#I GET IT BUT I'M STILL ALLOWED TO BE SAD OKAY

[sungbeam]

𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥

nonidol!yoon jeonghan x gn!reader

2.3k words, fluff, comfort, reader is sick, technically a college au, light swearing, mentions of food, mentions of cold medication, tbh i know i advocate for platonic fics but i am also just a girl. so he does pine a little lol, slice-of-life-ish, barely proofread

a/n: there is like no plot, i just am feeling ooey-gooey about svt rn heh :') been watching so much gose recently and it's healing my soul

Yoon Jeonghan was many things, but oblivious was not one of them. “Oh my god, you're sick,” were his first words to you when you opened your apartment door. His voice was droning, perfectly unimpressed, but it masked the concern attempting to skirt its way to the surface. 

“It's not that” —your sorry attempt at denial crumbled like a house of cards as you turned away to cough into your elbow. The taste of metal lingered in the back of your throat and you winced, reaching into your bag to grab your water bottle. After swallowing down a generous helping, you said to him without looking him in the eye, “I'm fine.”

Jeonghan blinked. “That's really cute,” he replied with a thin smile. “Back inside.”

“But Jeonghan—”

“No.” He grabbed you firmly by your shoulders and steered you back into your apartment, his body waddling in behind you because of your balking in the doorway. He kicked the front door shut, shucking his shoes off with uncanny accuracy into an empty space on the shoe rack. “Shoes off, Yn-ah. Don't start an argument you won't win.”

You grumbled under your breath, but did as you were told. All the while, Jeonghan smoothed a hand over his jaw, performing mental gymnastics. How did you get sick? How much time did he have before he needed to get to campus? Could he reasonably make you soup before he needed to leave for his exam?

The first question was easy to answer. He internally smacked himself—last night: your runny nose, the vitamin C powder you added to your water, your shivers on the walk home from the library. Oh, fuck. He should have driven. Why did he make you both walk in that cold?

Guilt coursed through him as he directed you back into your bedroom. 

It was a quarter to 8, meaning he didn't have time to make you ramen and make it to his exam before the doors closed. 

“I have so much shit to do today” —another horrid cough rattled through you, and Jeonghan frowned to himself as he snatched the extra blanket out of your closet— “I can't… Hannie, there's so much I need to—”

“I know, Yn-ah,” he said softly, eyes sad and tender as he bundled you up in three layers until you were likely unable to unwrap yourself. He perched by your side, his palm grazing over your forehead to take your temperature. Hot. Not good. “But if you don't take care of yourself now, it'll only get worse.”

He glanced at his phone. Five to 8—he still had fifteen minutes. It was a blessing that you lived closer to campus than he did. 

“I hate when you're right,” you muttered. The lower half of your face was tucked beneath the edges of your blankets, so all he saw were your tired, glaring eyes. 

He smirked to himself, a fuzziness warming his chest. So petulant. “You always do,” he mused. “What did you have to do today? I'll try and help out as best I can.”

Your glare softened at the corners and your eyes flitted away from him. “It's okay. I'll deal with it all when I wake up. I—wait.” Your eyes shot wide open. “You have that exam today! You have to leave—what time is it?”

“Yah, I'll make it,” he laughed. “Worry about yourself.”

“You literally said last night that you were worried about failing—”

“And now I'm worried about you,” he countered. Satisfaction brought an impish twinkle to his eyes as you scowled at him again. “But fine, I'll leave if you insist.”

He rose from the edge of the bed, picking his backpack up to sling over his shoulder. 

“Thank you.”

With his back toward you, he could allow himself to grin. “What was that?” he called back innocently. 

“Don't fail.”

He huffed out another laugh as he reached the threshold of your bedroom doorway. Jeonghan wondered briefly if he should coax that thank you out of your mouth again, but he really did need to leave. It was awful. Everything in him was ready to throw away this exam to stay here with you. “Go to sleep, honey. I'll see you when you wake up.”

Three hours later, Jeonghan shouldered his way into your apartment, his backpack on his shoulders, his mind far away from that disgusting exam he finished, and his hands occupied with a grocery bag of items he picked up on his way here. When he left earlier, he had swiped your keys on the way out so he could let himself back in without waking you up. He dumped those very keys onto the table by the door, the gazillion key chains attached to the one carabiner clattering inelegantly loud. 

He glanced over at your closed door, hoping he didn't just wake you up. 

With a little less noise, he abandoned his backpack by the couch and made his way over to the kitchen. While he had made it in time to his exam, it had taken more willpower to center his attention on the exam itself rather than letting his mind wander to all the things he wanted to do after he was done. The to-do list spanned about five items: buy cold medicine and orange juice, decide on what food to make you, buy the ingredients for that food, persuade your TA to let him pick up your graded essay (that one, he saw on a sticky note by your desk), and come back to take care of you. 

(If the TA grading his exam took note of the small list he'd jotted down in the top corner of page five, no they didn't.)

There had been several ideas of what he could make you once he was free. He had stared at the row of vegetables in the produce department for a good ten minutes before he decided on something less usual. He could make instant ramen, but that didn't seem like the healthiest option for him to feed you. There was also seaweed soup—did he have the time to go to another store to find what he needed? No. 

His next great idea was something simple, but delicious: chicken noodle soup. 

Jeonghan rummaged around your cabinets, locating the things he needed—cutting board, knife—he opened a door and sighed to himself. So you did have pasta already. Great. 

He examined the box of dried elbow macaroni and compared it to the bowtie pasta he'd picked out. “Mine’s better,” he muttered, shelving your macaroni and bumping the cabinet closed. 

In the largest pot he could find, he brewed up a hearty chicken soup, using the bones from the rotisserie chicken he bought to add more richness to the broth's flavoring. Every carrot, onion, and celery stalk he sliced, and every piece of chicken he shredded, was done deftly and with great care. This was for you, after all, and if this soup could help you get better, then he would make it the best damn thing you'd ever tasted. 

There were plenty of things Jeonghan didn't want to do or weaseled his way out of, but he could be running on one hour of sleep, and he would still haul his ass up to make kimchi from scratch if you asked him to. 

He was stationed behind the stove, tasting the soup for adjustments, when he heard your bedroom door open. 

Jeonghan peered over his shoulder and smiled at the bundle of blankets waddling your way out into the main room, your hair sticking up in odd places, and your eyes still at half mast. “Good morning, sleepy head. How're you feeling?”

“Meh,” you said hoarsely, clearing your throat. You squinted at the sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. “What're you making? It smells nice.”

“Hm? Oh, I made you some soup. Go take the medicine on the counter and sit down; I'll bring you a bowl.”

As he reached over to grab another pinch of salt, he heard you tearing open the box of cold medicine behind him. 

A moment passed by of quiet, but his heart leapt straight into his throat as he felt a soft weight rest against his back. “Thank you, Hannie,” you murmured, forehead pressed between his shoulders. 

There were about a dozen things running through his mind at the moment—things he could say, things he could do. He was an ounce of willpower away from melting on the spot, but the heat rising from the soup pot kept him upright. “Aish… thank me by getting better, okay?”

You hummed in acknowledgment and lifted yourself off his back. When you hobbled away to sit down at the table, Jeonghan couldn't brush away the feeling that the spot your head had rested was now cold. 

“How was the” —cough— “the exam?” 

Jeonghan glanced over at you as he carefully ladled soup into two bowls. He hummed, “Could've been better, but can't really do anything about it now.”

“I'm sure you did good,” you replied, holding out your hands like a kid waiting for their turn to get candy from a jar as Jeonghan made his way over to you with the soup. “You always say you did bad when you actually scored in the top ten percent.”

“Careful, honey, it's hot.” Jeonghan continued to hold the bowl even as you cupped it in your hands, until it safely reached the table. Only then did he seat himself down adjacent to you. “Yeah, well, you always said I should be more humble,” he joked.

You picked up your spoon and gestured at him with it. “Humility and lying are different things,” you said pointedly. “Anyways, thank you. This looks really yummy.”

“I don't lie,” he drawled with a twinkle in his eye. He leaned his cheek against his fist and watched as you took a spoonful and gently blew on the hot liquid. The delight that lit up your face was enough to make him happy for a century. He inclined his chin. “Good?”

“Very good. Sometimes I forget that you're good at cooking, too.”

