of the night.

“gonna cu-uum…” you whine, clenching around his length almost painfully tightly, hearing his breathing hitch as an orgasm is ripped out of him in consequence to yours. boothill’s fingers dig into your ass, his hips lifting off the bed as he cums deep inside of your sloppy hole again, sticky fluid building up beneath the sheets.

you collapse on top of him fully, chest heaving against his own as you come back to your senses, slowly but surely. boothill’s ears perk up, hearing how your breathing had evening out.

“so… got another round in ya?”

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 15

˗ˏˋ ambushed ˎˊ˗

"You have no idea how you ended up being the middlewoman for Jungkook’s surprise birthday party. You also had no clue who Yeji’s brother was—except, apparently, you did. And now, on top of everything, there’s a hot teaching assistant who seems to be interested in you."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7,8k.

content: being unwillingly (not really) recruited for jungkook's surprise bday party, tae being a hater as usual, hobi as a mediator, yoongi gives 0 fucks about everything, discovering who Yeji's brother is, meeting new people, library encounters and naughty texts.

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY SO. Here’s Chapter 15.

You absolute goblins hit the last goal in less than 24 hours, so naturally, I’m raising the bar—because I refuse to be outmaneuvered like this. Chapter 16 is already in progress, but you better give me enough time to finish and proofread it, or we’re gonna have problems.

Also, I’m out of town this weekend, which means I probably won’t be writing at all. Consider it my three-day break. SO TAKE IT SLOW. BREATHE. WE WILL REACH THE GOAL EVENTUALLY.

Anyway, this chapter was ridiculously fun to write because I finally got to have Y/N exchange numbers with Hobi and Tae. Also, Jungkook’s birthday is September 1st, and I’m keeping that canon, so… her getting roped into this party planning mess is hilarious to me (except, actually, not really—because free drinks. And let’s be real, I’d also agree if someone covered my tab for the night).

ALSOOOOO. New character unlocked! What are our thoughts on the TA? You’ll see Jungkook’s perspective next chapter. :) (Reminder: we’re dealing with limited POVs here, so read between the lines. It’s your job to play detective. These two are unreliable narrators, as we all know.)

Mwah mwah, Kiki off.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

College syllabi should come with a warning label: May cause extreme boredom and online shopping addiction.

Your cursor hovers between two different scented candles on your screen—both equally wrong for Emma's birthday. 

Fresh ocean waves. 

How is that not a standard candle scent? 

You've scrolled through seventeen different websites and the closest you've found is "Sea Breeze" (too generic) and "Ocean Mist" (which, according to reviews, smells like "bathroom cleaner with a hint of desperation").

Professor Herrington drones on about post-modern literary theory, his monotone voice basically putting everyone to sleep.

Except Jimin, because next to you, his pen scratches across his notebook, meticulous notes forming in his neat handwriting. 

Thank god for Jimin. 

Your own notebook sits open with exactly three words written at the top: "Post-modern lit is..." The sentence remains unfinished because, well, you stopped paying attention approximately forty-two minutes ago.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

What fresh hell is this? you wonder, sliding it out just enough to peek at the notifications.

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗  created a new conversation

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗  named the conversation "kafka my beloved"

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗  added You to "kafka my beloved"

You blink at the notification. What the actual fuck?

You open the chat under your desk, finding only Yoongi's contact among two other +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 s.

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 :)

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚢/𝚗! 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚒 :) 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛?

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢.

You stare at your phone, momentarily confused. Jungkook's birthday? Since when are you involved in anything Jungkook-related that doesn't involve slamming doors, fighting over Griffin, or... well, the other thing that nobody knows about?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚖𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚖 𝚒 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍

A pause, and then:

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝

 +𝟏 (𝟗𝟏𝟕) 𝐗𝐗𝐗-𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐗 : 𝚒’𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚎𝚑𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚝𝚠… 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠

Ah, of course. Mr. Artistic-and-Condescending himself. You quickly save his contact as "𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨" and the other as "𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃".

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎??

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍?? 

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝚜𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚒’𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢???

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢! 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢!

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎! 🥳

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍… 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝? 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝟷.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎... 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜?? 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘??

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢! 🎂

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠?

There's a noticeable pause in the conversation, and you glance up to make sure Professor Harrington hasn't caught you texting. He's still gesturing wildly about stream of consciousness, completely oblivious.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚝 𝙱𝙽

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗? 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝟾𝚙𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚝 𝟻

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒’𝚖 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚛 🙃

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝! 🎉

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢?

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙳𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎.

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 ^

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 (𝚢𝚘𝚞) 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝟾 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢? 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐?

Another pause, longer this time. You can practically feel the tension through the screen.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕! 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 😊

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 "𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝" 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚒𝚊?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚊?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚙?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎’𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚢/𝚗! 💫

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚆𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚖𝚖…

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 💕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚌 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 ☺️

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖?

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜! 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢-𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊?

Your cheeks heat up as you remember exactly how you know Jungkook likes vanilla—specifically, the vanilla-scented body wash you were wearing the night you ended up in bed with him. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝟽𝚝𝚑! 🍪

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝? 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜?

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘! 🥳

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚒𝚝’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝟷𝟻 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝? 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛?

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 😕

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎,𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚔 🙄

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚟

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍.

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚢/𝚗! 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 🙏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚙

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘��𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜! 📚

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖

You bite your lip, thinking about exactly how "personal" things have gotten between you and Jungkook in the three weeks since you moved in. 

If they only knew.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝! 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢! 🎉

𝐓𝐚𝐞🎨: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚙

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬🎧: 𝙼𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛?

𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐢💃: 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘! 🚀

You lock your phone just as Professor Harrington calls on someone in the front row to analyze a passage. Jimin gives you a side-eye that clearly says "I saw you texting the whole time," but he slides his notes closer to you anyway.

Now you have two birthday gifts to figure out, and somehow you need to convince Jungkook—the guy you've been having no-strings-attached sex with for the past few weeks—to go to a restaurant without making it weird or suspicious.

And apparently there's some mysterious birthday trauma you're not allowed to know about.

Great. Just great.

You click back to the birthday options for Emma. At least one decision should be simple.

When the lecture finally ends, you let out a yawn so massive it feels like your jaw might unhinge. The kind of yawn that makes your eyes water and your whole body stretch like a cat waking up from a seventeen-hour nap.

"Could you at least pretend to pay attention?" Jimin taps you on the head with his pen. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. Like a woodpecker with perfect hair and a conscience.

You rub your eyes, smudging whatever mascara you bothered to put on this morning. "What for? I'll just jam it all in my head two weeks before the exam and I'll pass it. Always works."

"Until it doesn't," he says with that little smile that makes you want to both hug him and flick his forehead. The smile that says he's judging you but in the nicest possible way.

"Has worked for the past two years," you counter, shoving your mostly empty notebook into your bag. "I'm basically a professional at academic procrastination at this point."

Jimin slides his laptop into its case with the precision of someone who actually paid for their electronics themselves instead of guilting their parents into it like you did. He zips it closed and slings the strap across his body, adjusting it so it sits perfectly against his hip.

And then he just... stands there. In front of your table. Waiting.

It's such a small thing. Stupid, really. 

But as you fumble with your pens and shove crumpled papers into your bag, you can't help but notice how he's just there. Not rushing ahead with a quick "see you later" thrown over his shoulder. Not walking out with other classmates while you're left scrambling to catch up.

He just waits. Patiently. Drumming his fingers against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that probably matches whatever song is stuck in his head today. His eyes wander around the lecture hall, watching other students file out in chattering groups.

You've only known Jimin for what—three and a half weeks?—since the semester started, but somehow he's already figured out this thing that matters to you without you having to say it. 

The waiting. The not leaving first.

A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You try to hide it by ducking your head, but when you glance up, Jimin's looking down at you with one eyebrow quirked in question.

"Let's go to Jin's," you say, zipping your bag closed with more force than necessary. "Coffee. My treat."

"Alright," he agrees easily, but his eyes are knowing. "But just because it's your treat."

You roll your eyes. "I’m not made of money."

"Says the girl who spent the entire lecture online shopping."

"That's different. That's for Emma's birthday." You sling your bag over your shoulder and start walking toward the exit. "And apparently I need to get something for Jungkook too now."

"Jungkook?" Jimin falls into step beside you. "Your roommate? The one you said, and I quote, 'has the personality of a wet sock with tattoos'?"

"Did I say that?" You wince. "That's a little harsh. He's more like... a slightly damp sock. With tattoos. And a cat."

"Uh-huh." Jimin holds the door open for you because of course he does. "And you're buying him a gift because...?"

"His friends are planning this whole surprise birthday thing and somehow I got roped into it." You step outside into the September sunshine, immediately regretting your choice of a black t-shirt. "I have to get him to some ramen place on Saturday without making it obvious."

"Sounds like a job for someone who actually likes him," Jimin says, adjusting his bag strap again.

"That's what I said!" You throw your hands up. "But apparently I'm the only option because Yoongi's too obvious or whatever."

You navigate through the crowded walkway, automatically stepping closer to Jimin when a group of skateboarders whizzes by. 

"So what are you getting him?" Jimin asks.

"No idea. His friend suggested whiskey or photography books." You mumble. "But it feels weird to get him something when we barely know each other."

Jimin gives you a look that's a little too perceptive for comfort. "You live together. How do you barely know each other after almost a month?"

"We're not exactly having heart-to-hearts over breakfast, Jimin." You avoid his eyes. "It's more like ships passing in the night. Ships that occasionally fight over whose turn it is to clean the bathroom."

"Hmm." It's a noncommittal sound, but somehow Jimin packs a lot of doubt into that one syllable.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just seems like there might be more to the story."

You nearly trip over your own feet. Does he know? How could he know? You've been so careful not to mention anything about your... arrangement with Jungkook. But Jimin has this annoying sixth sense about people.

"There's nothing to tell," you say, too quickly. "He's just my roommate. Who happens to need a birthday gift now."

"If you say so." Jimin mercifully drops the subject. "So what did you end up getting for Emma?" 

"Nothing yet. I was looking at candles, but none of them are right. She likes ocean scents, but all the ones I found online smell like bathroom cleaner according to the reviews."

"What about that little shop on 12th? The one with all the handmade stuff?"

You blink at him. "What shop on 12th?"

"The one we walked past last week when you were complaining about your landlord's no-pets policy while simultaneously showing me fifty pictures of Griffin."

"Oh." You vaguely remember a storefront with crystals in the window. "I didn't notice it."

"Of course you didn't." Jimin's smile is fond. "You were too busy telling me how Griffin only knocks over Jungkook's things but never yours."

"Because it's true! That cat has taste. But yeah, maybe we could check out that shop after coffee? If you're not busy?"

“Maybe after coffee.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he laughs—that bright, genuine laugh that makes it impossible not to smile back. It's weird having a friend like Jimin. Someone who waits for you after class and remembers the shops you walk past and doesn't make you feel like you're too much or not enough.

It's nice. 

Really nice.

The bell chiming in Jin's shop shouldn't come as a surprise. 

So it doesn't. 

What does, however, is Professor Kim standing next to your university best friend Yeji as she animatedly complains about coffee to Jin, who looks like he's rolling his eyes so hard they might fall out of his head and roll across the counter.

You stop dead in your tracks, nearly causing Jimin to crash into your back. Your brain immediately halts its processes like you've just witnessed your high school principal at a strip club. 

Because what the actual fuck is Professor Namjoon Kim—the English department's golden boy who publishes in journals you can't even pronounce—doing hanging out with Yeji? 

It's like seeing your therapist at the grocery store. Or your gynecologist at a bar. 

Some people just shouldn't exist outside their designated spaces in your life.

"Uh... hi Yeji?" you mutter, approaching the counter.

Your hand instinctively grabs the handle of your bag, clutching it like it might somehow explain this bizarre crossover episode of your life.

Jimin grabs your arm from behind, his fingers digging into your bicep as he tries to subtly pull you away. You can practically feel the panic radiating off him. 

Makes sense. 

Professor Kim is basically his academic idol—the guy probably has Namjoon's journal articles taped to his ceiling like other people have posters of rock stars.

But your curiosity is stronger than your sense of self-preservation. It always has been.

"Why are you with Professor Kim?" you blurt out, gesturing between them with your free hand. "That's such an odd combination?"

Yeji turns around, her perfectly glossed lips forming a small 'o' of surprise before morphing into an amused smile. "You mean my brother?"

Brother?

You actually feel your mouth hanging open, but you can't seem to close it. It's like your jaw muscles have gone on strike.

"Your what now?" you choke out, eyes darting between them. 

And holy shit, how did you not see it before? They have the same eyes. The same way of tilting their head slightly when confused. The same fucking dimples when they smile.

"Brother," Yeji repeats slowly, like you might not understand the concept of siblings. "You know, same parents, shared childhood trauma, occasional desire to commit murder?"

Professor Kim—Namjoon—lets out a deep chuckle that somehow makes him seem less like the intimidating academic genius and more like... well, Yeji's dorky older brother.

"I didn't realize you two knew each other," he says, looking between you and Yeji with genuine surprise.

"We're in the same class for History of Modern Art," Yeji explains, then turns to you with narrowed eyes. "Wait, how do you know Joon?"

"He, uh—" you start, but Jimin cuts you off, apparently having recovered from his initial shock.

"Professor Kim helped Y/N with her English assignment last week in the cafeteria," he says, his voice doing that slightly higher thing it does when he's nervous. "He's my Literary Criticism professor."

Jin, who's been watching this whole exchange with the entertained expression of someone witnessing a particularly juicy reality TV show, slides a cup across the counter. 

“Your usual, Joon. Maybe this will help you process the fact that your worlds are colliding."

"Thanks," Namjoon says, accepting the coffee. "And it's not that weird. University's a small place."

"Not that weird?" you repeat, your voice climbing an octave. "Yeji's been my friend for almost a month and she never once mentioned her brother is the Professor Kim who's published in like, every major literary journal and is the youngest professor in the English department!"

Yeji shrugs, completely unbothered by your minor meltdown. "Why would I? It's not like I go around introducing myself as 'Yeji Kim, sister of Namjoon Kim, academic wunderkind.'"

"You absolutely should," Jin interjects, wiping down the counter. "It's much more interesting than 'Yeji Kim, girl who complains about my coffee being too bitter even though that's literally how coffee tastes.'"

"It doesn't have to taste like liquid punishment, Jinjin," Yeji fires back.

“Call me that again, I dare you.”

She just sticks her tongue out at him. 

Meanwhile, your brain is still trying to process this information. Yeji—your friend who constantly convinces you to skip class—is related to the professor who casually dropped references to obscure literary theories while helping you with your paper. The same professor who Jimin practically worships from afar.

The bell chimes again, and Namjoon glances over your shoulder, his face lighting up with recognition.

"Jason! Perfect timing," he calls out, waving someone over.

You turn to see a man who looks like he walked straight out of an academic journal's "30 Under 30" feature. Dark wavy hair, green eyes, and a messenger bag settled against his thigh. He looks younger than Namjoon but carries himself with the same confident ease, minus the dorky energy Namjoon apparently reserves for his sister.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, approaching your little group. "Office hours ran long."

"Everyone, this is Jason Calloway," Namjoon introduces as the newcomer reaches you. "He's a teaching assistant in the English department, working on his PhD. Jason, this is my sister Yeji, her friend Y/N, and—"

"Jimin Park," Jason finishes, nodding at Jimin. "From Literary Criticism, right? Front row, always has insightful questions."

Jimin looks like he might spontaneously combust from the recognition. "Y-yes, that's me."

"And Jin, the coffee wizard," Namjoon adds, gesturing to the barista.

Jin gives a curt nod, his ‘usual’ friendliness suddenly dialed down to about a three. "Professor Calloway."

"Please, just Jason," he insists with a smile that reveals perfect teeth. 

(Of course they're perfect. The guy probably flosses twice a day and has never had a cavity in his life.)

His eyes land on you, and you feel weirdly self-conscious about the fact that you haven't brushed your hair since you woke up.

"Y/N, was it?" he asks, extending his hand. "I don't think I've seen you in any of the English department courses."

You shake his hand, noticing how firm his grip is. Like, professional-level handshake firmness. 

“That's because I'm not in Literary Criticism. Though I’m friends with Yeji and uh, occasionally get help from her brother when I'm desperate."

"She's being modest," Namjoon interjects. "She wrote an excellent analysis of Joyce's symbolism in 'Araby' last week."

"Really?" Jason's eyebrows rise with what seems like genuine interest. "That's one of my favorite stories from Dubliners. What was your take?"

And suddenly you're discussing your half-assed paper with this unfairly attractive TA while everyone else watches. 

"...so basically I argued that the bazaar represents this false promise of escape that ultimately just reinforces the narrator's entrapment," you finish, surprised at how coherent you sound.

"That's a compelling reading," Jason says, and he actually sounds like he means it. "Have you considered taking any of the modernist literature electives? Professor Harlow is teaching one next semester that would build on exactly those kinds of insights."

"Oh, I don't know if—"

"She'd be perfect for it," Namjoon agrees, nodding enthusiastically. "Y/N has a natural instinct for literary analysis.”

You shoot him a betrayed look. Way to trap you in front of Hot TA.

"I'll think about it," you say, which is your standard response to any suggestion that might involve additional work.

"You should," Jason says, pulling out his phone. "Actually, I'm putting together a study group for students interested in modernist literature. We meet at the library on Thursdays. Nothing formal, just discussions. Would you want me to text you the details?"

Is he... is he asking for your number? Under the guise of academic enrichment?

"Sure," you hear yourself saying, even though the last thing you need is another commitment. 

You recite your number as he types it into his phone.

"Great," he says, pocketing his phone with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I'll text you the information."

Jin clears his throat loudly. "Are you ordering something, or just recruiting for your book club?"

"Black coffee, please," Jason says, unfazed by Jin's tone. "And whatever these two are having." He gestures to you and Jimin.

"Oh, that's not necessary—" you start.

"I insist," Jason says. "Consider it a thank you for the interesting conversation."

"I was going to treat Jimin," you protest weakly.

"Then you can treat him next time," Jason counters smoothly.

“Coming right up," Jin says in a tone that suggests he'd rather be doing literally anything else.

"So, Jason," Yeji pipes up. “In a scale of one to ten, how boring is it working with my brother?”

“I’m literally right here.” Namjoon rolls his eyes.

“I’m not talking to you.” She nudges his shoulder.

And just like that, you find yourself observing Professor Kim engaging in sibling banter with your black cat girl friend. 

Jimin just sighs.

Jason smiles.

And you… You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Because he’s kinda cute. 

And he thinks you're smart, which is... new. 

And nice.

And probably easy and not at all like what you have to fight everyday back at home.

Jimin leans close to your ear. "Did you just get adopted by the Teaching Assistant?" he whispers.

"Shut up," you mutter back, but there's no heat in it.

You're too busy wondering why Jin looks like he's trying to murder Jason with his eyes as he aggressively steams milk for your latte.

You are going to kill Yoongi.

Not in a fun, theoretical way. Not in a haha, wouldn’t it be so funny if you just disappeared way. No, in a genuine, how dare you way. A why the fuck would you tell me that way. Because now you know, and it’s annoying.

Because who the fuck just collects vinyls without owning a record player? Seriously? Is Jungkook, like, a museum curator in his free time? A hoarder? A hipster? A tragic romantic who thinks the idea of playing them is better than actually hearing the music?

And why do you know this about him now? Why do you have to sit here, staring at your phone screen, realizing that—wow, Jungkook actually cares about something other than his cat, his coffee machine, or sex?

(Not that you can complain about that last one. The guy is good. But anyway. Not the point.)

The point is: you need to get him a gift, and you had thought, for maybe five minutes, oh, a record player, that’s easy, before the internet informed you that you are, in fact, an idiot. Because apparently, these things are not cheap. Not even close.

Like, two hundred dollars minimum. Minimum. 

What the actual fuck? Are these things hand-carved by monks in the Swiss Alps? Does each one come with a vial of David Bowie’s blood? 

No wonder Jungkook doesn’t have one. Knowing him, he probably wants some artisan audiophile masterpiece that costs a month’s rent, because apparently, he only likes expensive shit. If his coffee machine is any indication, he’s the kind of guy who thinks “entry-level” is an insult.

So, yeah. That’s a dead end.

Which is just great, because why should it be easy to buy a gift for your stupid, annoying roommate? The same roommate you—occasionally—fuck. The same roommate who gives you pretty damn good orgasms (objectively speaking) but also apparently sometimes ties your shoelaces and carries your fucking laundry basket. 

Not that those things mean anything. He’s still annoying. 

And this is just… inconvenient.

Because it shouldn't be this hard. Emma’s gift was easier. A candle. Because you know her. Have known her for years, since high school, since braces and straight A’s and sleepovers in a house that wasn’t filled with the crushing weight of expectation.

It’s not like you and Emma were inseparable or anything, but she was safe. Predictable in a way that your own life wasn’t. Parents who asked about school but didn’t make your worth dependent on it. A house that felt lived in, not curated for appearances. You spent whole weekends there sometimes, away from the asphyxiating worry and tightly wound smiles of home.

And yet, even with all that history, buying her a gift was easy. Thoughtless, almost. Because you know what she likes. What she always likes. Ocean scents. Easy. Done. But with Jungkook—

You don’t know him. 

Not like that. 

Not in ways that make gift-buying easy. 

You know what his mouth feels like on your skin, what he sounds like when he’s cumming, the way his grip tightens when you push him past the point of coherence. 

You know he doesn’t just fuck, he devours, the way he lets himself lose control but never in a way that feels unsafe. 

You know that Jungkook.

But this? This is something else entirely.

And it’s not like you’re overthinking it. You just… refuse to get him something meaningless? Because, what—his friends are getting him stuff that matters to him, and you’re not gonna make yourself look stupid by giving him a random mug. 

And clearly, a vinyl player is out of the question because you are not spending two hundred dollars on this man.

Because, get real. You’ve known him for a month. 

Maybe you should just go with the whiskey. Or the macarons. Or whatever the hell else his friends suggested.

But the thought of it doesn’t sit right.

It should. It should sit right.

But it doesn’t.

And then Jason is holding the door open, and Jimin is nudging you through like you’re some kid hesitating at the threshold of a dentist’s office. You shoot him a glare, but he just raises his brows in that infuriating way that says get a move on, and okay, fine. 

You step inside the library. 

It’s its usual hushed, sterile self—muted conversations, the soft clatter of laptop keys, the occasional rustle of a page turning. You’ve spent enough time here that the whole place feels mapped into your brain, familiar in a way that’s more about necessity than comfort.

Jason, of course, is completely at ease, like someone who actually enjoys being in academic settings. He had mentioned he could help you both out with your subjects—literary criticism for Jimin, contemporary poetry for you—and maybe the whole thing should feel a little weird. 

Because it is weird. 

Jason is a teaching assistant. He’s basically one step removed from a professor, and getting study help from someone who could realistically grade your future papers seems like it should be against some kind of rule.

But also, he’s attractive. And if you have to suffer through an afternoon of studying, you may as well have something nice to look at.

And okay, it’s not just that. He’s actually competent. He seems interested in the material, which is already more than you can say for yourself when it comes to dissecting yet another pretentious poem that somehow manages to say absolutely nothing in fourteen unnecessarily complicated lines. 

And if he makes studying less of a slow, painful death? 

Well. That’s a deal worth taking.

So you walk. And you do it carefully, because the last thing you need is to trip over your own feet and make a spectacular fool of yourself in front of Jason and his perfectly effortless, I-have-my-life-together aura. 

Jimin moves ahead, leading the way like he always does, because he has a whole system for this.

The table. Your table. The one tucked away far enough that nobody bothers enforcing the stupid beverage policy, even though Jimin swears that’s not the only reason he picks it every time. But to get there, you have to take the lift, which means a little more walking, a little more weaving through the maze of bookshelves and seating areas.

You’re mid-step, following Jimin’s path, when the hairs on the back of your neck suddenly stand on edge.

It’s instant, sharp, like someone just screamed your name in the dead silence of a church. Except no one did. Nothing changed. The library still hums with the same subdued energy, people still absorbed in their own work, but—

Your head turns before you even realize why.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Sitting at a table to your left, laptop open, fingers resting on the keyboard like he was mid-typing before he got distracted. 

And yeah, he is distracted, because his eyes are lifted from the screen, gaze settled on the girl beside him. She’s leaning in, whispering something, lips barely moving, and whatever she said—whatever it was—makes his mouth quirk up at the corner in that stupid, smug way that he does when he thinks he’s being effortlessly charming.

It shouldn’t be interesting.

But for some reason, your feet almost stutter.

It’s like your body noticed him before your brain did, like some ridiculous internal Jungkook radar just activated without your permission.

And you hate that.

Hate that he’s even registering in your periphery, let alone taking up any space in your thoughts. 

But your eyes are still on him. And worse, his shift.

His gaze drifts from the girl—slowly, lazily, like he’s not in any rush—until it lands on you.

And that is the moment that something tightens in your chest.

Because now he’s looking. Now he sees you, standing there, caught in this stupid little moment of unexpected eye contact. And if there’s one thing you hate, it’s that Jungkook is the type of person who notices things. 

Apparently. 

Because since when do you notice he notices things?

And then his gaze drifts.

Past you. Over your shoulder. Taking in the presence behind you like he’s cataloging it. 

Jimin, probably. Maybe Jason. 

Either way, something shifts in his expression—not dramatically, not like some big revelation, just the smallest flicker of recognition.

But then?

Then there’s the eyebrow.

A small quirk, barely there, but unmistakably him. The way it pulls up, just enough to suggest something—questioning, curious, maybe vaguely amused. 

Or maybe not amused at all. Maybe something closer to why the fuck are you here? Or who the fuck is that? Or is this really what we’re doing today?

Like you have any idea.

Like you even know what it is about this moment that makes your stomach do something unpleasantly close to twisting.

Your shoulders pull up in an easy, practiced shrug, the universal sign for why the fuck do you care? Because, really, why does he? 

Or does he?

Whatever. You’re here to study. With Jimin. And Jason, apparently. Who happens to be helping. And also happens to be attractive. And none of that is Jungkook’s business.

Except now you have to keep walking.

Which, for some reason, feels like an entirely different task than just existing a second ago. Like there’s a new weight to it now, something too aware of the fact that he’s watching. 

You should just go. Pass by. Move on. But your body is hyper-conscious of every step, every shift, every inch of space between you and the table where Jungkook sits, his laptop open, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard like he’s supposed to be typing.

But isn’t.

And then Jimin is stepping ahead again, and Jason is right beside you, and there’s no reason for you to hesitate even for a second longer.

So you don’t.

You just keep walking.

And you feel him keep staring.

And then you’re sliding into a chair far away from him (thankfully), whilst Jimin settles across from you. Jason takes the seat to your left, close enough that you catch a whiff of something woodsy and expensive. 

It's fine. This is fine. You're just here to study, not to think about the way Jungkook's eyes followed you or how his stupid eyebrow quirked up like he was asking a question you couldn't quite decipher. 

So you reach for your bag, fishing out your contemporary poetry textbook—a tome so dense it could double as a weapon in a pinch. The cover stares up at you, all pretentious font and abstract artwork, like it's judging you for not appreciating its profound literary significance or whatever.

But before you can even crack it open, your phone buzzes against your thigh. Once. Twice. Like it's impatient, demanding attention right fucking now.

With a sigh that's more dramatic than strictly necessary, you pull it out, already knowing who it's going to be. Because of course. Of course he can't just let it go.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛 𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

You stare at the screen, torn between annoyance and something dangerously close to amusement. Because really? That's what he's going with?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’t 𝚒 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝??? 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 🤨

The reply comes faster than you expected, like he was waiting with his thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜

You snort, earning a curious glance from Jimin. You wave him off, mouthing "it's nothing" even as your fingers are already tapping out a response.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚖

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. Because it's not funny. It's not. He's just being an ass, as usual. But there's something about the quick back-and-forth that feels... familiar. Easy. Like verbal sparring but without the weight of having to actually look at each other.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗?

There's a pause. Longer this time. You imagine him glancing at the girl next to him, maybe offering some half-assed excuse for his distraction. 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚙𝚕 𝚒 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝟸 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚊𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚏 𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍... 😭 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚎. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘…

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚑𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?

Another pause. This one feels different. Heavier somehow. Like he's weighing his words, which is ridiculous because when has Jungkook ever carefully considered what comes out of his mouth?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚌 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝟸? 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 👏👏👏

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝

There’s a pause. 

One second.

Two seconds.

Three.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛 𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢

And there it is. The question you knew was coming but still somehow catches you off guard. Because how do you explain Jason? How do you casually mention that you're getting extra help from an attractive TA without it sounding... like something it's not?

Not that it matters what Jungkook thinks. Because it doesn't. At all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗. 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚊. 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 😀

You hit send before you can overthink it. But as soon as the message goes through, you feel a knot forming in your stomach. Like you've said too much. Or not enough. Or just... something.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. 

What the hell is taking him so long?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚑𝚖𝚖𝚖

That's it? Hmmm? What the fuck does that even mean?

You're about to type out a snarky reply when Jason leans in, his shoulder brushing against yours.

"Everything okay?" he asks, voice low enough not to disturb the library's hushed atmosphere.

"Yeah," you say, maybe a bit too quickly. "Nothing important."

Jason nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, whenever you're ready, we can start with Sylvia Plath's 'Lady Lazarus.' I think you'll find her use of Holocaust imagery particularly interesting in the context of personal rebirth."