“Not like Mingyu though,” he chuckled and brought a spoonful up to his lips. 

You shot him a look. “You don't always have to compare yourself, Hannie-ah. I'm not talking about Mingyu right now.”

Maybe I just want to make sure, he thought, then brushed it under that large, metaphorical rug in his mind. Jeonghan gave a half-hearted shrug. 

Your mouth flattened into a displeased line. His grin widened. 

When the both of you finished as many helpings as you had the appetite for, Jeonghan graciously offered to wash the dishes. He practically anchored you to the couch by wrapping you in yet another blanket—it was a double-edged sword; you were quite cute like that and he had half the mind to ditch the dishes. Once done with his task, he plucked out a dose of cold medication to take for himself, as well. 

You eyed him from the couch as he swallowed the pills with a glass of orange juice. “Did I get you sick already?” you asked, your voice having become more nasally from your stuffy nose. 

“Not yet,” he said, “it's just preventative measures since I'm gonna be hanging around you.”

“You're not leaving?” 

Your words were one thing, but the way you peered over the back of the couch at him and the upward intonation in your voice told him something else. He smiled to himself as he walked over to the couch with his juice. “No, I was going to help you finish your work for the day, but if you want me to leave, I—”

“Only if you're not afraid of getting sick,” you said quickly. 

He sighed with an air of melodrama. “I suppose I can stay after all.” He brought out his laptop and the essay he finagled from your TA, vaguely mentioning something about his careful white lies in order to accomplish his mission. It was truly something only Jeonghan could pull off and get away with. 

The first item on your to-do list was to send out a couple emails. 

Jeonghan felt the weight of your head fall onto his shoulder, and he glanced down at you in amusement. “You're not falling asleep on me, are you?” he teased, his fingers paused from the email he was typing out while you dictated the wording. 

You shifted your head. “No, I'm still awake. Do you think this sounds too bubbly?”

“It’s not too bubbly,” he said, cocking his head to the side. “But the thing is you're not this agreeable in real life—aish! Haha, hey! Don't hit me!”

He could imagine your cute, little scowl. “I am incredibly agreeable.”

“Yes, yes.” Jeonghan lightly pat your head. “You're very lovely, Yn-ah.”

You chose to ignore the impish tone in his voice. It was what he wanted you to do anyway—believe that he thought you were lovely.  

It was difficult to parse out how much time passed, but at some point, the TV was turned on to a random channel playing some 90s sitcom, and his laptop was ditched on the coffee table. Jeonghan's legs ended up sprawled across the length of the couch while your layers of blankets covered both of you. Your head rested comfortably on his chest as he continued to watch TV in silent contentment.

Jeonghan was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn't oblivious to the fact that you took the wrong cold medicine. The box he bought had both daytime and nighttime meds, the latter of which contained melatonin to aid with uninterrupted sleep. He didn't say anything earlier when he realized, but it wasn't like he could say anything now. 

He glanced down at your face, his hand cupping the back of your head with too much tenderness for friendship. You were asleep; there was nothing he could do, no jokes to make or fun to poke. 

Him, his thoughts, and you. 

But this was fine. He was happy and warm like the perfect bowl of soup filling an empty stomach, and he had no intention of leaving until he knew that you were better. As his eyes slowly drooped closed, he sank further into the blankets and your hold, soul nourished.

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if you enjoyed <3

svt m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @tinkerbell460 @meosjinnn @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @floatingpluto @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @eunseok-s @bless-311 @leaz-kpop-life @fluorescentloves @thesunsfullmoon @haechansbbg @kpopjackie @jundundun @http-gyu @mars101 @moonyswolf @honeyrecommends @synthwxve @thecarnivaloflies @p-d1ddy @thatonedemigodfromseoul @foivetimesthecharm

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 76: Oliver's Rescue

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control, captivity, conditioning, drugging, blood ritual

October 1925

Oliver.

His master's song was muffled and far away, but still carried his name. Oliver tried to respond, but he couldn't seem to move.

Wake up.

His eyelids were like lead, his body stiff and heavy. The world tilted and dipped, and he realized that he was being carried.

Wake up, Oliver.

His master sounded scared, desperate. Why…

Oliver remembered what had happened, the fight with the vampire hunter, how he'd allow himself to be taken in the hopes that his master would be spared. The voice echoing in his head at least meant that his master was still alive, and communicating with him through the link between them that he rarely used.

If he was now in the clutches of the hunter, he definitely didn't want her to realize that he was awake. Instead, he kept his eyes shut tight and did his best to reach out to the voice in his head.

The communication wasn't in words, exactly, but in feelings and in song, and Oliver felt slow and clumsy as he tried to connect. He could feel his master's concern, and he did his best to convey that he was drugged, but unharmed.

The mental conversation was interrupted by a woman's voice. "Oh god, is that Oliver?"

"I sure hope so," said the hunter, "because it was like hell to rescue him."

"What's wrong with him? Is he okay?" The woman's voice seemed vaguely familiar, but Oliver couldn't quite place it in his foggy mind.

"I had to put him to sleep. I botched it and failed to kill his master. That means he could alert his master to the location of the safehouse if he figures out where he is -- and his master is a terrifyingly dangerous vampire. If you don't want to end up a thrall again…"

"He would do that?"

Oliver felt a pang of guilt at the sadness in the woman's voice, particularly since he had, in fact, just been communicating with his master. But he only wanted Alexander to retrieve him, not to harm anyone else, not even this hunter.

"Unfortunately, yes. Given his master's skills, it's safe to say that Oliver is a danger to everyone here. That's why I'll have to prepare to unenthrall him right away, and we'll have to make sure he can't escape or figure out where he is in the meantime."

The guilt was replaced by panic as Oliver tried to somehow relay this information to Alexander through their limited connection. Oliver wasn't sure if he understood, but he did feel a surge of anger in response, one which rippled through him as though it were his own.

"Shit, he's awake."

Oliver's eyes flew open, and he was looking into the face of the hunter who had kidnapped him, who had been carrying him princess-style through what looked like a run-down house. With his cover blown, he struggled out of the hunter's arms, only to flop ungracefully on the floor, still heavily drugged.

"Oliver!"

The face of the other woman swam into view, and he realized who the voice belonged to.

"Emily?" he croaked, his mouth parched.

"Help me restrain him," said the hunter sternly, hauling Oliver up by his armpits. "I'll need some extra time to prepare the ritual, and we have to make sure he can't escape."

"I don't want a ritual," Oliver protested weakly. "Just let me go. I don't need to be rescued."

"Get the sleeping draught from my bag and splash some under his nose. Be careful not to breathe it yourself."

"All right."

With his limbs still clumsy and slow, Oliver couldn't manage to get away from the hunter's strong arms holding him from behind. All he could do was thrash and hold his breath as Emily followed the hunter's instructions and smeared some of the potent sleeping potion under his nose. Even as he tried to hold his breath, he could still smell the sickly sweetness, his head starting to spin.

"That's good," said the hunter in his ear. "I know you don't believe me now, but I'm trying to help you."

Oliver wanted to protest further. He did know what the hunter was doing, he really did, but she just didn't understand his particular situation. He wasn't like Emily, whose master was planning to discard her the moment she was bored. Alexander needed him.

Didn't he?

But he'd thought about getting away before, hadn't he? When he first learned about Alexander's sire, and even before that, back in the auction house…

His head swirled with confusion as the sleeping concoction began to take hold once again. He found he couldn't offer any resistance as the hunter pulled him onto a chair and tied his arms and legs down, placing a blindfold around his eyes.

"I'm sorry I have to do this," she said, "but it really is for your own good. You'll see."

As Oliver's thoughts began to fade, he could hear the increasingly frantic music of his master, trying to reach him, but to no avail.

---

When Oliver was finally able to crack open his eyes again, he had no idea if he'd been out for five minutes or five hours. The ropes binding him into the chair chafed his wrists, and he felt stiff.

"Oh, are you awake? Vivian said you might wake up again before she was ready."

He managed to lift his heavy head, still disoriented. He was in the same dingy house as before, in a room that was mostly empty except for his chair and one other. Emily was sitting in an armchair reading the newspaper, looking very different than she had the last time Oliver had seen her, dressed in a plain blue shirt and khaki pants instead of a stylish dress and heels.

"Please don't put me back to sleep," he said. "I just want to talk." His master's song had faded from his head, giving him a little more space to think.