Great. Just great. Holocaust imagery and personal rebirth. Exactly what you need right now when your brain is too busy trying to decode Jungkook's monosyllabic response.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 

You blink at the screen. Because what the actual fuck?

And maybe you stay there, waiting for another message that doesn't come. Which is stupid because there's nothing to say. You're here to study. He's... doing whatever the hell he's doing. That's it.

So why does it feel so weird?

"Y/N?" Jimin's voice cuts through your thoughts. "You with us?"

You look up, suddenly aware that both Jimin and Jason are watching you expectantly. Waiting for you to join them in the exciting world of modernist poetry or whatever the hell you're supposed to be doing.

"Yeah," you say, shoving your phone into your bag with more force than necessary. "I'm here. Let's do this."

But as you flip open your textbook, you can't shake the feeling that he’s here. Not watching you, because you’re nowhere near him right now. But it’s like his presence hovers in an inconvenient way.

Fuck Jungkook and his stupid, cryptic texts. Fuck him and his ability to get under your skin with just a few words. And fuck you for letting him.

You've got poems to analyze and a cute TA to impress. 

That's what you're here for. 

That's all you're here for.

So. Thirty-five minutes.

That’s all it takes.

Thirty-five minutes of Sylvia Plath and Jason’s smooth, perfectly enunciated explanations. Thirty-five minutes of Jimin occasionally sighing like he’s reconsidering his entire major. Thirty-five minutes of not thinking about Jungkook. Of not wondering if he’s still at that table, if he’s still watching, if he’s still—

Ding.

Your fingers tighten around your pen. You already know.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?

You exhale sharply through your nose, tapping your phone awake under the table.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎, 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚒’𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝟹𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜. 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎???

It takes less than three seconds for the typing bubble to appear.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘???

“Your focus seems to be slipping.”

You blink up at Jason, who’s watching you with a raised brow, his fingers still resting lightly on his open book. Jimin doesn’t even pretend to hide his judgment, lips twitching as he leans back in his chair.

“Sorry,” you mutter, stuffing your phone between the pages of your textbook like it’s a bookmark instead of a distraction. “Just—uh, go on.”

Jason doesn’t push, but Jimin gives you a look. 

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚕𝚘𝚕. 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚞 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 “𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌”

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚛. “𝚊𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝟻 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐”

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡. 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙.

The typing bubble appears again, then disappears. Then again. Then—

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

Your heart skips.

Which is stupid. Stupid. Because why? What about that message is even remotely heart-skipping-worthy? It’s a statement. A fact. A piece of information you didn’t ask for and definitely don’t care about.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢…? 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛

And, okay. That’s fine. That’s totally, completely normal information. He’s in the bathroom. On the second floor. You’re on the second floor. That’s fine.

So why does your stomach feel weird?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚌’𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚗𝚘?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑??

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚘 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍

Your breath catches, pulse flickering against your throat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 💀 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚊𝚗𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚍𝚢𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍??? 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚘𝚔? 𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘 𝚒???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚖𝚑𝚖. 𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝚍𝚘. 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚍𝚘.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑. 𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗 𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 🤨

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚒𝚡.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚛𝚘.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗’ 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔

Your stomach tightens.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒’𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗. 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒’𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚞 𝚒𝚏 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚔𝚢𝚜

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑… 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚄𝙿

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎.

Your thighs press together under the table. Fuck.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚌𝚖𝚘𝚗, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚡𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚋𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚋

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚠 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

Your fingers flex around your phone, the heat creeping up your spine as your pulse stutters.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚖𝚑𝚖. 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

You swallow.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚗𝚊𝚑. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚞 𝚛𝚗. 𝚋𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚝��𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚞’𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙿𝙸𝙶

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚜 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚑?

You freeze.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗

Jason’s voice cuts through the heat simmering in your phone.

“You’re smiling.”

Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

Jason nods toward your phone, amusement playing at the edges of his lips. “Who’s got you so entertained? Boyfriend?”

You blink. Brain short-circuits for half a second before you manage, “What? No. Not at all.”

Jimin, the absolute menace, hums. “She wishes.”

Your foot connects with his shin under the table. Hard.

“Jesus—” He winces, rubbing his leg. 

Jason chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “So you’re single, then?”

His tone is casual. Smooth. Like he’s just making conversation, not fishing. But you see it. The way his gaze lingers just a little too long, like he’s waiting to gauge your reaction.

You shrug, feigning indifference even as your pulse betrays you. “Yeah.”

Jason’s smile widens slightly. “Interesting.”

Your phone dings again.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕: 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗?

Your jaw clenches. You exhale through your nose. Mutter a quiet, ‘motherfucker,’under your breath.

Jimin raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing.” You shoot off a reply before you can overthink it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘🖕

Then you lock your phone, shove it into your lap, and try to ignore the way your stomach flips.

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[crabsnpersimmons]

i realize i never posted these boys

these are my boys for my restaurant AU: "Have You Eaten?"

the basic premise is this: Y/N works a stressful job where keeping up appearances is paramount. They often treat their clients to a meal at their favourite restaurant, run by the DCA boys—the nutrition-conscious chef Sun, the sweet and friendly chef Moon, and the charming front of house Eclipse. Y/N always orders something small and light so they can focus on talking with their client and maintaining appearances—nothing too large, nothing messy, nothing indulgent. Then after the meal, they walk their client to their car and they wait for their client to leave. Secretly, Y/N is a glutton. Once their client leaves, they hurry back to the restaurant, where their true meal is hot and ready for them.

Eclipse: Welcome back, Starlight! Ready for your second course?

Moon: Do you wanna skip straight to dessert? I tried a new recipe for donuts!

Sun: No. The hour is late, you should have something simple and adequately filling before bed.

Eclipse: Or... maybe you're interested in something "off the menu?"

they're a silly bunch (:

some other notes under the cut

the title is "Have You Eaten?" which is a common greeting in multiple languages. There's something warm about being greeted with this check-in to make sure you that have taken care of your body.

the restaurant is mostly based on a Hong Kong style cafe (a cha chaan teng) but the specials change often and often branch into other types of dishes and cuisines, because the boys like to experiment with new recipes.

Eclipse does have 4 arms, but he usually hides his second pair away because he's found it disturbed customers.

they can eat as an alternative method of recharging, and they can turn off their taste buds. Sun in particular has a bad habit of eating food scraps.

the DCA's relationship with each other is... complicated? They don't exactly like each other but are forced by their code to remain within a certain distance to each other. So they begrudgingly work and live together and cause trouble for each other's lives.

despite having separate bodies, their code forces them to stay within a certain radius (1515 feet, or the approximate distance between the 2 furthest points of the Mega Pizzaplex). They wear clip-on earrings to extend the range whenever they need extra space (usually Eclipse, hence why he has so many).

Eclipse is the oldest—he was built first for the theatre. Many years later, Eclipse was moved to the daycare to entertain children. But since they were short-staffed, Sun and Moon were built using Eclipse's code to help him at the daycare.

their pizzaplex was left to ruin and the three of them got out and were picked up by an old chef, who took them in and taught them everything he knows before leaving his restaurant to them and passing away.

i would like to write something for this AU. The main story still needs some work, but I have a lot of little drabble ideas that I might write. Or maybe it will be an AU full of drabbles. That's a possibility too. Although I would like to explore stories with other y/ns, like one who is a picky eater, one who has a lot of food allergies, etc.

also head's up: innuendos. innuendos everywhere. (most of which are Eclipse's fault)

[prodkwh]

WAIT FOR YOUR LOVE ᯓ★

where in ── you completely remove him from your memory after a bad breakup.

⤷ pairing :: boyfriend-turned-ex!felix x f!reader

⤷ trope / genre :: lovers to exes... some fluff, but mostly angst oops

⤷ content warnings :: lots of emotional distress, brief mentions of food / beverages (matcha latte, cake, froyo), small mentions of medical procedures, crying & a mini breakdown, mentions of therapy, strained romantic relationship

⤷ word count :: 4.2k words

⤷ playlist :: intro (end of the world) - extended, warm, Hampstead, we can't be friends (wait for your love), i wish i hated you & twilight zone (all by ariana grande!)

⤷ note :: first actual post how we doin ....... hope yall enjoy <3

Three things you saw: a counter, the woman behind the counter and a painting of the solar system hung on the wall. 

Three things you heard: the woman behind the counter making an appointment with someone on the other line of her call, the muffled weeping of the elderly lady sitting opposite you and the sound of your own breath.

Three things you felt: anxiety, sadness, numbness and more anxiety. Wait, that’s not three.

It was a grounding technique you’d learnt during therapy to keep yourself calm and sane while facing something that made you nervous. By now, it had already been 5 months since you started going to therapy. This also meant that it had already been 5 months since your breakup with Lee Felix. 

Five months after you broke up with the person you once called your first love, you’d arranged a very expensive procedure to completely remove him from your memory. A procedure that your therapist was heavily against – “Why erase him from your memory when you can just come to terms with everything that happened?” – but you knew it was for the best. After all, it would be easier for things to go back to how they were before you met him. 

Wouldn’t it? 

“Y/n L/n?” The woman behind the counter called, getting up and walking over to you after seeing your raised hand. 

“Please fill in this consent form before you go in to get your procedure done.” She handed you a clipboard with the consent form and a pen. You took it and skimmed over the printed text until your eyes landed on the last line. 

‘For this procedure, I officially give Sunshine Inc. the full consent to entirely remove this person from my memory.’ 

Below that line were two check boxes, marked with ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. The pen you held hovered over the one marked with ‘No’. You were hesitating. 

This one procedure meant that all your memories of Lee Felix, good and bad, would be gone. 

You ticked the check box marked with ‘Yes’ and signed the form. Then, you picked up the big box of things that reminded you of him and walked into the operating room. No hesitation. 

This was it. Lee Felix would be gone from your memory in approximately 3 hours.

Three things you saw: your box of things, Dr Bang – the one who would be doing the erasing in your brain – and his assistant Dr Myoui. 

“So, Miss Y/n? We’ll be removing Mr Lee Felix from your memory for today’s procedure, are you ready? Mentally? Physically?” Dr Bang asked. You gave him a small nod, then started to space out while he listed the rough sequence of how the procedure would go. 

“... No after-effects or brain damage apart from the procedure itself. We’ll be using the items you’ve brought today to get a rough gauge of the role Mr Lee has played in your memory, then erasing him from it based on the mapping we’ve done. You’ll be good to go afterwards, okay?” Dr Bang continued while connecting you to the heart monitor. You gave him another small nod. 

He places a dome-shaped apparatus over your head. 

Three things you heard: the sound of your own breath, your heartbeat (faintly) and the slight whirring of the appliance over your head. 

“Dr Myoui will now be showing you different items from your box, okay? All you have to do is react to them. No words needed, just react to them silently. All good?” You gave Dr Bang another small nod. 

The first item Dr Myoui showed you was a teddy bear. You smiled.

Your first date with Felix happened 3 years ago, at the arcade near the froyo store where you worked. 

“You think claw machines are, like, legit?” You’d asked while munching on cotton candy. 

“You think they aren’t? The prizes they give you aren’t figments of your imagination, you know. They’re real.” Felix said, chuckling while taking a bite from your stick of cotton candy. 

“That’s not what I meant, idiot. It’s always so hard to catch a prize from a claw machine. My dad always said they were some sort of scam; you put in money and hope to win a prize, but most of the time you get nothing.” You retorted, side-eyeing the claw machine. 

“Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s completely unattainable, dumbass. Look, I’ll show you.” He walked over to the claw machine. “You got any 20-cent coins?” 

“If you win nothing after 3 tries, you owe me dinner.” You drop one in his palm.

“You’re on, gremlin.” 

The first two tries were disastrous. He was close to owing you dinner. 

“Trust me, I can come back from this. Third time’s the charm, remember?” He said, inserting another coin into the machine while furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. 

“Yeah, say that again when you’re the one buying me dinner.” 

Famous last words. The teddy bear descended from the claw’s grip into the collection funnel. 

He looked at you with a mischievous grin. “I guess you owe me dinner now.” You groan. 

He bent down to take the teddy bear out, then held it out to you. “Yours. Dinner’s on me too.” 

You smile, blushing slightly. Taking the teddy bear, you tiptoe to hug him. “Thank you, Lix,” you say before planting a small kiss on his cheek. He pulls away and ruffles your hair, his grin widening. 

“Anything for you, gremlin.”

“Okay… Positive reactions indicate positive memories associated with the respective items. Thank you for reacting well, Miss Y/n. Everything alright so far? Show me a thumbs-up if yes.” Dr Bang asked, looking away from the monitor on the table to face you. 

You show him a thumbs-up while flashing him a slight smile. 

“Good, thank you. Dr Myoui, please show her the next item.” 

The next item Dr Myoui shows you is a crocheted snow duck. You smile again, but this one doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

6 months into your relationship, you and Felix had your first real argument. 

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal; it was just one of those days when nothing was going your way. You overslept, missed your bus, was late to work and got yelled at by a customer. One of those days when the smallest thing irritated you, and all you wanted to do was go back home and rot. 

The moment you stepped foot into your shared apartment with him, it hit you. 

Your original schedule for today wasn’t packed, so you thought you’d come home early in the evening and bake brownies with Felix since the both of you had been craving it recently. What you forgot to tell him was that one of your coworkers called in sick at the last minute so you had to cover for her shift, which caused you to come home 4 hours after you promised you would. 

“You’re home late,” he said, standing up from where he was sitting on the couch to greet you. 

“You started without me.” You bitterly shot back when you caught sight of the 2 batches of brownies sitting on the counter. 

“What was I supposed to do then? You said you’d be home at 5 and it’s already 9.” He protested, eyes narrowing as his tone became sharper. 

“I didn’t have a day off today like you did, Felix. Work dragged on late, okay?” You sighed, taking off your shoes and hanging your cardigan on a rack near the door. 

“You could’ve told me. I was looking forward to spending time with you.” 

You turn to look at him and instantly feel a small sense of guilt wash over you. His expression was unreadable, but you could tell from his gaze that he was hurt. Upset. It seemed like all you did these days only made the people around you upset. 

You clicked your tongue. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither.” He stated, voice flat before moving to wipe non-existent dust off a spot on the counter. “Just tell me beforehand next time, if there even will be one.” 

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

“Nothing, forget it. I’m going to bed.” He stormed off while brushing his hair back, something he always did when he was stressed or frustrated – a habit he’d picked up from you. 

You stare after him and roll your eyes, any ounce of guilt you’d felt immediately vanishing after hearing his words. You open one of the boxes on the counter and steal a brownie. They were good, but they didn’t taste the same. 

Felix wasn’t there to enjoy them with you, and you weren’t there to make them with him. 

A few days later, Felix had visited you at work, a cup of matcha latte in one hand and the crocheted snow duck in the other. He couldn’t stand the silent treatment you both gave each other, apologised for saying words he didn’t mean and said he followed a YouTube tutorial to crochet the snow duck as a peace offering because the first snow came while you were simmering on opposite sides of the bed. 

You couldn’t stand being mad at him for long, so you forgave him. Relatively speaking, things went back to normal after that. 

For weeks after the argument, the both of you could tell that your relationship dynamic had shifted. Your movements around him became more calculated, and he grew more analytical of what he said when you were near. 

Yet, none of you had said anything about it. The shift kept building, but ignoring it helped until you couldn’t ignore it anymore and neither could he. 

The first crack in the glass was a brownie baking date that you’d flaked on without meaning to.

“Not so much of a good reaction this time… Bittersweet memories then,” Dr Bang let out a loud exhale. “Everything good, Miss Y/n?” 

You nod. 

“Awesome. Dr Myoui, next item, please.” 

A polaroid. Dr Myoui shows you a polaroid. Your smile falters.

Your birthday was 5 months ago, the day before your relationship with Felix ended. 3 weeks prior, you and him had argued again. 

This was the worst argument you’ve had since the brownie incident, and the longest you’d gone giving him the cold shoulder. 

When you first got to know him, you didn’t think you could handle not talking to him for 3 weeks. 

Now, you weren’t sure if this silence was temporary anymore. For God’s sake, you didn’t even remember what the argument was about. The only thing you knew was that all of your emotions and all of his had been festering for a very, very long time. 

The final crack in the glass. 

The night before your birthday, you’d gotten home late after covering another one of your coworkers’ shifts. You were fully prepared to sleep with your back facing Felix again, but he had been awake and his gaze was now on you as if he’d been inwardly manifesting your presence for the past few hours. 

“I texted you this time. Told you 2 hours ago that I’d be back late,” you snicker, but your words were void of any humour. 

So were his. “Funny. We need to talk, Y/n.” 

“Didn’t think we needed to talk about anything, but sure. Go ahead.” You gesture for him to start saying his piece, and he looks at you like you’d just grown another nose. 

“Seriously? You think there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this relationship?” He asks incredulously, and you scoff while removing your makeup. He brushes his hair back again, clearly annoyed. 

“Whatever, I just think that this isn’t working anymore.” 

You turn away from the mirror to look at him. To really look at him. 

It weighs down on you that he’s right. You’d stopped telling him things immediately after they happened, and he no longer reached out or looked at you like you were his entire world. 

Maybe you weren’t anymore. 

“I’m sorry for everything, Lix… For – for being a bitch, and for every single moment I’ve made you feel like I didn’t care as much as you did,” you say hesitantly after a few moments. You weren’t reluctant to apologise; you just didn’t know how to phrase it, or whether an apology would fix everything that’d gone wrong until now. 

He lets out a breath he probably had no clue he was holding. 

“You remember that voice message you sent me 2 months into our relationship, when you’d gotten your valedictorian award at graduation?” He asked, his voice starting to shake. You nod – there was no way in hell you would forget that. 

The feeling of him being the first person to share every emotion with you. 

“I remember how proud I was of you, and how sorry I felt about missing the whole thing because I was overseas. When your sister sent me that video of you walking up to the stage and receiving the award, I was so happy I actually burst into tears. Seungmin looked at me like I was crazy.” You let out a small chuckle, moving to sit on the bed and lean your head against his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to forget that. I don’t want to forget how happy you made me; how much I loved you, but… I feel like we’ve let this thing snowball for so long that it made me forget.” 

You pull back to see his eyes brimming with unshed tears, and immediately move to wipe them away before they fell. Even now, you still couldn’t bear to see him cry. 

“I’m sorry, sunshine… I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you preserve those feelings, I’m sorry for letting this bother us for so long; I’m probably apologising too much right now for it to sound sincere, but I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” You utter, wrapping your arms around him tightly like you never wanted to remove yourself from his embrace. 

The both of you stayed like that for a long time, just crying until you were too tired to continue. 

After a while, you broke the silence between you. “Do you think we can try again, Lix?” 

He hesitated. You take his silence as a no. 

“Is this it? For us; is this it, Felix?” You look up at him, desperate for him to say something. 

“I think so… I don’t know if we can try again, Y/n. I’m sorry.” You almost crumble at his words, but you stop yourself. You didn’t think you deserved the right to feel sad when you had allowed the inevitable to finally happen. 

“Celebrate my birthday with me tomorrow? One last time, then I’ll be out of your life for good.” 

He nods, a sad smile on his face.

The next day, you sit on the counter and watch while Felix lights the candles on your birthday cake. 

“You’re a year older now, grandma.” He says fondly, hopping onto the counter before holding the cake out to you. “Happy birthday.” 

You playfully roll your eyes before closing them, clasping your palms together to make a wish. 

I hope that Lee Felix finds happiness in someone who will treat him right – better than I ever did – and that we will get our own happy ending in another life.  

You open your eyes and blow the candles out. 

He beckons for you to hold the cake for a while, reaching for his polaroid camera to snap a picture of you and the cake. “What’d you wish for?” 

You looked at him like you used to, before all the arguments happened and the dynamics shifted. It was as if everything had rewinded itself to when your relationship first began. Your grin widens. 

Click. 

“World peace,” you shrug. 

From the furthest corner of your mind, you could hear Dr Bang saying, “That’s pretty much it for the mapping. I think we can proceed with the erasing now.” You ignore it, willing your mind to focus on submerging yourself in the last few memories you had of Felix before you no longer could. 

The polaroid is left on the counter to develop. You smear icing on his face. He smears icing on yours. You fall asleep in each other’s arms on the couch, but he’s gone when you wake up. 

It’s weird, because you didn’t feel like anything was missing when you woke up. It was as if he was never a part of your life. 

Your memory of Lee Felix was getting erased.

Your eyes fly open. The heart monitor was beeping like crazy. Dr Bang and Dr Myoui rush to stabilize your condition, but all you could think of was Felix. 

The world looked blurry. You were crying. 

“Miss Y/n? Can you hear me?” Dr Bang frantically asks, eyebrows furrowed with worry. 

You grip the pendant hanging from your neck; a matching half-heart you’d gotten with Felix at the fair 2 years ago, the one thing you forgot to put with all the other items in the box. 

“I… I know I – I wanted to get my memory erased… I know I had to gather everything that reminded me of him for this to work, but… Can’t I just keep this one? Please? Dr Myoui, Dr Bang… Just let me keep this one. Change the way I got it in my memory; I don’t care. Just let me keep it.” You let out in between sobs and sharp breaths. 

“Noted. I’ll change it for you, Miss Y/n. I’ll change it, okay?” Dr Bang rushed over to the monitor, typing furiously on the keyboard while Dr Myoui tried to anchor you back to reality. 

Three things you saw: Dr Myoui’s concerned gaze, Dr Bang at the monitor and your trembling hand gripping the necklace without a single intent to let it go. 

“You’ll remember it as something else, Miss Y/n. Stay with me, okay? Breathe – in, out… in, out…” Dr Myoui held onto your free hand in consolation until you calmed down, your features relaxing.

You could’ve sworn the necklace you were wearing was given to you by another person. 

It definitely wasn’t given to you by your best friend Ryujin; it had to be someone else who gave it to you. The only problem was that you’d forgotten who. 

Maybe you were thinking too much. Maybe it was really just Ryujin who gave you the necklace. 

One thing was for sure: your memory of Lee Felix was now completely erased.

You’d woken up 30 minutes later with both Dr Bang and Dr Myoui telling you that the procedure was a success. 

You’d shaken Dr Bang’s hand and hugged Dr Myoui, thanking them for their hard work. 

Once you’d exited the room, Dr Myoui closed the mini door to the incinerator and ignited the flames for your box of items to burn. 

The only recollection you had of the procedure was that you did it to get over someone who used to be in your life. You couldn’t remember who, but you silently wished them well.

A year after you’d gotten the procedure, you and Felix crossed paths again. 

Some things stayed the same: you still worked at the froyo store, still wore your matching necklace with “Ryujin”, still loved baking brownies even though a part of you always felt missing whenever you taste-tested them. 

Yet, things were different. Felix was now in a far better headspace than he was a year ago, but you still occupied a portion of his mind. The ‘what-if’s that could’ve taken place if you’d tried again plagued him, but the procedure erased him from your memory so intensely that even the sound of his name was now foreign to your heart. It was as if he’d never stopped being just a stranger to you. 

When Felix stepped foot into the froyo store for the first time in ages, his heart stuttered after seeing you. He still thought you were beautiful; he always did, but you also looked… Lighter, as if you no longer had the burdensome weight of him to carry. 

You were sitting at one of the tables near the window after your shift, a cup of vanilla froyo in your hands while you read a book. He always used to joke that your go-to froyo order was far too boring for someone who worked at a froyo store, but that was something you didn’t remember anymore. 

Just then, his breath hitched. 

Your necklace. You were still wearing it, and so was he. 

His body moved before his mind could, approaching your table without a second thought. His inner conscience screamed at him to stop, to turn away, to follow Dr Bang’s instructions and not do anything that could trigger a lapse in the procedure, but he didn’t. 

He almost ditched his entire plan and bolted out the door when you looked up at him, your eyes now carrying only a hint of curiosity. No more trace of the love that used to be his. 

“Can I help you?” You asked politely, your tone slightly distant. 

“No, um, would you mind if I sat here? All the other seats are taken,” he said, immediately wishing he never opened his mouth when you looked around to see every other seat unoccupied. 

You chuckled. “Nah, of course I don’t mind. Do you need me to help you order anything?”

“It’s okay,” he managed to get out, almost choking on his own words. “What are you reading?” 

“Oh, this? It’s ‘Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982’ by Cho Namjoo. My favourite book.” You said, slightly sheepish. Everyone always told you people would never guess that a feminist book was your favourite based on first impressions, assuming you’d rather read other books with fluffier plots. 

Then again, Felix wasn’t just anyone. He knew your favourite book by heart. He knew your favourite everything, even after a year. 

That familiar ache in his chest surfaced again, Dr Bang’s instructions replaying in his head. “She’s gotten the procedure. She’s not going to remember you anymore, so just… Don’t do anything that could reawaken that destroyed part of her memory. Let her move on, she’s hurt enough; it was obvious from how the procedure went.” 

He ignored it and stayed put, because he knew he would rather have multiple first-meetings with you than never get to see you again. Even if the first option eats him alive more than the second one does. 

He nods, holding out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Felix.” 

“I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you, Felix,” you grin while shaking his hand, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain himself from telling you that you’ve not just met, but also loved each other before. 

“Nice necklace. I’ve got a similar one.” He comments before showing you the pendant on his. The matching half-heart, though he knew that part of your memory had already been erased. 

“Wait, that’s a crazy coincidence!” You laugh. “Mine’s a matching one with my best friend, yours?” 

“I’m… matching with my younger sister, yeah.” He says with a smile that he doesn’t mean. 

“Cool.” 

The both of you remain in silence for a while after that, the atmosphere between you bordering between comfortable and awkward before a notification sounds from your phone. 

He catches a small glimpse of your lockscreen before you pick your phone up to check it, and a sinking feeling dawns over him when he sees an unfamiliar man’s picture there. 

“Who’s that on your lockscreen?” He asks before he could stop the words from tumbling out, and wishes for the ground to swallow him whole when you look at him with an eyebrow raised. 

“Pretty personal for a first meeting, don’t you think?” You squint your eyes, your suspicious facade breaking as you cackle while he stutters his way through an answer. 

“I’m kidding, that’s just my boyfriend. He comes here almost everyday, but he’s on an overseas exchange trip right now.” You clarify. 

Boyfriend. This time, Felix wishes for the ground to really swallow him whole. 

It’s not like it was unexpected for you to move on, but a selfish part of him had still hoped that maybe you were waiting to meet and fall in love with him again. 

“Cool.” He mentally slaps himself for giving such an awkward answer. 

You walk out of the froyo store a few minutes later, saying you had somewhere to be and telling him that you’d love to see him again. He returns the smile and wave you gave him as you left, before plopping his head down on the table once you were out of sight. 

Maybe he was being stupid, but he didn’t want to move on from you yet. He still wanted to cling onto the memory of you for a while longer, before it no longer hurt to remember the things you forgot. 

Even after everything that happened, he still loved you with every fiber of his being. 

He didn’t need you to remember, and he most definitely did not need you to love him again after seeing how much happier you looked after moving on. 

The only thing he knew was that if forgetting everything was what you needed to feel okay again, he would cherish all the memories you’ve shared for the both of you. Always, without a doubt.

@prodkwh 🧸

⤷ reblogs are appreciated ! thank you for reading (づ> v <)づ♡

⤷ tag list :: @coriihanniee @lvlyhiyyih @kjwluvr @8makes1atom

[thunderbolt-ing]

Three Roommates and a Loft [2]

PART ONE Summary: an ungodly amount of boxes, two helpful roommates, one damn couch, and a partridge in a pear tree. Warnings: none except for your loser ex. Otherwise, very lighthearted silliness. A/N: This is such a fun series to write, i can't wait to post the other parts and im so glad you guys like it too!! i love them so much, my dysfunctional loft dwellers. Not thoroughly proofread!! Word count: 4.6k <3

Today was move-in day, and honestly, you were dreading it. The sheer number of boxes and mismatched furniture you owned was enough to trigger a minor internal crisis. Worst of all, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask the boys for help, even though you had three super soldiers at your disposal (well, two… maybe? You still weren’t sure if Sam was enhanced or just naturally built like a Greek statue. Note to self: ask him later). 

Half of the furniture from your shared apartment with your ex-boyfriend was technically yours, which gave you a petty sense of satisfaction. You were leaving that man with next to nothing, you’ve basically stripped that sorry apartment down. You were now the proud owner of a one aggressively mid-century modern couch that was definitely larger than the one in the loft, two completely different nightstands, a custom-made bookshelf that you’ve DIY’d to resemble the ones you’ve obsessively pinned on Pinterest, a dozen potted plants, and a partridge in a pear tree. 

None of those pieces of furniture matched the loft’s current aesthetic, which brought you to your newest problem. 

You had no idea if the boys were okay with you bringing in your furniture, or by extension, completely redecorating their man cave with what could only be described as a Pinterest board chic. The loft was charming in that minimalist, exposed brick, bro-cave kind of way. It had a few battered bar stools, a couch that looked like it was going to fall apart anytime soon, and approximately one framed poster of Die Hard in the living room. They lacked a dining table, they had no rug, and there wasn’t a single plant in sight. 

To put it simply, the loft lacked a woman’s touch; there was no hint of a woman ever having stepped foot in that space. 

You took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to text Sam. He had become your unofficial point person during the entire moving process. He would respond promptly, didn’t leave you on read, and never made you feel stupid for asking a dozen questions. 