She put down the newspaper. "All right, but Vivian told me to put you back to sleep if you cause any trouble."

"Is Vivian the vampire hunter?"

"Yeah. She rescued me." Emily was staring at Oliver as though sizing him up. "She's trying to save people from vampires. I owe her everything. You remember me, don't you?"

"I do," said Oliver.

"I told her to go find you, since I felt guilty about what happened in the auction house, that I couldn't help you when you were being hypnotized. Now we're even, or we will be, I guess."

"You didn't have to do that," said Oliver. "I'm glad you got out. Your master…" He shuddered thinking of Emily with her mind gone, the way Jessica had done the same to him in only a moment. "She was awful. And she was going to throw you away. You didn't deserve that."

"I appreciated that, you know. When you tried to stand up for me in front of all the vampires. I didn't really understand what you were trying to say then, but I do now," she said. "And Vivian's going to do the same thing for you. She'll free you from enthrallment."

Oliver's gut churned. A part of him certainly felt like he should want it -- but more in the way that one feels one should want to do chores or exercise or tedious errands. He should want his mind restored, to be free of the vampires' influence…

…but it had been good for him, hadn't it? The situation forced him to admit to himself a truth he was trying to avoid -- that he had been drifting through life with no real purpose. He'd spent so many lonely, dull days in the bookstore, his only highlights a new acquisition or a particularly interesting customer. But with the vampires, he'd felt useful. Fulfilled. He'd tasted bliss, even if it was artificial…

"She doesn't need to do that," said Oliver. "I know it probably sounds crazy, but I was fine with my master. He treats me well, and I'm happy, and I really don't have anyone who's looking for me or anything that important to go back to, to be honest."

"What about your bookshop?" she demanded. "The entire time we were locked up, that's all you talked about, all the improvements you wanted to make to your bookshop. Remember?"

"Of course I do." He could never forget the bookshop, the place where he'd spent the vast majority of his life from childhood. He knew every nook and cranny so well, the smell of dust and book bindings, the way certain floorboards creaked, the uneven stairs up to his apartment, his comfortable chair piled with lumpy blankets. And he remembered being so desperate to get back there. When had he stopped thinking about his bookshop?

"Then you know you need to get back there, right?"

"Yes, I do, but…" The thought of his master's song, of the loneliness in his eyes, pulled him back. Oliver had been lonely, too. The idea of returning to his bookshop alone and resuming his former life felt strangely cold. "My master also needs me. I keep him company, and I help him get to sleep, and I…"

"Let him drink your blood."

Heat rose in Oliver's face as he thought of it, unwilling to fully admit to himself how much he would miss that particular aspect of his new life. "Yes, but -- he gives me so much in return. And it isn't so bad, really. It's -- it's pleasant, almost, in a strange way."

Emily sighed. "If you could listen to yourself… I remember you telling me how much you didn't want them to take your mind, how you hated the idea of being food for some monster, and now you're blushing and stammering just to think about it. The vampires really did do a number on you, didn't they? Not that I can talk. I had my memories completely erased, and they still aren't fully back."

"I'm sorry they did that to you," he said, and meant it. "I do know what I said then, but that was before I knew what it would be like. My master -- Alexander really has been kind to me, and I've enjoyed living with him, and not just because I was hypnotized. I mean, I was allowed to keep most of my mind…"

"Allowed to keep your mind?" she said. "Oliver, you're completely wrapped around that vampire's fingers."

"I'm not --"

"Don't you remember that I saw you at the Tiger's Eye? You were fawning all over that vampire's lap, letting him dote on you like a house cat."

Oliver was about to retort and point out that she was no different -- but that would only prove her point, considering how clearly ensorcelled she'd been. Was that how he had looked to other people? He had hardly considered it, too used to only being in the company of vampires and thralls.

Emily must be right. He really was that far under his master's spell, wasn't he? How could he ever think otherwise?

"But it's okay," she said. "Vivian has a ritual to undo most of the enthrallment. You'll be free."

"Free." It should be a joyous thing, so why did it feel like having a bucket of ice water upended over him?

Everything he had felt between his capture and now, had it all been a fabrication, a hypnotic illusion? The warm and comforting evenings, his deep satisfaction at serving his master, even those traces of affection? Was it all a lie, a soap bubble that could be so easily popped?

And the way his master wanted him and cherished him, refused to let him go, was that also just an act to keep Oliver in line?

"Hey, are you okay?" Emily asked. "I know it's a lot to think about."

Oliver nodded, trying not to cry. As much as he knew he should be grateful for the rescue, a greater part of him wished he were still back in the manor, his quiet evening uninterrupted, curled next to his master and reading to his heart's content.

Was it really so terrible, to be lost in an illusion? He'd spent his entire life with his mind three-quarters of the way in a book at all times. Was this so different?

But no matter how much he desired it, he'd never be truly safe with Alexander, not with the threat of his sire looming over them both. Freedom meant he'd never have to feel that sickening control wrap around his limbs ever again, never again blinded and degraded and forced to dance. Even as he thought it, though, he doubted it could be so easy. Could this hunter actually defy that vampire? Was a witch's ritual enough to deliver Oliver from his clutches?

The stairs creaked, and the vampire hunter entered the room. She'd divested herself of most of her kit, but that silver knife, the one she'd pressed against Oliver's neck, was still strapped to her belt. Behind her, a woman with red hair and a gray housecoat stood, looking a bit dazed.

"Oh, he's awake," said Vivian. "How are you feeling, Oliver?"

"I've had better nights," he said. He dimly remembered how he'd felt when Lily had him dragged him out of his cell, the loss of his mind inevitable. Why did he feel exactly like that now?

"You'll feel better once we've freed you from the vampire's hold on your mind," she said. "Well, you may feel worse before you feel better, but that's only because it can be hard to use your own mind again."

Oliver nodded. What else could he do? The ropes bit into his wrists.

"Emily, is it safe to untie him, or is he going to try and escape?"

Emily shook her head. "I don't think it's safe. He's very far gone."

Oliver wanted to protest, but he wasn't sure himself, torn between what he wanted and what he knew he should want.

"All right. I'll just untie him from the chair and leave the rest of his binds. Jenny, can you help?"

Vivian and the woman with her, Jenny, began to untie him from the chair, but as instructed, his wrists and ankles were still firmly bound together, preventing him from moving much. Vivian picked him up in her strong arms as though he were a sack of potatoes, and made her way back to the stairs. Oliver didn't bother to try and struggle, knowing it would be fruitless.

Emily and Jenny helped Vivian maneuver her parcel up the stairs and into the attic, and Oliver's chest tightened to see the chalk circles on the floor, stained in blood. So this was it -- and his desire to be back home with his master overtook any other sense in him. He involuntarily squirmed and thrashed, and the women nearly dropped him.

"Let me go!" he said. "I've changed my mind, I don't want this! Just let me go back!"

"Hold onto him! Get him in the circle!"

Master, he called out in his mind. Master, where are you?

He was placed in the middle of the circle, unable to stand or do anything but writhe like a pathetic worm.

"Just close your eyes and try to relax, Oliver." Vivian knelt in the circle in front of him, taking out her silver knife, and he flinched away from it. "You'll be glad that we helped you. I promise."

Master!

The connection to Alexander returned, and Oliver was overwhelmed with the feeling of despair and panic, adding to his own. He knew what his master was trying to say, that he didn't know where Oliver was, and Oliver couldn't offer any useful information. Even if he could, it'd be far too late.

Vivian sliced open her own hand and dripped her blood into the circle, chanting low. The music inside Oliver rose to a frantic crescendo. He felt something smeared on his forehead, couldn't flinch away in time.

It was too late.

The music stopped.

Previous > Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading about a man who was enthralled.

Important Note: There will be no new Bookseller chapters for the next two Sundays! I hope to occasionally post some other work you may enjoy, though. Bookseller will return in December.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush @cepheusgalaxy

@whump-me-harder @whump-till-ya-jump @the-monarch-whumperfly @ium1naryy

[chicagocubsreactions]

From Christopher's Instagram. 😭

[wuxian-vs-wangji]

Okay but what is this class?

So, within the film school were 3 areas of study, and you had to pick ONE to do:

Telecommunication law and policy.