Sam didn’t seem to mind your questioning. In fact, he’d been almost suspiciously nice about the whole thing. Steve was still too intimidating to approach without rehearsing a script first. Talking to him felt like talking to a celebrity, if said celebrity had no idea he was famous and somehow managed to be so charmingly humble about it. Bucky, on the other hand, was completely out of the question. You were ninety-nine percent sure he didn’t like you, or anyone really. His usual expression bordered somewhere between mild disdain and ‘please leave me alone’. Honestly, you weren’t brave enough to test the waters with him.

You sent Sam a photo of your rented moving truck, fully loaded with neatly stacked boxes and carefully arranged potted plants. A moment later, you sent another photo of your furniture sitting pitifully on the curb outside your old apartment. Your ex had flat-out refused to help load any of it into the truck, you figured he was hoping you’d get frustrated and leave it behind. Joke's on him, though, because you were far too stubborn for that. 

You followed the photos with a quick text: 

You: Sam, is it okay if I bring all of this? 

He replied almost instantly. 

Sam: damn, woman

Sam: is that… a proper couch…???? Oh thank god, ours is ugly and flat

Sam: telling Steve rn to chuck ours out on the curb IMMEDIATELY. I want yours

You: I'm so glad you said that. It’s a comfy couch, i promise. 

Sam: im just glad the loft might finally look like adults live there

Sam: where are you? Steve says he wants to help lift stuff

You dropped your location without hesitation. You were relieved and surprised that you didn’t have to haul everything by yourself. You hadn’t even asked; they just offered, and after the week you’d had, that small token of kindness made you a tad bit emotional. 

About thirty-five minutes later, the sound of a revving engine pulled your attention to the street. 

Sam and Steve rolled up on a motorcycle like they were some sort of action stars in a low-budget film. Sam hopped off first, quickly approaching you with a grin on his face. Meanwhile, Steve parked the bike and pulled off his helmet with effortless cool. You expected the stoic man you’ve seen on television so many times, but instead, he looked genuinely happy to be there. 

That alone knocked him down from ‘intimidating superhero’ to ‘potentially huggable.’

“Hey!” Steve called out, giving you a wave and an easy smile. “Came to steal your couch. Sam’s orders.”

“You're taking orders from this guy?” you shot back as you gestured at Sam, your brow arched in mock judgment.

Sam let out an exaggerated gasp like you’d just deeply offended him, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away. 

“First of all,” he said, placing a hand over his chest, “I’m not just some guy. I’m a respected government employee who makes very important decisions. Occasionally. Like replacing that god-awful couch in our living room with this work of art.” He motioned at your near-perfect condition couch before moving to pick up a piece of furniture. 

Steve let out a chuckle as he moved to help with one of the heavier boxes you’d left on the curb. You did a double-take and picked your jaw off the floor when he casually lifted your entire mattress like it weighed next to nothing and slid it into the truck with ease.

“He’s been talking about this couch since you texted,” Steve said, straightening up with zero effort. “I had to listen to him ramble on about lumbar support and aesthetics.” 

“I know what I like,” Sam defended with a shrug, already heading toward the next piece of furniture. “And I like that couch. Nothing wrong with a man of taste.” 

You bit back a laugh. “Taste, huh?”

Sam turned back with a grin. “You’ll thank me later when the living room no longer looks like a frat house.” 

Steve nodded agreeably. “We don’t have an eye for interior design, unfortunately.” 

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out as you watched Steve and Sam move in perfect sync, like they’d done this a hundred times before. You tried to lift a single box, just to be useful, but they immediately shut it down with matching looks of disbelief. 

“Nope, do not,” Sam said, waving you off while he carried your lamps into the truck. 

“Sit down, go drink some water,” Steve added, already halfway up the ramp with your dresser like it was made of Styrofoam. 

So you resigned yourself to the curb, watching your life get packed up by two superheroes. 

A few minutes later, you heard the creak of the front door behind you. You didn’t even need to turn around, you could feel the smug, stale energy of your ex wafting toward you like cheap cologne. 

Adam stepped onto the sidewalk, pausing mid-stride when he caught sight of Steve carrying a part of your bedframe. 

He blinked at your two roommates, eyes narrowing with confusion. “What the hell is going on? Is that—?”

You didn’t even bother turning to face him. You just let out a long, exhausted sigh, the kind that said you were done dealing with him. Your gaze stayed fixed on Steve and Sam, watching as your bookshelf was handled with more care than Adam had ever given your relationship. 

“What do you want, Adam?” you asked flatly, arms crossed, and your tone devoid of warmth. “If you’re here to lift something heavy, great. If not, please go away.” 

Adam’s eyes darted from Steve to Sam, then back to you, his mouth pathetically opening and closing. “Is that…? Is that Captain America?”

“Just Steve,” Steve said, his tone noticeably cooler than it was before. He didn’t know the backstory, but somehow, without being told, he already knew enough. 

Adam shifted uncomfortably under Steve’s unreadable stare. 

Before the awkward silence could stretch any further, Sam—who still held onto one end of your bookshelf—turned to Adam with a look of unimpressed disdain. 

“Do you need something,” Sam asked, voice sharp, “or are you just gonna stand there and catch flies with your mouth open like that?”

Adam sputtered, clearly scrambling to put together a coherent sentence. “I just… I just think this is all a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” 

You let out a loud, bitter laugh before finally turning to face him. “That might actually be the funniest thing you’ve ever said,” you replied, voice flat as your laughter faded into silence. “Which is saying something, considering I’ve known you for six years.” 

It was classic Adam, minimizing the damage he caused while making you look like the overdramatic one. It was one last taste of hell before you were finally free. 

“You dumped me and gave me a week to move out,” you said, your tone sharp and unapologetic. “If anyone was being dramatic, it was you.” 

Adam’s expression twisted as if he were about to defend himself, but every possible comeback would only dig his hole deeper. Before he could try, Steve stepped forward, not aggressively, but solid enough to send a subtle message. 

“She’s got this handled,” Steve said coolly. “Thank you for your concern, Adam.” His tone was calm but final, leaving no room for argument. 

“Yeah, take your ass back inside,” Sam added sharply, earning a pointed look from Steve. “...Please.” he tacked on begrudgingly, rolling his eyes. 

Adam swallowed hard, muttered something about needing to get back upstairs, and turned on his heel without another word. 

You exhaled, surprised by how much lighter you suddenly felt. It was as if something invisible had finally been unclenched inside of you. When you turned back toward the truck, both Sam and Steve were already back to work like nothing had happened. 

It didn’t take long for the two of them to load everything into the truck. They moved with practiced ease, and before you knew it, the last box was secured and Steve was already climbing back onto his bike. 

Sam slid into the driver’s seat beside you, shooting you a small, reassuring smile as he started the engine. You turned back one final time, leaving behind the version of you who tolerated a bleak man and the small, dim life that came with him. 

And just like that, as the truck pulled away from the curb, you finally felt peace. 

—

The moving truck rumbled to a stop in the narrow alleyway beside your new building, a small space that connected it to the one next door. You hopped out, taking in your surroundings that consisted of a cracked pavement, weathered bricks, and a series of classic New York fire escapes that zigzagged up the building. 

On one of them, a few stories up, sat Bucky. He was perched on the steps, elbow resting on his knee, and sipping something from a mug. 

Your eyes met for a brief second. Then, just as quickly, he looked away as if you had just disrupted whatever fragile tranquility he’d allowed himself that morning. Still, you offered him a polite wave. You knew he didn’t like you, but you made a point to let the universe know that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Not your fault he was perpetually grumpy. 

In response, he stood up, took a long sip from his mug like he needed it to deal with you, and promptly disappeared back inside without so much as a nod. 

So charming. 

“That’s his way of saying ‘welcome,’” Sam said, glancing up at the now-empty fire escape before looking back at you with a smirk. “Real nice guy, once you get past the scowl.” 

“I doubt it,” You replied as you walked over to the back of the truck, “I don’t think I’ll ever be fluent in Bucky-speak… and honestly? I don’t think I want to try.” 

Sam chuckled, then rolled up the back of the truck with ease, ready to unload your things. Steve rounded the corner moments later, all smiles and a go-getter attitude, like helping people move was his idea of weekend fun. 

Between the three of you, the unloading began, boxes first, and heavier furniture saved for later. It was surprisingly efficient, aside from the four flights of stairs you fought to climb up. Steve and Sam handled them like it was nothing, practically jogging to the top without breaking a sweat. You, on the other hand, had to concentrate hard on trying not to wheeze. The last thing you needed was to pass out in front of two superhumans. 

Back at the loft, while Steve and Sam were still downstairs, you wrestled a box you’d insisted on bringing up through the doorway. Sam urged that you not touch it, but you needed to feel useful. You couldn’t just let them do everything, even though both he and Steve reassured you multiple times that they could handle it. 

“Are you trying to break your back?” a voice drawled behind you, equal parts exasperated and bored. 

You turned around and found Bucky leaning against the wall of the couch-less living room, arms crossed and judgment dialed up. So, Sam had been serious about chucking the old sofa.

“Dragging a heavy box builds character.” You replied, panting slightly as you nudged the box with your foot, “Something you could use.”

“I was tortured by HYDRA for seventy years,” he deadpanned. “I’ve maxed out my character development.” 

You paused, your hands on your hips as you stared at him in disbelief. “Wow, okay. We’re trauma dumping now? Cool, cool. So, when I was like seven—”

“Move,” Bucky interrupted, already pushing off the wall. Before you could get another word in, he lifted the box you’d been fighting with and tucked it under one arm like it weighed nothing. You had to fight the urge to gawk.

“I literally had that,” you insisted, though it didn’t sound so convincing. 

“Sure,” he said dryly. “I could practically hear your spine snapping.” 

You followed him into the living room, watching as he set the box down with zero effort. “You know, for someone who clearly doesn’t want to talk to me, you sure have a lot to say.” 

“I talk when necessary,” he replied without looking at you. “Like when someone’s clearly about to slip a disc over a box of…” he glanced at the label. “...’Books and more books’? Are you turning this place into a library?”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but he was already disappearing through the front door. 

You sincerely hoped he wasn’t planning on helping unload the rest. But, unfortunately for you, he absolutely was. 

—

Downstairs, all four of you stood in a loose semicircle around the back of the truck, silently staring at the couch inside. It was significantly larger than the loft’s old one, and it was quickly becoming clear that none of you had thought through the logistics of hauling it up four flights of stairs. 

The silence stretched, and Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose like he regretted coming down to help.

“I feel like we should’ve measured something.” Sam finally muttered as he squinted at the couch. 

“No, no,” Steve said as he shook his head with the confidence of a man who refused to be defeated by a piece of furniture, “It fits, we just need all hands on deck to push it up the stairs.”

He climbed into the truck, already taking charge. “Bucky and I could take the chaise section first. Then the four of us can handle the rest together.” 

“I could suit up and just fly the chaise up…?” Sam suggested helpfully. 

“Let’s not scare the neighbors.” You vetoed, patting Sam on the back as you moved aside to give Steve and Bucky some space to bring down the chaise. 

Steve’s plan had seemed solid at first. He and Bucky managed to painlessly haul the chaise up the stairwell with minimal fuss, while you and Sam followed with the cushions. 

When it was time to haul the main section, that was when everything fell apart. 

The stairs were narrower than anyone remembered, and the couch was bulkier than anyone admitted. The corners were too wide, the angles too sharp, and the laws of physics were actively working against you. Now, all four of you were wedged awkwardly into the stairwell with the couch jammed at a sharp diagonal between the third and fourth floors. 

So close yet so far. 

“Keep pushing!” Steve grunted from the top landing, shoulder pressed into one as he and Bucky tried to hoist it upward. Bucky let out a low grunt, his metal arm whirring under the strain. 

“Uh, hello?! It’s stuck!” Sam called from beside you, beads of sweat rolling down his face. “Like, stupidly stuck!”

“It’s not stuck,” Steve insisted, pushing harder and lodging it even more firmly into the corner. “It just needs to pivot.” 

“Oh my god,” you groaned, wedging your back against the couch to help. “Do not say pivot.” 

“I’m sorry, but we need to pivot left!” Steve yelled from the top of the stairs. 

“What does that mean?” Sam yelled. “My left or your left?” 

“Everyone’s left is the same if we’re facing the same damn way!” Bucky snapped, clearly seconds away from abandoning this entire operation. 

“Pivot now!” Steve urged, straining as he and Bucky pulled from the top. “Pivot! Pivot!” 

“Steve,” you gasped, “for the ever-loving god, you could just say turn!”

The couch groaned, and then miraculously, it shifted. 

With one final, collective pivot and an unholy amount of effort, the couch squeezed past the stairwell corner and landed with a loud thump on the fourth-floor landing.

“I told you it would fit,” Steve said, far too cheerful for someone who nearly died trying to get the couch to move a few inches. 

Bucky dropped his end of the couch with a thud and disappeared inside the loft without a word, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve let it fall.” 

—

The placement of the couch sparked yet another argument. 

Sam was adamant it should go against the big window for ‘optimal feng shui’, a phrase you weren’t sure he understood but kept repeating anyway. Steve lobbied for the couch to be against the exposed brick wall for ‘aesthetic balance’ and something about creating a strong visual focal point. 

You, on the other hand, were too mentally and physically drained from nearly losing your life on the stairs to care. At that point, you considered lying down on the floor, but you didn’t trust it much and made a mental note to mop it down before placing your area rug. 

Bucky, wisely, had removed himself from the debate entirely. He disappeared into his room without a word, presumably to recover from what he now considered his yearly act of community service. You didn’t blame him, you could practically hear his voice echoing in your head: “Figure it out. Leave me out of it.” 

After a thorough scrubbing of the floor and some wrestling with the area rug, a compromise was made. The main section of the couch was placed against the brick wall to satisfy Steve’s vision, while the chaise was angled toward the window to appease Sam’s need for energy flow. Both men looked pleased, and you were just relieved that standing was no longer a requirement. 

One by one, the three of you dropped onto the couch like flies. 

Sam flopped onto the corner with dramatic flair with his arms draped across the back cushions. You claimed the chaise with a heavy sigh, slumping sideways with one arm dangling off the edge and the other clutching a throw pillow. Steve eased himself down with a satisfied grunt, hands on his knees, looking like he’d just completed a major tactical operation. 

“See?” he said, beaming as he leaned back into the cushions. “Teamwork.” 

“Worth the pain,” Sam muttered, letting out a relaxed sigh, “this couch feels like a cloud.” 

You grinned happily, sinking deeper into the cushions as you felt a warm sense of satisfaction settling in your chest. Despite the mess of the mountains of boxes, you’d officially contributed something good to the space. The loft still looked like a war zone from the move, but at least the living room finally felt like a living room and not the sad foyer of a glorified man cave. 

Bucky rejoined civilization moments later, water bottle in hand, looking like he’d just barely forgiven the three of you for making him carry a couch. 

He paused in the doorway, doing a double-take at the transformed living room. You thought, just for a second, you caught a flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, quickly smothered before it could be considered an emotion. 

“What do you think?” Steve asked, grinning as he gestured proudly to the space. 

Bucky took a long sip from his bottle, eyes scanning the new setup. 

“Looks livable,” he muttered, which, coming from him, might as well have been a glowing five-star review. 

“You’re welcome,” you called out with a smug grin from the couch. 

Bucky didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked straight into the kitchen like he hadn’t heard you at all. 

“He likes it,” Sam whispered giddily, nudging your leg like a kid who just witnessed something scandalous. He looked far too pleased that you’d managed to extract any emotion from Bucky. You gave him an equally delighted smile, both of you sharing a silent victory like proud co-conspirators. 

“I think I’m just gonna lie here for the foreseeable future,” you mumbled, already sinking deeper into the cushions. “I physically cannot haul the rest of my stuff upstairs. No more stairs for me.” 

“You don’t have to,” Sam said casually, patting your leg. 

Your eyes widened. “Wow, Sam. That’s really kind of you. Thank you for—”

‘Oh no, no,” he cut in quickly, shaking his head. “I’m not bringing anything up. I switched rooms with you. You’re in the downstairs bedroom now—the one next to Bucky’s.” 

You sat up, throwing the pillow on the floor. “What?”

“What?” Bucky echoed sharply, his head poking into the living room from the kitchen with his eyes narrowed in displeasure. 

“What’s going on? Why are we saying ‘what’?” Steve chimed in, blinking like he’d just come back from where he’d mentally checked out. 

Sam shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s the best case scenario. She’s a woman and she’s got, like, a lot of stuff,” he gestured at the boxes scattered across the loft. “That room’s bigger. Her junk fits. And I don’t have to listen to Bucky sleep-talk through the wall anymore. I’m a light sleeper, man.”

“I do not sleep-talk,” Bucky muttered defensively from the kitchen doorway. 

“Oh really?” Sam shot back. “Last week, you said ‘I’ll kill you where you stand’ at three a.m., and it scared me so bad I had to lock my door.” 

You held up a hand, trying to keep up. “Can we circle back to the part where you just moved me without asking?” 

“Door’s already open,” he added, completely ignoring you. “I already put your suitcases in there, and your bedframe’s already assembled. You’re welcome.” 

Bucky crossed his arms, glaring. “I didn’t agree to this. We had a bathroom system, Wilson.” 

“Okay, then come up with a new system with her,” Sam replied, clearly proud of his problem-solving skills and equally oblivious to how very against this idea you and Bucky both looked. 

Steve blinked between the three of you, finally putting it all together. “Oh, that’s why Sam told me to reassemble your bed in there…” 

You let out a slow, deep sigh. “Thank you, Steve.”  

Steve held up his hands like he’d just realized he accidentally committed a crime. “I didn’t know it was a bad thing! I thought I was helping!”

Sam patted your leg like he’d just done you a favor. “This is going to be great.” 

You weren’t sure if you wanted to strangle him or yourself. 

—

Night fell slowly over Brooklyn, the sunset casting a golden hue through the loft’s wide windows before the city’s glow took over. Boxes were still everywhere, potted plants were scattered in the living room, and takeout containers on the kitchen counter hinted that no one had the energy to cook. 

Despite the chaos, the loft was finally quiet as everyone retired to their rooms. You were the last to head to bed, lingering in the living room like staying there might somehow delay the inevitable reality that you were now sleeping next door to Bucky Barnes. Eventually, a little after nine, you reluctantly padded to your new room, thanks to Sam’s unsolicited relocation efforts. 

You had to admit, the room itself was… perfect. Annoyingly so. 

The room was bigger than the one you would’ve had upstairs, which easily accommodated your desk, bookshelf, and all the other ‘woman with a lot of stuff’ essentials Sam had so graciously cited as justification. Your suitcases were inside the closet, ready to be unpacked. Your favorite lamp was already plugged in and set on your nightstand (courtesy of Sam). Even your diffuser was thoughtfully placed on the windowsill. 

It took you a couple of minutes to get yourself somewhat settled. Now, you lay on your bed wrapped in familiar sheets, staring at the ceiling, surrounded by a half-unpacked mess and the distant hum of New York traffic. 

It almost felt like home, until the walls reminded you that they were roughly the thickness of a tortilla. 

From the other side, muffled but clear, you heard the sound of a drawer slamming. 

Then silence.

Then, a sigh. The long, exhausted kind, followed by the unmistakable clatter of something metallic. 

You rolled over and pulled a pillow over your head. You could do this. You just needed to adjust. 

Another beat of silence. 

Then, Bucky’s voice, low and muttered: “Where the hell is the other sock?”

More shuffling and noise followed, and you were trying your hardest to grasp at the last shred of patience you had. The noise continued for a couple of minutes, and you tried to ignore it by burying yourself in your covers. 

Silence settled for a few seconds, enough to make you think it was over, before a barrage of thuds, drawer slams, and muttering followed. 

You groaned and sat up, marching across your room to knock on the wall. 

It went quiet, then from the other side: 

“What?” Bucky’s voice was muffled, but it was clear that he was annoyed. 

You pressed your forehead to the wall and replied, “If you’re going to have a breakdown over a sock, can you please keep it quiet? I’d like to have a full eight hours of sleep.” 

“It’s nine-thirty. On a Saturday.” 

“Some of us have functioning circadian rhythms.” 

Footsteps followed. Then, under his breath, you heard: “God, they’re the same. Both annoying.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “What was that?”

“I didn't say anything,” Bucky grumbled, annoyed but backpedaling. 

You bit back a chuckle, lips curving despite yourself. 

With a shake of your head, you walked back to your bed and climbed under the covers. To your surprise, the noise actually stopped. No more stomping, slamming, or sock-related mumblings. 

Just quiet. 

“Good night, Bucky,” you called softly, not expecting a response from the grump. 

For a second, there was nothing. Then, muffled through the wall, you heard his voice. 

“...Night.” 

It wasn’t exactly warm, but at least he responded. You had little hope that this arrangement would work out, but maybe it would. 

Maybe.  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Endnotes: steve and sam are tied for roommates of the year btw.

tags (lmk if you want to be tagged!): @okbutiambabygorl

[ryoskuna]

Be the Light: Dragon Age: The Veilguard's Davrin - A Character Study/Analysis & Appreciation Post

Hi, my name is Leia, and I’m a Master’s degree candidate in Children’s Literature and Library & Information Science. I’m also a Black woman who loves consuming media, which is not limited to playing video games, reading books, and watching TV shows/movies. 

To my friends who have put up with me rambling about this game for the last three(?)-ish weeks, thank you for entertaining me, putting up with all my thoughts, and pushing me to make this post.

I completed my first playthrough of Dragon Age: The Veilguard on January 6th (and cried twice), and while there is so much that can be said for the storytelling (it’s not perfect; there’s no such thing as perfection since that’s an objective notion), but in my opinion, I believe DATV makes for an excellent and conclusive end to the Dragon Age franchise in regards to lore and the world of Thedas on the best attempts of the developers and writing team. Especially considering it was a game that lingered in development purgatory for 8+ years, and there was such an intense fight to make sure it got released, I will contently take what I received (with some admitted bias as a Solavellen, and someone who does like Solas as a character though there is much to say about him as well but not here!).  When I completed the game, my immediate response was very similar to the way I reacted when I finished my first playthrough of Final Fantasy 15 (another game that I found emotionally compelling- I sobbed for approximately 30-45 minutes straight while on a voice call with a friend during the final cutscene sequences, as well as the credits playing Stand by Me by Florence + the Machine) — I wanted to make a video essay talking about the storytelling and my experience with all of the characters, content, and everything that made me absolutely enamored with the game. (Side note: DATV has the best combat gameplay in any of the DA games, and I will stand by that. Like if they remastered Inquisition and the other two games with the Character Creation from Veilguard and upgraded the combat mechanics/gameplay/UI, I would be first in line to buy the remastered versions.)

(It’s also ironic this is getting posted when it’s been announced that the entire Bioware team for DA has been let go, left, or released to industry, which is a loss of some wonderful storytellers and creatives.)

But I lack the video equipment to make video essays/vlogs talking about my interests like this, and I also don’t know if anyone would watch it. I also generally do not see a lot of Black women engaging in content that would fall into this category or dialogues with media and games, although I wish I did see more of it!

However, this is not intended to be a critique of the game; this is solely meant to be a character study and appreciation post for one of the companions, Davrin, who was the standout companion for me during my initial playthrough and continues to be in my consecutive playthroughs. Davrin is arguably a fantastic character, not only because of his companion quests (which have some of the strongest and most emotional storytelling, in my opinion, whether you romance him or not), but also because of his personality and how he is a love letter to the history and future of Thedas. 

(Additional side note: all of the companions are fantastic, especially the seven that are newly introduced within DATV. Harding is a great connection to DAI, the references to the Inquisition at large, and some additional history of the world of Thedas.)

This is also why I mention my race in my introductory statement, as my analysis of him is based on my experience and understanding as a Black woman. While I am not a Black man, I do have a brother, and my father is a Black man who comes from a military background, and this absolutely does affect my perspective and understanding of Davrin as a character.

This way of analysis in literature is called reader-response, in which the reader has a transaction with the text, i.e., the reader reads the material, and out comes their interpretation of the text (see: here, and Mingshui Cai’s “Transactional Theory and the Study of Multicultural Literature.” Language Arts, vol. 85, no. 3, 2008, pp. 212–20, if you’re looking for more intellectual writings on reader-response.). Reader-response allows for a unique interpretation based on the reader or in this case, the player’s individual experience. 

Lastly, I’d like to preface that this post will reference the game, the podcast - Vows & Vengeance, that was released prior to Veilguard’s release - and some of the books, primarily Last Flight, for additional narrative context. I’ll flag spoilers the best I can but will state that this post is not spoiler-free. 

First, for this to make sense, I feel like we have to discuss why representation in media matters.  So, why? Why does representation matter? 

Well, there is power in seeing someone who resembles yourself or your story on a screen or largely consumed content. It challenges stereotypes (or what one can be), introduces people to cultural exchange, and engages in cultivating a sense of belonging (here’s a wonderful TED talk if you’re interested, but also see this article from PBS, APA (American Psychology Association), here, and here).

Another one of my favorite TED talks about storytelling also touches on why representation matters. It matters when we engage in dialogue when we try to understand our friends and when we seek to build community with welcoming, inclusive people. It is why people seek to build accommodating spaces, and it is one of our greatest acts of resistance to systemic oppression that allows discriminatory stereotypes to flourish. Being in community is an act of resistance. This is also why it matters when people are so excited to see a character be undoubtedly and explicitly a part of a specific affinity group or identity.  There can be a whole essay or book written on why representation matters (and there are, plenty), so I do not want to get to into the weeds with why representation is a valuable contribution in a time where DEIJ (Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Justice) is being challenged so heavily. 

Now that we’ve covered that, let’s get to the real reason you’re probably here. This is split into two parts, the character study/analysis, and the appreciation. Not that these two things aren’t similar in nature, but I wanted to make it separate in a way in case anyone wanted to specifically comment on anything, came for a specific portion, or please feel free to use in your fanfiction writing if you’d like.  Just know if you’re going to engage with this post, please be respectful. If I am wrong on something, please feel free to DM me and let me know!

Character Study/Analysis

We meet Davrin initially in the announcement trailer for DATV, but we don’t really see a finalized formation of his character outside of visuals until Vows and Vengence, where they’ve switched from using a British accent of his voice to an American accent. I think this is a neat transition from the whole “all elves are british-accented/welsh-accented” we saw in the 2010s, but for me, this truly emphasizes a correlation to a Black American experience — however, I’ll touch upon this later. When Davrin is introduced to us in V&V, he comes off as a character with a strong sense of responsibility and duty — and he’s already involved with the Griffons as he wants to investigate the rumors of their reemergence instead of investigating the earthquakes occurring in the Anderfels. He chooses to fall into a sinkhole to rescue the protagonist of V&V, Nadia, and two additional characters. When Nadia mentions that the only reason she’s in the predicament she’s in is due to someone called “The Dread Wolf”, Davrin immediately wants to investigate as the involvement of Fen’Harel is a bad omen, and the Grey Wardens should be investigating. There is also the mention of darkspawn, which is more compulsion for Grey Wardens to investigate. 

Additionally, he has a partner at the time named Goff(?) who he later nearly has to to amputate a limb from and argues to carry the man out as he won’t leave him against Goff’s orders; when he does leave him it is reluctantly. He cannot accompany Drayden and Nadia and continues to investigate the Blight, and by extension, what the elven ruins have to do with the Blight, committed to his duty as a Grey Warden.

Which leads us somewhat into how we find him again in Veilguard, where we are referred to a monster hunter named Davrin by Evka and Antoine (they will be another important reference and guide into how the role of the Grey Wardens is changing towards the betterment or future of Thedas). 

I have to appreciate Davrin’s complexity as a character. While the game, in my opinion, is more ambiguous on his standing or practice of the elven religion, he never leaves room to deny his roots and where he comes from. In V&V, he’s familiar with reading ancient elven, and wishes Nadia and Drayden that Andruil guides them on their adventure. Davrin’s vallasin is also dual-sided, which in a reference to the sun and moon quote in V&V (“Guide me on the path that splits the land between sun and moon”) on the mirror mosaic, you can argue that his vallasin is a reference to Ghilan’nain or you can argue that it is for Andruil.  However, I raise that his vallasin is for both goddesses, as Andruil is the reason that Ghilan’nain ascended to “godhood”, and with Davrin’s title as a monster hunter, it would be fitting considering Andruil is the goddess of the hunt.  

He also names Assan after the elven word for ‘arrow’, which is referenced in two of Andruil’s three ways - Vir Assan - or the Way of the Arrow - and Vir Bor’assan - or the Way of the Bow - which the former refers to ‘fly straight and never waver’, the latter being ‘bend but never break’. It makes sense that he names Assan this, as it is almost him speaking blessings over the young Griffon, to fly straight, never waver, to bend (or endure turmoil) but never break (or fail).  To me, it is a blessing from a father to a child, but it is also a reminder to himself everytime he calls the Griffon’s name to himself. 

[Note: all the other griffons presumably have names, he mentions a few of them if you walk to their cages during the first part of his companion quest/adding him to the Veilguard, but they’re a little silly in my opinion. Assan is the only one who is known to have an elven name, and noted to be the only one Davrin himself named.]