Media Sciences (The academic studies. If they could show you something and put electrodes on your head to read your brain, they're happy)

Design and Production-- actually making shit. Scriptwriting, studio, field production, sound design, editing, etc.

I did a self-created hybrid major, bridging Media Sciences with Design and Production.

----

Laid that ground information because I can only describe the classes from the way I approached them. The media psychology students got something totally different out of it and my brain just doesn't stop where theirs stopped.

If I mention the sex class, I'll end up writing that 100,000 word essay on how it is applied to LITA, so let's talk the horror one (my fav).

What the class does is get into physiologically, what happens to a person while watching horror? A lot of that is really obvious- you can become tense, anxious, your stress levels actually go DOWN overall (which is not how it feels in the moment), and you experience a rush of adrenaline.

Then you dig deeper. What is contributing to the tension? The human brain processes things at different speeds, sight is slower than sound. So sound mixing becomes both critical to creating a horror atmosphere, and also a cheat code. Anything becomes spooky if it SOUNDS spooky.

Monkey brain hear spooky, monkey brain no like spooky. Now it's dark. Monkey brain cannot see danger approach. Monkey brain fight or flight grow big.

Now, if you don't have a valve to bring the tension down (something scary, jump scares are the most lazy way), monkey brain get bored. Monkey brain start adapting to the adrenaline and your adrenal gland is like "Guys this party sucks".

And that's why M. Night Shamalan movies blow. Level tension. So at the end when he tries to ramp it up your brain has already gotten bored and gone home so it's just like "Who the fuck cares".

What else is in horror movies? Violence!

But guess what? Monkey brain feel things if they see gruesome stuff. Boy monkey brains especially.

But what's this? Girl monkey brains are different than boy monkey brains. Girl monkey brains have SO MANY MORE nerve endings (that equals empathy). You show gruesome to girl monkey brain, girl monkey brain is like "childbirth and periods are more gruesome than this" (girl monkey brain not the most feminist, the feminism comes from evolution and enlightenment).

But you show a girl monkey brain the FACE of someone in pain- the agony and the terror... That's going to slam into those nerve endings and activate Empathy Mode- and now you can imagine how that violence FEELS.

Know your demographic- based on your subject matter, the likely ratio of boy monkey brains to cater to vs girl monkey brains. Set your balance of violence and face shots to keep both on the same page with that tension you are rising and lowering.

And I did say I didn't want to get into the sex one because I don't want to rabbit hole, but sex and horror tend to walk hand in hand because they're such primal triggers.

That's the "monkey brain" theme up there. They are not speaking to you as a rational human person. They're speaking to the root code of your DNA (do not try to hijack my post to argue anti-feminist things because of monkey brain, I'm talking horror and sex).

They're poking at instinctive responses you do not consciously control on average.

So yeah

I created a hybrid major track for myself within the department (I love that my uni gave students the freedom to do that) to study media psychology and apply it not to research on the human condition, but to learn to basically brain wash and mind control my audiences.

To reach into the monkey brain and hypnotize them until they end up- as the video game design majors would say- in a flow-state where time stops existing. Just the story is left. Like a dream you don't realize you are dreaming.

... ... ... When my professor realized how I was mixing the two tracks, he started calling it the Super Villain Major.

I have no regrets.

[musical-chick-13]

.

[neverendingford]

.

[odinsblog]

“I first started noticing the journalists dying on Instagram. I'm a journalist, I'm Arab, and I've reported on war. A big part of my community is other Arab journalists who do the same thing.

And when someone dies, news travels fast. Recently, I pulled up the list that the Committee to Protect Journalists has been keeping and looked at it for the first time. There are 95 journalists and media workers on it as of today.

Almost everyone on it is Palestinian. Scrolling through, I started to get angry. These were the people carrying the burden of documenting this whole war.

Israel is not allowing foreign journalists into Gaza, except on rare occasions with military escorts. These people's names are being buried in a giant list that keeps growing. What I want to do is lift some of them off the list for a moment and give you a glimpse of who they were and the work they made.

I'll start with Sadi Mansour. Sadi was the director of Al-Quds News Network, and he posted a 22-second video on November 18. That was a report from the war, but it also gave me a picture into his marriage.

Sadi's wearing his press vest and looks exhausted. He's explaining that cell service and the Internet keep getting cut off, and it's often impossible to text or call anyone, including his wife. So they've resorted to using handwritten letters to communicate while he's out reporting, sending them back and forth with neighbors or colleagues.

He ends the video with a picture of one of these letters from his wife. In it, she writes,

‘Me and the kids stayed up waiting for you until the morning, and you didn't come home. We were really sad.

I kept telling the kids, Look, he's coming. But you didn't show up. May God forgive you.

Come home tomorrow and eat with us. Do you want me to make you kebab or maybe kapse? Bring your friends with you, it's okay.

And give Azeez the battery to charge. What do you think about me sending you handwritten letters with messenger pigeons from now on? Ha ha ha.

I'm just kidding. I want to curse at you, but we're living in a war. Too bad.

Okay, I love you. Bye.’

A few hours after he shared that letter, Sadie and his co-worker Hassouna Saleem were at Sadie's home, when they were killed by an Israeli air strike that hit his house.

His wife and kids, who weren't there, survived.

Gaza is tiny, and the journalist community is really close. Reading the list, you can see all the connections between people. Like with Brahim Lafi.

Brahim was a photojournalist, one of the first journalists to die. He was killed while reporting on October 7. He was just 21, still new to journalism.

On his Instagram, you can see that in his posts just a few years ago, he was still practicing his photography, taking pictures of coffee cups and flowers. Then he started doing beautiful portraits and action shots. You can really feel him starting to become a journalist.

Clicking around on Instagram, I found a tribute post about Brahim from his co-worker Rushdie Sarraj. In this photo, Brahim staring intently at the back of a camera, his face lit up by the light from the viewfinder. He looks so young.

The caption reads, My assistant is gone. Brahim is gone. Rushdie himself was a beloved journalist and filmmaker.

And I know that because he's also on the list. He was killed just two weeks after Brahim. I read the tribute post to him too.

I saw this over and over again. Journalists posting tributes, who were then killed themselves soon after. And a tribute goes up for them.

And then the pattern continues.

Thank you.

Something else I saw over and over on the list, journalists later in the war who had become aware that they could be making their last reports. They'd say it at the beginning of their videos. And those were the hardest to watch, especially when it was true.

One video like that was posted by Ayat Hadduro. Ayat was a freelance journalist and video blogger. Her videos before the war covered a wide range from what I can tell, interviews about women in politics.

She even appeared in a commercial for ketchup-flavored chips. She clearly liked being in front of the camera. Once the war started, Ayat's pivoted to covering bombings and food shortages.

On November 20, she posted a video report from her home. You can hear the airstrikes hitting very close to where she is. It's scary.

‘This is likely my last video. Today, the occupation forces dropped phosphorus bombs on Beit Lahya area and frightening sound bombs. They dropped letters from the sky, ordering everyone to evacuate.

Everyone ran into the streets in the craziest way. No one knows where to go.

But everyone else has evacuated. They don't know where they're going. The situation is so scary.

What's happening is so tough, and may God have mercy on us.’

She was killed later that day.

Targeting journalists, in case you didn't know, is a war crime. So far, the Committee to Protect Journalists has found that three of the journalists on the list were explicitly targeted by the IDF, the Israeli military. Investigations by the Washington Post and Reuters, Human Rights Watch and the United Nations have also raised serious questions in these three cases.

And the Committee to Protect Journalists is investigating 10 other killings. When we reached out to the IDF for comments, they said, quote, the IDF has never, and will never, deliberately target journalists. That's the answer they always give in these situations.

Meanwhile, dozens of seasoned reporters have fled Gaza. Journalists who worked for Al Jazeera, the BBC, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Reuters, Agence France-Presse. So many media offices were demolished in Israeli airstrikes that the Committee to Protect Journalists stopped counting.

It's not just individual lives that have been destroyed. It's an entire infrastructure.

Thank you.

The name on the list that was hardest for me to look at was Issam Abdullah, because I'd crossed paths with him once. Issam was a Lebanese journalist, a video journalist for Reuters for many, many years. He had just won an award for coverage of Ukraine.

I'm Lebanese and still report there sometimes, and I'd worked with Issam a couple of summers ago. He helped me film a sort of random story in Beirut. I was interviewing this entrepreneur who had started a sperm freezing company after an accident where he spilled a tray of hot coffee on his private area, burning himself.

I know, ridiculous. It was a really silly shoot. Right after we said cut and started to rap, Issam started this whole bit about being in his late 30s, reconsidering his own sperm quality and everything he now realized he was doing to hurt it, and no one could stop laughing.

It was a really good day that felt good to remember and to remember him that way. Issam was killed by the IDF on October 13. His death was one of the three that the Committee to Protect Journalists has identified as a targeted killing.

He was fired upon by an Israeli tank while standing in an empty field on the Lebanon-Israel border with a small group of other journalists. Everyone was wearing press vests with cameras out. They were covering the Hezbollah part of this war.

A few other journalists were injured in the attack, which was captured on video. The IDF says they were responding to firing from Hezbollah, not targeting the journalists. But multiple investigations, including by Reuters, the United Nations, Amnesty International and the AFP, found no evidence of any firing from the location of the journalists before the IDF shot at them.

The journalists in the group and video footage confirmed that there was no military activity near them. I had only met Issam once, barely knew him, but it affected me so much when he died. I know that he understood the risks of his job, but somehow it still felt so random and unfair that he would be struck down like that, following the rules, wearing his press vest and helmet, and a pack of reporters on a sunny day in an open field.

I find myself thinking about him all the time. His last Instagram post was commemorating another journalist, this iconic reporter Shereen Abou Aql who had been killed by the IDF. When I first saw that post in October, I thought how ironic because a week later, Isam also was killed by the IDF.

But then, after spending time reading the list, I realized how common this had become. I still haven't finished going through the list and looking up the people on it. I keep finding things that stick with me, like the funny way this one radio host would cut off a caller who was rambling on for too long.

A tweet from reporter Al-Abdallah that quoted Sylvia Plath. It read, What ceremony of wars can patch the havoc? I'm going to keep going down the list, even though this story is over now.

Just for myself. My own way of bearing witness. Which is, in the end, all that these journalists were trying to do.”

—DANA BALLOUT, The 95. Dana sifts through a very long list—the list of journalists killed in the Israel-Hamas war, and comes back with five small fragments of the lives of the people on it. Dana is a Lebanese-American, Emmy-nominated documentary producer.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Foxes III

Jenni Hermoso x Child!Reader

Summary: You don't like touch

Spain loses to Japan.

A four nil defeat that leaves everyone a bit depressed.

Football's a boring game to you so you didn't really watch it despite sitting on the bench. Football is Mami's whole life though. You know that and you know this defeat will make her feel a bit sad.

You think that's kind of stupid because it's just a game but maybe it's different when you play a game as an adult. You don't know why it would be different but you decide that it must be because the whole team seems a little depressed about it.

"It's like when you lose a fox toy," Tia Ale says to you on the ride back to the hotel.

"I don't lose my toys," You reply, staring out the window.

"Well, if you did-"

"But I don't."

"What about when you left Roja at home?" Alexia says," Your Mami said you were sad about that. This feels like that to everyone else."

You were very sad when that happened. You missed Roja like crazy for ages after you first moved to Mexico. That must be how everyone is feeling now.

You head bobs up and down in agreement. "Okay."

You don't ask anymore questions on the ride home and Mami takes you straight up to your room for bath time. She wraps you in a nice fluffy towel before helping you into your pyjamas.

Dinner will be soon though so she throws a jumper on top of your pyjamas to keep them clean so you can go straight to bed after you've eaten.

Your hand closes around one of your foxes before leaving the room.

The girls are still a little sad, even you can tell that and you're not very good at working out what other people's feelings are.

You're the only one that's enjoying dinner which is seriously saying a lot because the food here is weird and you're very picky with what you're eating.

"Mami," You say," You still sad?"

Jenni's a little shocked at being addressed so openly. You don't like doing that in public. You're fairly silent around other people. She frowns.

"A little, osita," She says," Why? Are you feeling sad too?"

"I'm not sad," You reply. Your fork scrapes the plate wrong and you cringe, a whole body shudder going through you as you set down your cutlery.

Slowly, you shift in your chair before standing to approach Jenni.

Like your speaking, you're not big on touch either, at least in public. Jenni's used to you hanging out by her legs at home because she always wears the softest trousers and you like touching them but skin on skin had never been a big desire or need of yours.

Jenni has a hard enough time getting you to accept affection at home. She's already ruled out touching in public apart from hand holding and that was only because the alternative was a leash and you felt that was too restricting and made you breath funny.

But you curl into her lap now and give her a quick squeeze that bore some semblance of a hug. Jenni's too shocked to hug you back, jaw slack as you slip off her lap.

You go to Tia Ale next, clambering up into her seat with her and giving her a quick hug that's so fast that she doesn't realise what's happening until it's over.

Irene is next and, after seeing Jenni and Alexia go through it, she's fully prepared. But the moment her arms curl around to hug you back, you're wiggling away and already on your way.

Just because you're giving out hugs doesn't mean you need to be hugged back.

Codi's after Irene and then Mario, who both know now to allow their arms to go limp when you hug them. You go through all the Barcelona girls you know before coming straight back to Jenni.

You tug on her hand and she very gently takes yours in hers. She's slow and careful just in case you want to pull away but you let her hold your hand.

"Mami," You say.

"Yes, Osita?"

"With me...please."

Jenni stands and you lead her over to the girls in the team you've missed out, the ones that you don't know as well as the Barcelona girls. You drop Jenni's hand to hug each girl before squeezing Jenni's hand the moment you can hold it again, you other hand coming up to run your fingers over her comfortable trousers.

"That was a very nice thing you did at dinner," Jenni tells you as she tucks you into bed that night.

"Yes. Tia Ale said so," You reply, getting all snuggly and comfortable with a fox under each arm.

"Tia Ale is right," Jenni says," Your cuddles really cheered everyone up."

"Not sad anymore?" You check and Jenni nods.

"No one's sad anymore."

"Good."

Jenni presses a soft kiss to your forehead and pulls your covers all the way up. "Night, Osita. I love you."

"Love you too."

[strawberryfloofs]

There comes a certain sadness in being a regressor without a caregiver, but also one who's severely traumatized and neglected. Finding comfort in dark moments by tumblr caregiver posts, feeling like someone cares. Not entirely understanding nostalgia and getting sad when seeing posts about favorite childhood snacks, movies, activities because you never grew up on them. Feeling awkward while playing and or having to relearn it because it wasn't really a thing. I wasn't allowed or given many toys at all. Seeing other regressors happily posting about their caregiver, feeling bittersweet. I'm glad they have them, they deserve happiness and support- but will I ever get that? I hope one day that's me too. Living through cartoons: wishing you had a friend group, family, or whatever like those characters. Happy endings. Imagining lots of scenarios or talking to character.ai cg characters, wanting it to be real so bad. Wanting a caregiver, yet being so scared about being a "difficult" regressor or needing "too much care and comfort." Wishing there was just someone to hold me and pat my head while tiny, playing with my hair and giving me their full attention. It would feel weird, really weird- I don't get attention much, but I'd hope that little me would be okay and happy with that. Bottom line, I hope for the fun days and happy ending of finding someone who will love me and accept my regression. If there's any regressors out there with c-PTSD, trauma, or really just anything that makes them fearful they won't ever get it- please keep trying. One day. I always tell myself that I'm sure I'll be so happy in the future, and look back on moments like these going "she was strong. she didnt know of the moonlight that would hug her everyday, yet she still pushed through- she made it"

[demonpiratehuntress]

they make you cry

featuring - Zoro x F!Reader, Ace x F!Reader, Kaku x F!Reader, Law x F!Reader, Luffy x F!Reader, Sanji x F!Reader, Usopp x F!Reader

summary - sometimes you just can't handle the things they say/do

warnings - angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

taglist - @kabloswrld

a/n - this took forever to write, and I'm sorry! had to fight my writer's block real hard to get this out ☠️ some of them seem rushed and im sorry about that too!

ZORO

Zoro could be mean, you knew this when you started dating him. He didn't mince his words, nor did he sugarcoat anything. Especially when he was angry, that's when he could be the cruelest. You just never expected to be on the receiving end of that cruelty.

You were just trying to help, honestly. You thought it might be a nice gesture if you wiped his swords clean for him while he napped, and you thought he'd appreciate it. But the moment you dropped them while putting them back and woke him up, it was like something had possessed him.