Having a vallasin that represents Ghilan’nain is also fitting (and ironic considering Ghilan’nain’s position through Veilguard), because not only was Ghilan’nain one of the people, but as a “goddess” she was dedicated to guidance and navigation. For someone like Davrin, who struggled fitting in with his clan and wanting to go on a different path than solely staying with his clan, he could’ve been asking for all the guidance he would be fortunate enough to get. Additionally, she is called the mother of the Halla, creatures that Davrin was gentle enough to care for, hence where we get the line where we find out that he used to sing to the Halla, and he’s attentive enough to identify when they’re ill, and the best methodologies to feed them successfully.  (Halla are extremely sacred creatures, considered noble, and the Dalish ask for the Halla to accompany them instead of forcing them.  Ghilan’nain is stated to be the first Halla. )

As we go throughout the playthrough of the game, Davrin’s role transitions from being a monster hunter, to a Grey Warden, to a bodyguard for the newly hatched baby Griffons, and then, upon joining Rook, and encountering the Gloom Howler, he becomes something else. Like Ghilan’nain, Davrin has ascended to a more important position than solely being a Grey Warden or a monster hunter. He is now the keeper of the future of the last of the Griffons, hence his urgency in rescuing them, and why the decision of their path (to stay with the Wardens or to live in Arlathan Forest) weighs so heavily upon him. 

This is why I propose that his vallasin is left to be ambiguous or a combination of the two goddesses because of the duality of his nature as a character, but the two sides (or the sun & moon) of the path he’s chosen to live by.  I also think there is an irony that the blight is what corrupted the Evanuris, and he fights it now - especially noting that Ghilan'nain also has the capacity for pulling out some wicked horrors when Solas calls her the "most sensitive of us" (referring to the Ancient Elves).

I would have loved to see something where Davrin and maybe even Bellara discuss their vallasin, and their viewpoint on it, now that they are in a predicament where their myths about their gods have now changed drastically, and is reflected in their lived experience.

However, I also acknowledge that Davrin does not particularly hold any signficant reverence towards the Gods, at least not in the same way Bellara does. He states he thought of them as “myths” and now that they’re real, he has to process that. He also states that he knows the gods being blighted and trying to take over isn’t going to do the elven people any favors in terms of “popularity” with the rest of Thedas, which leads me into my next point. 

He is always mindful of his people. Whether this is the Grey Wardens, who we see him mourn and wish to honor; or the elven people, even if they’re not apart of his clan, he cares deeply for them. (By extension, he cares about the Veilguard and the Griffons, of course.)  During the fight against Elger’nan and the Venatori to rescue the Veil Jumpers, you can hear him state, “These are my people” in a protective manner (much like Bellara can say, as well as an elven Rook). He thinks about how Thedas is going to see the elven people if they find out that the elven gods are behind the Blight, the archdemons, and the issue of the Golden/Black City & the “Tevinter Gods”. 

This mindset also tends to cultivate his self-sacrificing viewpoint (he is willing to be the Warden responsible for killing Ghilan’nain’s archdemon); it’s not only what he’s trained to do, but it is about protecting his proclaimed and declared people (not to mention the innocents he morally is willing to protect). 

I propose that he was not filled with the “spirit” of the archdemon for two reasons: 1) because what they considered to be the “spirit” was the ancient elven magic seeking an out (it’s known and stated in-lore that the ancient elves were immortal because their magic was constantly engaging and adapting to the world) and 2) because Ghilan’nain was right there instead, thus performing a ‘return to sender’ (“Maybe the Gods changed things and the old rules don’t apply”).  He states he wasn’t expecting to live because he had embraced the fact that Grey Wardens have an expiration date, and that pushed him. Now that he survived (and processing survivor’s guilt, as well as the stages of grief), he now has to find a purpose outside of being a Grey Warden and a monster hunter. 

His seeking a purpose is a reminder, to me as a Black person, how we are taught that just being ourselves and contributing to what others contribute is not good enough. Giving 100 percent is not good enough - you must be outstanding. (There’s a quote from Scandal that’s applicable here - watch here; “You have to be twice as good as them to get half of what they have”). In that, being just a Grey Warden isn’t enough, nor is being just a monster hunter. 

What makes him relevant? Outstanding? 

I propose that’s his transition from bodyguard to parent and keeper of the Griffons. It’s this reasoning that also answers his question on why he gets to live. He’s got to be the one to tell the story of the Griffons, of Isseya, of the past of the Wardens he knew, and the future of the Wardens as they move forward and away from slaying darkspawn and hunting the Blights. The fall of Weisshaupt is the metaphorical fall of the old order of the Wardens, with all their secrets, lies, and damage. Davrin’s emphasized bond with the Griffons speaks to how the new order of the Grey Wardens is healing. 

Now, we absolutely should discuss Assan as he relates to Davrin, and I propose that Assan is an extension of Davrin — meaning the way Davrin cares for Assan is how Davrin learns to care for himself. It’s how he learns to hope, to recognize he is capable of being more than just the blade the Grey Wardens made him; that while he’s questioning his future and his path, that he has the freedom to choose.  Davrin states he feels like “a blade sharpened all these years to confront the worst darkness in the world” and when his blade “[strikes] true”, he asks “what now?”

Davrin’s commentary on calling himself a blade is a parellel in how he describes how Assan, as a Griffon, by nature are inclined to fight Darkspawn like a wolf hunting a deer. Davrin’s nature has been to fight, to hunt; just as Assan’s nature is to hunt Darkspawn. But like Assan, during another companion quest, their nature is also to care. To be gentle — Assan, who brings food to the sick Halla — and Davrin, whose nature of care is extended to Rook and the team, and the thoughtfulness that he uses to care for the future of the Griffons, the future of Thedas, and all the areas encountered by the Gods, the Blight, and the Archdemons. 

Davrin adapts.  He’s very rough and tumble (the guy fought a hurlock, broke four ribs and cracked his jaw, got up and then drove a blade through the thing’s skull), but he also comes from places of care, hence why he makes his whittled figures of monsters and is working on an accurate bestiary as a warrior and hunter, not a mage. 

It is also important to note another title Davrin not only earns but self-proclaims, is that of a parent. He states that “parent” is a scary word. (“I’m supposed to be his bodyguard”), but I’m inclined to go with Varric’s advice - if the decision isn’t easy, it means you’re taking it seriously.  He then later proclaims himself, with confidence, that “I’m his (Assan)’s father.”  Davrin’s proclamation as a parent, and a good one at that, strays away from the absent Black father stereotype that is prominent in media, which is rooted in system practices during enslavement where the father was removed to divide up and destroy the Black family.  

Davrin is confident in hunting the darker things in the world, but he doubts how well he can care for a Griffon. It’s the questions asked by a first-time parent, with no manual, and the only thing that a child, or in this case, a Griffon, asks for is to be loved and embraced. 

This is something that we learn that Davrin experienced through Eldrin, who taught him to appreciate nature, embraced Davrin’s desire to leave the clan to find his place in the world, and who reminded him to embrace the light as much as Davrin fights the darkness (to find balance).  In turn, Davrin is reminded by Rook and states himself that he’ll “raise Assan to create a world where the light outshines the dark”. Eldrin told this to a younger Davrin (Eldrin being his uncle figure), and now Davrin tells this to his son, Assan. 

Additionally, Davrin reminds me of my father, a Black man who has a military background, especially when Davrin states, “I can’t be soft on Assan, because the world won’t.” I cannot express how many times I have heard this from my father to my brother, even though my father, like Davrin learned over time that it is alright for them to be soft. 

(Be protective of your child, but also be a safe haven for your child — firm when required, gentle when needed.)

Davrin breaks a form of behavior (the tough father - generational curse seen in Black and POC communities) by allowing Assan to grow and learn in an environment of love and care. Davrin would die for Assan, and he makes that very clear, both in action and dialogue.  In turn, it’s clear Assan loves and is loyal to Davrin (he lays at his feet, always cuddles up to Davrin, and even attacks the Gloom Howler/Isseya to protect Davrin). Davrin even tells Rook to hug Assan for him. This, to me, is the embodiment of the notion of “turlum” - a form of unity. There is respect and love shared by Davrin and Assan, which forms their loyalty to one another and their ability to work as one. 

Davrin fights and becomes more than just the objectification/weaponzation (of the metaphorical blade - of trying to martyr himself to be useful or worth something) and evolves to embrace his personhood, to embracing the unknown, and that his path and development is solely, 100 percent, his own. He goes away from that philosophy mentioned in that one tumblr post from wonderland-mp3: “if U cannot be wanted, I will be needed and if I cannot be needed, let me be used until there’s nothing left of me”.

Appreciation

There’s a lot of reasons to enjoy Davrin, whether it is his handsomeness, his chest, or his nose (his nose is so unapologetically Black; it’s a standout and prominent feature of his, and it is absolutely beautiful) - he was certainly given plenty. However, one of my reasons that I enjoy him is because of the duality of his nature. He is both fierce warrior and gentle spirit. He whittles. That’s a skill that requires an exceptional amount of dedication, patience, and caution, as if you cut too deep, you can splinter the wood, especially for the figures that he makes of the fallen Grey Wardens and of the attention to detail he puts in the ones of the monsters he has fought because he cares about capturing their accuracy for others.  He chops wood when he’s stressed or to clear his head. But every piece of wood he uses, he creates something with. He isn’t wasteful, he makes the wood useful. He puts out his frustration and feelings into the things he creates.

He also is open and unabashed about his feelings. His ability to communicate his feelings is powerful, and deters from the emotionally constipated black man stereotype.  Even when you flirt with him once or twice, he immediately gets the heart and Thrill of the Chase. In my opinion, you earn this status with him faster than the other companions. He makes it very clear that he can be romantically invested in Rook. Even if you don’t choose to pursue him romantically, he is still a devoted and caring friend towards Rook. The walks he takes Rook on are moments in which he pulls them away from the Lighthouse or from some intense moment to reconnect to nature. He may use Assan as an “excuse” but he and Rook need those walks just as much.  

He trusts and befriends his team. He comforts Bellara and her grief (on top of the fact that Davrin and Bellara (and an elven Rook) are trying to process this whole revamped narrative of their “gods”, their myths, and place in the world when the entire society has historically mistreated elves) - and their relationship to me, becomes akin to siblings, or close friends.  He bonds with Taash and takes their advice on making sure Assan is getting the nutrients he needs.  Emmrich and Davrin exchange parenting advice. Lucanis and Davrin become drinking buddies. 

Davrin makes people feel seen. 

Now, when you romance him, he is even more transparent about his feelings. He affirms that there’s more than passing glances between him and Rook, that they spend time together at an increasing rate, and he admits that he’s been thinking of a future with them.  He expresses fear and worry - even a bit of anger of all the difficult decisions that Rook has had to do (his anger is not with them, I believe, but with the fact they have the burden) - over Rook. 

He’s good with children - he offers Mila payment in the form of Griffon Kisses post-Weisshaupt.  He’s also funny and silly (this man tells that the Gingerwort Truffle tea made Rook pee for the rest of the day).

He’s also mindful, tactical and intentional. While hunting the Gloom Howler, during the second part of the quest, aka The Cauldron, Rook may suggest they go after the Gloom Howler/or that she got away. However, you see Davrin state that it is okay, they’re not in a position to hunt her as they don’t truly know what she is, and it is dangerous to hunt something whose nature is not known.  He then solicits help in finding out what or who the Gloom Howler is after allowing Emmrich to discern the nature of the cloth that Assan managed to tear from the Gloom Howler. 

[Spoilers will continue in the next paragraph.] 

(Spoilers: they find out that it is an elf, a former Grey Warden.) 

In his pursuit of knowledge,  Davrin discovers that the Gloom Howler is actually a former elven Grey Warden named Isseya who, during the 4th Blight, was ordered to blight the griffons so that they could not be useful to anyone else after going rabid on the Wardens who were using them to fight in the 4th Blight. (If you want to know more about Isseya, please read Dragon Age: Last Flight).  

Even when he’s mad at the Gloom Howler for kidnapping the Griffons, he takes time to find out who or what she is— and then reminds her of her own humanity as an appeal to try and get her to stop before he puts her out of her misery because she’s basically been blighted and immortal for 500 years and living with that horror of her orders which has driven her mad. 

[SPOILERS OVER.]

He is socially and emotionally intelligent. If you take him on Harding’s companion quest to Kal-Sharok, he is able to greet Stalgard in dwarven, after Stalgard greets him as well. I also consider his ability to place his personal feelings aside in how he reviews Solas’s memories during the quest Regrets of the Dread Wolf, and to empathize where Solas was coming from in some of his decision making as a sign of emotional intelligence.  He states that if he had an opportunity to forever end the blight like Solas did, or even though he did - he would take it, just as Solas had. (This is a paraphrasing, please don’t eat me alive.) Then, reviewing Solas’s regrets, 

Davrin also can acknowledge when he’s wrong. He grows. He has strong opinions on Lucanis, granted, these are emphasized by the incident at Weisshaupt when he is in mourning, processing, and going through the stages of grief of arguably one of the only places he’s considered home since he’s left his clan. However, if you check on him after the argument - he states that Rook should check on Lucanis, and that the shot Lucanis took at Ghilan’nain was “incredible”. He then later tells Lucanis that no one can do what Lucanis can do in regards to taking down Ghilan’nain. 

He’s a man of action. If you romance him, during the romance scene, he reassures Rook through physical touch - they’ve been stuck in a place alone for 2-3 weeks - and then follows up his physical reassurances with verbal affirmations.   He says “I love you” first to Rook, and while this is probably intentional by the programming - for him to continue being transparent enough to admit I love you in a high tension situation speaks volumes. 

Davrin, in the way that he is written is such a dynamic character and his character growth and arc is arguably one of the more long-lasting ones that I think about from DATV. While I’m not sure the ethnicity of his writer(s), they did a fantastic job embodying this man as an unapologetically and explicitly Black man, with all the nuance and roundness that avoided stereotypical behavior and tropes associated with Black men. 

Final Notes

Davrin was my first romance in DATV, and arguably, if I could romance him every time, I absolutely would (however, I’m curious about the other romances, but I am planning another playthrough with my original Rook, Zen, and she will be romancing that man again).  The way he loves is so big. He is the embodiment of to be loved is to be seen (and romancing him and then choosing him for that ending (which in my opinion, shouldn’t have been an option) is absolutely emotionally devastating. But, it confirms what I say: “You saw me, and I saw you”). His devotion (because that man is locked in) is phrased in “wherever you are, there I am”. 

The AMA erasing him and saying that it is Assan that makes the ending so devastating on a level that equates to Harding is a very bad take. Not because it erases his personhood (which is the purpose of his entire companion quest), but also because Assan is a part of him, but he is what you are offered first, Assan is the added bonus.  Additionally, reducing his character to “just the jock” is also in poor taste because a) the jock character is obviously Taash (they literally have weight-lifting equipment in their room) and b) he is so much more than just that, and he is a very gentle character. 