"What the hell are you doing?" He demanded, sitting up and looking at you, his eyes hard.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to clean them for you," you tried explaining yourself, hoping he wouldn't be too angry. Hoping he would calm down and stop looking at you like that.

"Why would you think that?" He scoffed. "I clean them myself, there's no need for you to do it. There's no need for you touch them at all, actually."

"I'm sorry," you apologised again, shrinking away and feeling hurt by his tone already.

"Just don't do it again," he snapped, "You don't know anything about swords. It wouldn't be such a problem if you were more like me and less like you."

"Less like me?" The tears filled your eyes before you could stop them. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing, just go away and let me nap."

And go away you did. You left his room with your eyes almost overflowing, hand covering your mouth to stifle the sob that was about to come out. You didn't understand what brought that on, why he had been so mean to you.

"(Name), wait-"

You ran off the moment his door opened again, trying to put as much distance between him and yourself as possible. You were hurt, so incredibly hurt, that you barely made it to your room before you broke down in tears, burying your face in your hands. You tried to calm down, you did, but his unprovoked verbal attack struck you right where it hurt the most, your heart. You didn't understand what he meant by "less like you", and you didn't think you wanted to. It was insult enough already.

A knock on your door startled you, and you quickly wiped your face to try and get rid of the tears but your eyes were still red and puffy. Which was immediately noticed by the swordsman when you opened the door, and he frowned.

"Were you crying?"

"What do you want?" You asked him, sniffing. "Did you come to insult me more? Maybe tell me again to stay away from your precious swords? Save it."

"I'm sorry," he interjected, taking you by surprise. He shifted nervously, not really knowing how to apologise but wanting to try because you meant more to him than he could ever say and he hated that he'd hurt you.

"Is that it?" You scoffed, about to close the door.

"No, no wait!" He stopped you, swallowing thickly and looking at the floor. "You know I'm not good with apologies. But I mean it when I say I'm sorry for what I said. You were just trying to do something nice for me and I snapped at you because I was in a mood. The stupid cook annoyed me earlier and I...didn't mean to take it out on you."

You crossed your arms, trying to look mad but you only looked sad and it tugged at Zoro's heartstrings, "Okay."

His expression softened, and when you allowed him he pulled you into his arms and hugged you, trying to show how sorry he was through his actions since he couldn't say it. He rubbed your back soothingly, pressing a gentle and apologetic kiss to the top of your head.

"But if you speak to me like that again, I'm throwing your swords into the ocean."

He chuckled, "Deal."

He spent the next few days making it up to you in various ways, either buying you a special gift from any island you stopped by, or hugging/cuddling you a little longer than usual, or teaching you some moves with his swords to prove he trusted you with them. Eventually, when his overbearing affection started worrying the crew, you had to forgive him.

ACE

The crew was celebrating a big win. Stopping by a nearby island, majority of the crewmembers could be found in bars and taverns, drinking their weight in alcohol. You were amongst them, not drinking as much but joining the merriment regardless. You smiled at the antics of your crewmates, who were trying to drunkenly flirt with woman around the room.

Your smile vanished the moment your eyes settled on your boyfriend, who was busy entertaining a crowd of younger women with the tale of your victory.

Now normally that isn't a cause for upset with you, but he tended to get a little overfriendly and even though you've spoken to him about it many, many times, he hasn't made an effort to stop his flirting - even if he didn't see it as flirting, those women certainly did. And that was the problem, he always let them think that and allowed them to get handsy with him.

You rolled your eyes, downing your drink so you could get out of here. When you lowered your pint again, the sight of one of their hands on his arm made you sick. Usually you would get angry and storm over there and break up the party, but today the sight brought tears to your eyes. It hurt you that he always did this, even when you'd asked him not to.

"(Name), where you going?" One of your crewmates asked you when they noticed you getting up. "It's still early!"

You forced a smile, trying to hide your glassy eyes, "I, uh-"

"(Name)!" Ace called you cheerfully, waving you over, "Come here!"

You frowned, then shook your head before turning and leaving the bar, letting the tears fall now that you were out of sight from the rest of the crew. Your vision blurred on the way back to the ship, but you somehow managed to get there without hurting yourself and broke down into quiet sobs as you sat on your bed and buried your face in your hands.

Sometimes it felt like you weren't enough for him, whether it was physically or emotionally. He could make you feel like the worst lover sometimes, like you couldn't give him what he wanted, even if he didn't mean to. You knew he had commitment issues, but you thought your relationship was getting more serious at this point.

"(Name)!" Ace burst into the room, looking worried. "Hey, why did you leave?"

You didn't answer, turning away from him and curling up into a foetal position facing the wall your bed was placed against. You couldn't look at him right now, not when the tears wouldn't stop.

"Baby?" He called again, the bed dipping beside you to indicate that he had sat down. "I know you're not asleep."

He reached out and gently touched your shoulder, urging you to turn around and face him. You sighed and shifted around, looking at him with a tear-stained face. His eyes instantly went wide and he flew into a panic.

"What happened? Did someone do something to you?"

"Ugh, stop it," you groaned, sitting up. "Don't pretend to care about me when you constantly do what I tell you hurts my feelings." Just mentioning it again brought the tears back, and you cursed.

He frowned when you said this, "But I wasn't flirting with them."

You gave him an exasperated look, "Do you ever realise that they consider it flirting? That they try to seduce you with all their little touches and stupid flirty smiles? No, you don't." You hastily wiped your eyes, now getting angry.

"I'm sorry-"

"No, Ace. You do this all the time. And it really, really hurts."

His expression softened, and he grabbed you and pulled you onto his lap with ease. No matter how mad you were at him, your body never fought his touch or embrace.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into your hair. "I didn't realise they were trying to do that. I was so caught up in telling the story, especially the part where you took out all of those pirates, that I didn't see they weren't really interested. I'm sorry I'm so stupid."

The sincerity in his voice eased your mood, and you slowly stopped crying and pulled away to look at him, "Next time just ask me to come sit with you."

"I'll do better than that baby, I'll put you on my lap."

"You know that doesn't end well."

"On the contrary-"

You sighed and shook your head, unable to help the smile that formed on your lips. He really was an idiot, but he was your idiot and even if he did stupid things a lot of the time, you loved him very much.

KAKU

You and Kaku hardly ever fought, because he was a very patient and very reasonable man. He never gave you any reason to be upset with him, because while he was a ruthless assassin, to you he was an absolute sweetheart. The only problem was that he sometimes left for long missions, and you were left worrying about him at home and not knowing what was going on because he was deep undercover that he couldn't even contact you.

Like now, where he was working undercover as a foreman in Water 7. You had asked him once again if you could come with, seeing as neither of you knew how long he'd be away this time. But he refused, gently reminding you that he didn't want to put you in any danger and that your house - so far off the grid absolutely no one knew about it - was the safest place for you. You had no other option but to agree.

After many, many months spent worrying about him and struggling to sleep not knowing what's going on, your boyfriend stumbled in through the front door one night absolutely destroyed. You'd come down with one of his swords in hand - one that he kept around the house for you - only to stop dead at the sight of Kaku standing there. Actually, standing was generous. He was barely keeping himself off the ground, tall frame hunched over and trembling.

"Oh my god, Kaku!" You dropped the blade and rushed to his side, laying one of his arms around your shoulders so you could at least help him to the couch. "What the hell happened?"

"It's a long story," he groaned, laying his head over the back of the couch and closing his eyes. "Short version - the Straw Hats."

You frowned at his brief response, going to fetch your first aid kit - you'd learned after the first few times he came home that you'd need one - and bringing it back to him.

"I think I deserve an explanation," you pressed, sitting beside him and starting to tend to his more obvious wounds. "You owe me that much."

"I don't want to talk about it," he grumbled. "I'm sorry."

You didn't respond, and he cracked an eye open to see why. When he noticed how your eyes had become glassy and your bottom lip was trembling but you were biting it hard to stop it, his expression softened.

"Oh, honey."

He gently took the first aid from you and set it aside before bringing you into his arms, wrapping them around you securely. He pressed gentle kisses to the top of your head, ignoring the pain as he held you against his chest.

"I'm sorry."

"This is the worst I've ever seen you," you managed to get out, your voice small and hurt. "I had no contact with you for the longest time since you started working for them, and then you come back looking like this..." You couldn't help it, the tears just kept falling no matter how hard you tried to stop them.

He held you tighter, then moved one hand up to wipe your tears away, "But I came back, didn't I? I'm here."

You knew he was trying to reassure you, but it was difficult to be reassured when he constantly did this to you. You looked at him sceptically.

"Why would I ever risk dying?" He questioned softly, cupping your cheek in his large hand. "I have you to come home to, I don't put myself in a situation I don't think I can come out of." He kissed the tip of your nose, to make you smile like it always did. "Besides, did you ever think that maybe I like having you play nurse for me?"

You managed a small smile, warmed by his words, "Oh you do, huh?"

"Mhm."

"I guess I can forgive you. On one condition."

"Anything, honey."

"I'm coming with you on your next assignment."

"...I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Nope."

He sighed, but planted a loving kiss on your forehead, "If it will ease your mind, then okay. But you have to let me make sure your cover is safe too."

"Deal."

LAW

Law was a very complicated man, with a lot of baggage and trauma he liked to keep away from everyone else. He was reclusive, and he never quite expressed his emotions as healthily as he should. Most days you did your best to understand, to step back and be the more rational one. But sometimes his actions don't make sense, and he ends up hurting you a lot more than he thinks - or notices.

Take the last few days, for example. You two had grown quite close over the course of your relationship and he was now quite comfortable with you and showing you affection - although still privately. But ever since you'd met the Straw Hat crew and he'd been introduced to their smartest member, Robin, he'd been a lot more distant and a lot less affectionate. Like he was beginning to forget you existed.

You started to feel insecure about not being as intelligent as her and not having anything in common with your boyfriend. You'd never liked books, they paled in comparison to the adventures you embarked on on a daily basis. But now it had come back to haunt you, and in the worst way possible.

"Law, do you want to-"

"Not now, (Name)-ya," he didn't even look up from his work. "I'm just finishing some notes on something that Robin asked for."

"Oh, okay. Let me know when you're-"

"I will be heading to their ship shortly, she has a collection of books I would like to study."

"...Right. Okay."

You blinked back tears, knowing he would just get irritated with your emotional display. Turning away from him, you left the room to go get some air and maybe feel sorry for yourself. It did hurt, him immediately dismissing you for another woman, even if it wasn't romantic. He was spending less time with you, and more time with her.

"(Name)!"

Your face lit up, thinking Law had finally come to his senses. But when you turned around, you saw him making his way to the Thousand Sunny while Bepo was the one who had called out to you. And then you couldn't hold it back anymore; you burst into tears.

You usually didn't cry like this. You were good at keeping your emotions in check. It was a side-effect of being around the stoic captain so much - you'd learned how to control your own emotions. But right now, it was too much to bear and your insecurities and fears came crashing down around you, drowning you in sorrow.

"What's wrong??" Bepo asked worriedly, immediately pulling you into a hug. "Did something happen?"

"No," you hiccupped, "I mean, yes, but it doesn't matter."

Your eyes drifted to the deck of the Sunny, where Law was engaged in what looked like a meaningful conversation with the female devil fruit user. Sighing, you tried your best to wipe your eyes and gently pushed Bepo away.

"I'm okay, I just...I need to be alone."

As you walked off, Bepo followed your gaze and spotted the issue. He frowned, having also noticed that his captain had recently been preferring Robin's company over his own girlfriend.

"Captain!" The bear called, rushing over to Law and Robin.

"Not now, Bepo," Law dismissed him, returning his attention to the raven-haired woman.

"But something is wrong with (Name)!" Bepo protested, whoch was a half-lie, half-truth. There was something wrong, but it wasn't with you. He just knew Law wouldn't follow him back otherwise.

"What?" Law instantly felt worry start to fill him. "Where is she?"

"I don't know, I saw her just now, crying, and then she ran off."

Law frowned. He didn't like it when you cried. Not because it was irritating, but because he always got this weird, ugly feeling when you did. You should never have to cry, you should never have to feel pain. Instantly, he goes back to the Polar Tang but not to look for you. He just simply uses his devil fruit to get you back into his room, and when he does he feels guilty by the sight.

Your eyes are red and puffy and you're sniffing like you're sick, but you're not sick. You're avoiding his gaze and casting your eyes downward to the floor, unable to look at him. And you're hugging yourself.

"(Name)-ya," he calls, hoping to get you to look at him.

"I thought you were with Robin," you tell him quietly, the hurt evident in your small, vulnerable voice.

He frowns, "I was, but-"

"Then we don't need to talk about anything," you cut him off. "I'm fine, go bacl to your conversation." You can't help being a bit snippy, tired of crying and even more so of being sad.

"You have been crying," he argued, "That is my concern."

"Oh really?" You suddenly glared at him. "I didn't think you'd notice. But you didn't, did you? Bepo had to tell you, because you were so engrossed in your new girlfriend!" You scoffed, rubbing your face and getting up. "Leave me alone."

"No," Law blocked your path out of the room. "I want to talk about this. And...I want to apologise for hurting you." He paused awkwardly, never good with apologies. "I didn't mean to spend so much time with her and neglect you, I promise. I just kept losing track of time, and I got a little bit eager that someone else was interested in some of the same things I am."

"Yeah, I know," you mumbled, "I'm sorry I'm not that person. I'm sorry I'm not your ideal girlfriend." The tears started falling again, and the ache returned to Law's chest.

"That's not what I meant," he moved closer, "You are perfect just the way you are. I don't want you to be like me, I don't think I could date someone like me. I often wonder how you do it."

Your eyes widen at the vulnerable revelation, and that leads you to start listening to his sincere words and slowly calm down.

"If I neglect you like that again, please just tell me," he pleaded, taking your hands in his. "Don't suffer in silence, I don't like seeing how it's affected you. And I don't like being the reason you cry. So please, just talk to me when I hurt you. Pull me away from any conversation, throw my books, whatever. Just make sure I listen."

"Okay," you slowly smiled, nodding. "But you can't yell at me if I do."

He sighed, but felt relieved that he was forgiven, "I won't."

"Great. Now you owe me a lot of cuddles and even more kisses," you pout. "And double the amount of hugs."

"Done, done and done," he murmured as he leaned down to kiss you sweetly and gently.

LUFFY

If Luffy hasn't upset you in some way, you'd be suspicious. His carefree nature was bound to anger or frustrate you in some way or the other, and his tendency to overexert himself in fights often ended with you concerned for his health in general. He's never made you cry, because if there's one thing Luffy can do well it's keep his promises.

Until he meets Boa Hancock.

And you get it. She's gorgeous, she's powerful, she's a queen. She's everything a woman should be, and you can't help but feel envious of the attention she gets from men. Luffy doesn't really care for her looks, which is a little comforting, however she found the way to his heart and every time you guys met her on the ocean she had the nerve to throw him a huge feast. And your beloved, naive boyfriend always thought she was just being nice and gorged himself on her food, missing the way she looked at him longingly and not understanding her flirtatious advances.

But you understood them very well.

But as mentioned before, she's a powerful person. Not just because she's a devil fruit user, but also because she's a Warlord. You knew you couldn't piss her off in any way, for the safety of the crew, but she had no such qualms. It seemed she knew that you hated how much she attended to Luffy, she knew how much you hated her advances and how Luffy always ate whatever she offered. And she abused her title, doing it on purpose because she knew there was nothing you could do.

Most of the time it was just frustrating beyond comparison. But slowly it ate away at you, and one particular meeting had you excusing yourself in an attempt to escape what seemed like a suffocating situation.

Boa was once again on your ship - it seemed like she purposely sought it out just to see your boyfriend, and she probably did. Luffy was enjoying yet another one of her feasts, and she was sat right beside him. Touching his arm and saying sweet things to him like he didn't already have a girlfriend. Batting her eyelashes at him and offering him sweet smiles that would knock the socks off any man other than Luffy. Once again, he didn't seem to notice how uncomfortable it made you, and you felt your eyes brim with tears.

Maybe he did notice and just didn't mind. Maybe he did notice and actually enjoyed her attention like everyone else did. Maybe you had him all wrong in this particular situation. He had spent a long time with her on her island, after all.

"Excuse me," you mumble to no one in particular, rising from your seat and swiftly exiting the room. It was like you couldn't breathe, your throat burning as the tears started falling faster and faster, until you could barely see.