[ MORE SPOILERS BTW ]

(Also, arguably, his scene as a result of leading the second team is so much more worse than Harding’s, in my opinion, because he didn’t even get a fighting chance, and Harding’s status is different than his (MIA vs. Fallen Hero with the disclosure they couldn’t find his remains)

[ SPOILERS OVER ] 

I loved my experience romancing him and playing as a Veil Jumper Rook because he gives banter like “Not bad for a Veil Jumper” even without romancing him. It’s funny, it’s comradery, it is warmth. He jokes with Neve about her assessment on Rook.  

He doesn’t forget his roots and where he comes from, and this is why I propose that Davrin, the Grey Warden, but also the man that he is, is the proclimaiton of the future and change of Thedas at large. He knows he’s an elf (but he states, I’m not a spirit (like the ancient elves), he grows to represent the change of the Grey Wardens. We see this in the flowers found by Rook, Evka, and Antoine under all the Blight that begin to grow in the Wetlands. We see this in how Flynn, the healer from Lavendel, uses the Blight to sense it in their patients; we see it in the changes of the Calling and how for some Wardens in the midst of their hearing the call - it stopped. We see it in the narrative end of the Blight (“the Blight to End all Blights” because no more archdemons = no more gods = no more elven god related blight); we hear it from Antoine who says the song of the Blight is changing and healing. 

This man is built up to be a narrative parallel of the light and hope that comes with the changes in the Grey Wardens, the Elves, and the world of Thedas at large (without the Blight), and I stand by that. Not only do the Griffons represent change, and the Grey Wardens changing their purpose, but Davrin is the light that leads the way for a greater and more positive future for Thedas, in all of his parts that make him whole, connecting Thedas’s past and flaws, to the prospects of a better future.  And for that, DATV told an incredibly powerful story through him (and his beautiful brown eyes).

If you managed to read all of this, I appreciate you. <3 If you liked this, I yap a lot on twitter, bluesky, and elsewhere, and draw doodles and things of my ocs (including my rook zen, davrin, and my solavellen) plus gladio from FFXV (and my oc, persephone). Please feel free to drop into my DMs or inbox!!

[duckprintspress]

Buy Story and Art Bundles to Raise Money for Rainbow Railroad!

HAPPY PRIDE! For the third year running, Duck Prints Press is celebrating with all-new bundles to benefit charity. This year, bundles include 31 short stories and 8 artworks across three bundles – an art bundle, a general imprint bundle, and an explicit imprint bundle! Over the past 2 years, with your help we’ve been able to donate over $500 to three different charities; this year, we’re back and we hope you’ll join us again! This year, charitable proceeds will go (once again) to Rainbow Railroad. We’re also offering bundles both on our website and on itch.io!

Already convinced and ready to buy? Here are the links right up top for your convenience!

ART BUNDLE – duckprintspress.com | itch.io

GENERAL IMPRINT BUNDLE – duckprintspress.com | itch.io

EXPLICIT IMPRINT BUNDLE – duckprintspress.com | itch.io

Want to know more first? Read on…

How This Works

you buy one or both bundles between now and June 30th, 2025.

we tally up all the proceeds earned and do some math-e-magic to figure out how much we’re donating!

before the end of July, we donate the raised money to Rainbow Railroad, we post the proof we’ve done so.

you get fantastic stories!

we all get that happy, glowy feeling of knowing that money has been well-spent on fantastic causes!

About the Press

Duck Prints Press is a queer-owned indie press founded to publish original works by fancreators. We’ve been in operation for almost 4.5 years, and in that time we’ve worked with well over 150 creators to publish eight anthologies and almost 150 other stories, from shorts to novels, as well as three substantial art projects (with a fourth, pride-inspired project launching in just a couple weeks!) – and we’ve got more on the works. The vast majority of our creators and their creations are queer/LGTBQIA+.

26 authors and 8 artists have chosen to include their works this year’s bundles. Bundle contributors voted, and we’ve decided to support again the same charity we supported last year – Rainbow Railroad.

About Rainbow Railroad

In countries around the world, LGBTQI+ people face violence and oppression simply because of who they love or who they are. Rainbow Railroad helps them get to safety! Rainbow Railroad is a global not-for-profit organization that helps at-risk LGBTQI+ people get to safety worldwide. Based in the United States and Canada, they’re an organization that helps LGBTQI+ people facing persecution based on their sexual orientation, gender identity and sex characteristics. In a time when there are more displaced people than ever, LGBTQI+ people are uniquely vulnerable due to systemic, state-enabled homophobia and transphobia. These factors either displace them in their own country or prevent them from escaping harm. 

Note: This charity is not affiliated with the Press and have not endorsed this in any way! Text is from the Rainbow Railroad website.

About the Bundles

General Imprint Bundle

16 stories! 222 pages/69,029 words. Price: $21.50 USD. Approximately half of the sales price for the General Imprint Bundle will be donated to Rainbow Railroad!

Princess Antonia del Montari, aka the Accidental Barista by A. L. Heard

The Problem with Wishes by Annabeth Lynch

So Much Braver by boneturtle

Unsafe Haven by Cedar D. McCafferty-Svec

Got You Covered by D. V. Morse

Troubled Trouble by Genevieve Maxwell

Ride On, Shooting Star by J. D. Harlock

A Thousand Hopes, A Thousand Risks by Kelas Lloyd

The Ending Line of Casablanca by Lucy K. R.

Going Dark by Max Jason Peterson

The Waiting Wife by Mikki Madison

The Deadman’s Gambit by Nicola Kapron

The Inscrutable Fate of the ISV Devotion by S. J. Ralston

Best Friends AND… by Tris Lawrence

In Fine Feather by Violet J. Hayes

The Lighthouse and the Sea by Zel Howland

Visit the bundle page to learn more about these stories.

Explicit Imprint Bundle

15 stories! 248 pages/86,593 words. Price: $24.00 USD. Approximately half of the sales price of the Explicit Imprint Bundle will be donated to Rainbow Railroad!

A Blessing Shared by A. L. Heard

Running Mates by boneturtle

sweet static by Cedar D. McCafferty-Svec

The Benefits of Consequences by Dei Walker

In the Moonlight by E. V. Dean

then, too, at sea by ilgaksu

What Monsters Need by Lyn Weaver

Hold My Reins by Lyonel Loy

The Fated Prince by Mikki Madison

Lust by Nina Waters

Tough Job, Sweet Reward by Samantha M. Piper

Escape by Sanne Burg

Dancing for the King by Terra P. Waters

Just Let Me Lose Control by Tris Lawrence

This Treatment for Chronic Pain has an Unbelievable Side Effect! by Xianyu Zhou

Visit the bundle page to learn more about these stories.

Art Bundle

8 artworks! Price: $12.75. Approximately a quarter of the sales price of the Art Bundle will be donated to Rainbow Railroad!

Ol’ Reliable by Aaron Kotze

Samhain by Aceriee

I want to be different. by Jagoda Zirebiec

Spark by May Barros

Snow Heart by Max Jason Peterson

april’s sweet showers by radicalhoodie

untitled (Mermaids) by swev.art

Chrysopoeia by Zel Howland

Visit the bundle page to learn more about this art.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Daniel Park with Unhinged F! Reader

You, the peak of the verse with a list of supposedly strong and powerful men to kill meet.

Gun Park | Goo Kim | Samuel Seo | Samuel Seo Part 2 | James Lee/DG | Jinyoung Park | Eli Jang | Tom Lee | Ryuhei Kuroda | Eugene | Vin Jin | Charles Choi | Daniel Park

I had a request sometime last year on Unhinged F!Reader helping out Allied. Soooo- this is my response to it...

'Why are you following me?"

You turn around in the alleyway to see a guy approximately the same height as you. Unremarkable if not for the way he has managed to pick you out from the shadows and keep up with your steps.

"Please, I need your help."

Help? Does this person have any idea who you are?

You arch an eyebrow at his request as he continues to stare at you with wide eyes.

Honestly. Did he think this puppy dog look was going to work on you? Of all people? You don't say anything, letting the silence add pressure until he spills out his guts.

Something about the Four Crews and HNH, which vaguely rings a bell.

You start to examine your nails as he rambles, quickly losing interest. Damn, is that dried blood underneath? You really must clean them better post fight.

And tch! Another chipped nail too. Ugh.

Oh. He's still talking, huh.

You've already tuned him out but the sound of his voice grows irritating and you cut him off, just as he starts to mention the Ten Geniuses or whatever.

You thrust a palm out at him, inches from his face and clever boy, he shuts up immediately. "Why should I help you?"

"Um." He hesitates. "I can pay you?"

"Not interested."

"I.. I can copy moves? You can teach me to be your masterpiece-"

"Cool," you say, stifling a yawn. Wasn't that crazy old doctor also a copy user? You dispatched him without difficulty.

"Let me guess-" You start ticking off each point on your fingers.

"One. You don’t move like you’re a natural, so you do have a master but they're not cutting it anymore- " He nods.

"Two. You've somehow found out about me and managed to seek me out-"  You don't tell him you're reluctantly impressed at that part.

"Three. Then hoped that I would help you because I have such a good moral compass-" You roll your eyes at this. What is it with pathetic men expecting women to clean up their mess?

"Four. So you've come here to ask me to help and promise me riches as a sweetener but sorry to break your heart, I don't give a shit-" He recoils, taken aback by your bluntness.

"Anyway, which mediocre fool has been teaching you?"

"One of the Ten Geniuses I mentioned. The Learning Genius."

What a lame title. "Who?"

"Gun Park."

You have a vague recollection of this person and gesture for him to tell you more as you pull out your small slip of paper. The one with the list of crossed out names, that you hunted down and defeated one by one until only a few remain. 

Oh wait... the name Gun Park is here-

"Um. Black eyes, half naked all the time, tattoos on his arms, smokes-"

"Right!" You click your fingers. "That loser! The Learning Genius, did you say?"

He widens his eyes at you insulting his master but nods anyway.

"Pfffft-" you stifle a laugh unsuccessfully. Goddamn that is funny.

"Learning Genius!" You squeal, letting out a cackle that leaves his hairs standing on end. The more you think about it, the funnier it gets. On what planet is that guy qualified, good enough, to teach anyone? You laugh and laugh, clutching your stomach as he backs away awkwardly.

Wiping away tears from your eyes, you make up your mind and ask, "What did you say your name was?"

"I... I didn't. It's Daniel Park,"

You dig out the pen in your pocket and add his name to your list.

He's undercooked. Maybe fun in a few more years but now Daniel is nothing but a baby. It'll be fun to crush him eventually.

"Listen," You fold your note carefully, slipping it back into your pocket. "I have zero inclination to help you. None."

He opens his mouth to argue-

And you cut him off again with a shrug. "Mainly 'cause I don't want to. Anyway, I'll find you once you're ready to fight. It'll be a shame to kill you any sooner, but-"

You lunge at him, slamming Daniel into the wall with a hand on his neck before he has had a chance to react.

"- Follow me again and I won't hesitate." You smile sweetly, like butter wouldn't melt. Smile stretching further, turning monstrous and unhinged when you feel him attempt to free himself from your grasp but to no avail.

You give his throat one more squeeze for good measure as he chokes and claws at your hand before releasing him. “See ya!”

Daniel drops to the floor, gasping desperately for air and rubbing at his neck. Thinks that this has been a grave mistake and now he has a target on his back.

He watches you, humming to yourself and sashaying away into the night, melting into the shadows once more.

[mpreglover225]

[Exhibit Document from the Birth & Reproductive History Museum, Washington, D.C.: Excerpt from Dr. H. Farnsworth’s Private Journal, Dated August 9, 1944]

Patient Name: Mr. Thomas Cooper Spouse: Captain Leonard Cooper, United States Navy Date of Delivery: August 8, 1944 Labor Duration: Approximately 48 hours Birth Outcome: Healthy male infant, 10 pounds, unmedicated natural delivery Immediate Postpartum Notes: Initiation of moobfeeding

Notes on Delivery and Postpartum (By Dr. H. Farnsworth)

The final phase of Mr. Cooper’s pregnancy culminated in an intensive two-day labor at our clinic. Throughout the protracted labor, he declined pharmacologic pain relief, citing his strong personal conviction in a fully natural birthing process. Progress was slow yet consistent: cervical dilation advanced steadily, and fetal heart tones remained robust, even as Mr. Cooper’s contractions intensified in both frequency and duration.

Captain Leonard Cooper arrived in the latter stage of labor, having been granted emergency leave from his naval command. His presence appeared to buoy Mr. Cooper’s morale significantly. Despite extreme fatigue, Mr. Cooper exhibited unwavering fortitude when bearing down, spurred by his husband’s encouragement and the attentive aid of the nursing staff.

The newborn presented with a notably large frame (10 pounds) but in optimal position, allowing for a safe, albeit strenuous, delivery. Mr. Cooper’s pushing phase was lengthy, compounded by the infant’s size; however, he managed to deliver without any medical interventions beyond standard warm compresses for perineal support. Following an initial cry and brief examination, the infant was declared healthy, with commendable Apgar indicators.

Postpartum Condition and Moobfeeding Initiation

Upon delivery, Mr. Cooper—though visibly exhausted—expressed relief and elation, particularly once the infant was placed upon his chest. Per his request, we facilitated immediate skin-to-skin contact. Within the hour, Mr. Cooper initiated moobfeeding, which the infant latched onto effectively after a brief period of encouragement and guidance. This early feeding proved beneficial in promoting uterine contraction and bonding.

Mr. Cooper’s vital signs stabilized promptly post-birth, despite the prolonged labor. He displayed mild perineal swelling, yet no significant lacerations were identified. During routine observation overnight, Mr. Cooper required only cold compresses and rest to manage soreness. He continued moobfeeding on demand, approximately every two to three hours, which helped stimulate milk production and offered the infant consistent nourishment.

Captain Cooper remained at his husband’s bedside throughout the night, assisting with positioning the infant for moobfeeding and ensuring Mr. Cooper remained adequately hydrated. The close involvement of Captain Cooper evidently fostered a calm environment, allowing Mr. Cooper some respite between feedings. By morning, both father and child were reported to be resting comfortably, with moobfeeding well established and the infant producing satisfactory wet diapers.

Additional Observations

Mr. Cooper exemplified notable resolve under challenging circumstances, laboring unmedicated for a full 48-hour period. The infant’s weight (10 pounds) affirms our earlier assessments of a robust gestational course. It is our recommendation that Mr. Cooper maintain a nutrient-rich diet to support ongoing moobfeeding, and that he practice gentle perineal care to expedite full recovery.

The successful outcome of this birth, paired with the renewed presence of Captain Cooper after weeks at sea, underscores the profound impact of family unity on the birthing process. In an era shaped by wartime separation, the Coopers’ experience stands as a testament to resilience, partnership, and the efficacy of consistent prenatal care.

Signed, Dr. H. Farnsworth Obstetric & Reproductive Medicine Washington, D.C.