You were sure he hasn't even noticed you were gone. He probably hadn't even seen you leave. And that thought had you clinging to your pillow harder as you screamed into it, hot angry tears rolling down your cheeks in unstoppable waves. You were so hurt and upset that you didn't notice your room door swing open and a certain captain barge in.

"(Name)?" Luffy called, sounding confused. "Are you okay?"

You felt your body bounce a little as the overeager captain jumped onto your bed, but in your stubbornness you refused to look at him and turned away instead.

"Go away, Luffy."

Luffy was not used to hearing those words from you. Nor was he used to hearing the sadness in your voice, the way it cracked halfway, and the miserable sniff that came afterwards. He was not used to seeing you like this, so sad.

"What's wrong?" He tugged on your shoulder, trying to get you to turn back around to face him. "Are you sick? Is your stomach sore?"

"No, Luffy!" You sat up and yelled in exasperation. "I'm tired! I'm so, so tired okay!" You rubbed your face and curled up, thighs pressed tightly to your chest. "I'm tired of my boyfriend letting some other woman fawn over him with no boundaries. I'm tired of watching my boyfriend be sweet-talked and flirted with by some other woman. And I can't do anything, because she's a Warlord!"

Luffy's eyes went wide, and then he burst out laughing, "Are you worried about Hammock?" The incorrect name almost had you smiling, but you managed to keep your face stoic. "(Name), I only want you. You know that right?"

"Yes," you sighed, "And I trust you, Luffy. It's just...you never stop her and sometimes it makes me feel like I'm not enough. Like she does more for you than I ever could." Your gaze fell. "Sometimes I think you actually like her."

Suddenly his arms were around you and he was squeezing you in the tightest hug he'd ever given.

"I don't like anyone the way I like you, (Name)," he promised. "ANd I never will. You are the only person who makes me feel like this, and you do enough for me already. You cook for me! I bet Hammock doesn't even make the food herself. If it came to choosing you or her, it would always be you."

Your cheeks burned when he said that, and slowly a smile formed on your lips, "That's really sweet, Luffy. Thank you. I needed to hear that."

He nuzzled his face against yours affectionately, "I will remind you as many times as you want!"

SANJI

Sanji's most annoying habit tended to irritate you majority of the time, and every instance ended with you practically fuming and storming off after telling him off angrily. He would normally appease you with something sweet, or your favourite dish. In some extreme cases, both. But you never stayed mad at him, because he made it impossible for you to do so. You just never expected that one day the hurt would become too much for you to handle, and you'd react with sadness rather than fury.

The crew had been given the day off to explore another island. Everyone had split to do their own things, but the cook insisted on accompanying you because it was one of the rare times he got to spend alone with you for an entire day. So the two of you strolled through the vibrant town, enjoying the atmosphere and each other's presence.

That is, until Sanji forgot about your warning to not flirt with anyone on this island. He deemed it just being a gentleman, but you knew better than that.

When you caught him staring as your words faltered, you expected the usual bout of anger to flare within you. You were ready to tell him off again, a dozen insults coming to mind for that woman, when you felt a sharp pang in your chest instead. Your words caught in your throat, and a sorrow like nothing you'd ever experienced filled you.

Had he been staring the entire time you were talking to him? To make matters worse, he seemed to forget you were speaking and drifted over to the lady to compliment her dress.

You felt humiliated. No one here actually knew you two, but it was embarrassing that you couldn't even keep your lover's attention on you. Your cheeks burned, your throat along with them, and your eyes brimmed with tears. It was made worse when you glanced around at all the other couples, and found them happily clinging to each other and acting like they were the only two people in the world.

"What do you think, mon cherié?" Sanji's voice suddenly filled your ears. "Do you like it?"

You hastily wiped your eyes, trying to look like you did before, "Um, like what? Sorry, I wasn't listening..."

He didn't seem to notice the sadness in your tone or the forlorn expression on your face, he just barrelled on, "This pretty young woman's dress, what do you think of it?"

"A-are you serious?" You choked out, feeling the burning in your throat get worse.

"Yes! Doesn't it look nice?"

You couldn't take it anymore. You were hyperventilating at this point. Scared of being embarrassed further with your impending sobbing, you turned and sprinted as fast as you could away from the scene. He called after you, but you weren't listening.

He arrived at the ship at the same time you did, leaving you confused. You were about to push past him when he grabbed your waist, stopping you.

"Wait, my love, I'm sorry," he apologised, "Don't cry, please."

You smacked his hand away from your face, "No, don't. If you were really sorry, you'd stop flirting with every woman you see like I told you to! But no, you keep doing it." Your eyes watered again. "Do you have any idea what it's like? Seeing your own lover interested in someone else, not even listening to you?"

Sanji was speechless. He had no idea it affectef you this much, but he blamed himself for going on with it even when you told him not to.

"How would you feel if I flirted with every guy I saw?" You demanded.

"Oh no, please don't," he begged, heart sinking at the thought.

"But it's okay for you to do it?" You looked away, and his heart broke.

"I'm sorry," he apologised again, "I am, really. But I wasn't flirting with her, I promise! I was just asking where she got that dress because it looked so nice and I thought it would look good on you..."

Your eyes widened when you heard this, "Wait, what? Is that why you asked if I liked it?"

"Mhm," he smiled, "I wanted to get it for you if you did."

You were the speechless one now. All that time he had been thinking of you, and you'd gone and assumed the worst. Now you felt even more embarrassed, but for a totally different reason.

"Sanji, I-"

"No need to apologise, love," he immediately hugged you when it seemed like it was okay for him to. "I haven't exactly given you reasons to trust me not to flirt. But I promise, I am doing my best to not do it. I don't want to lose you."

He really was too cute to stay mad at, or even to stay sad about, and you ended up smiling and leaning in to kiss him.

"Fine, but do it again and I'm going to leave you for Zoro."

His face paled, "No no, mon cheriè, you can't be serious! Love, wait! Are you serious??" And he followed you to your room, begging you to tell him you were lying.

USOPP

You were well aware that Usopp had had a romantic interest in a girl long before he met you. He would never tell you about her, but Nami and Luffy told you about her and what they knew about her relationship with Usopp. As far as you could tell, they had never done anything more than kiss once.

You felt like you were getting in the way of their relationship, and most days that thought just put you into an emotionless daze. You felt like you couldn't compare, because she seemed to be his first love. And as bad as this sounds, you started to feel like you were a relationship of convenience to him. Someone to keep him company while he longed for another.

"You know that's not true," Nami would reassure you when you confided in her. "He's not like that. He really loves you."

"I can tell he thinks about her sometimes," you argue, "And we don't know whether or not he imagines her in my place when we kiss or do anything remotely romantic. Who's to say he wouldn't go back to her if we somehow made it back to the East Blue?"

Nami couldn't give you the answer to that, and it hurt all the more. You tried not to let it get to you, you really did, but some days were worse than others. Some days you felt inferior, like you were not as pretty as she was, even though you'd never seen her. If he was so crazy about her to still be thinking about her months after he'd met you, he surely still loved her, right?

"Usopp, I have a question," Nami asked the sharpshooter one day.

"Uhhhh, no I did not borrow any money from you..." He replied nervously, eyes darting around the room.

The navigator's eyes narrowed, "We'll get to that later. Anyway, if we went back to the East Blue, what would you do? Would you want to rekindle your relationship with Kaya?"

Usopp's face paled, "What kind of question is that?!"

"Just answer!"

"I...I don't know!" He cried, then attempted to flee only to see you standing in the doorway, your eyes glistening. "(Name)-"

"I get it," you swallowed thickly, "She was your first love. I just wish you'd stop pretending like this relationship means anything to you." You turned and retreated to your room, locking the door and falling down against it, tears flowing freely.

You knew it was unfair. You knew he'd known her his whole life and you just a year. But you kind of hoped that since you'd actually developed what you thought was a meaningful, deep romantic relationship with him, he wouldn't have to think about it. You kind of hoped he would just choose you, simple as that. And you know it was unfair to him, and selfish of you. But you couldn't help it.

"(Name)!" The sharpshooter knocked on your door. "Please let me in!" He sounded panicked, like he did before you all went into a fight.

"Go away, Usopp," you yelled, but the pain in your voice was too clear for him to ignore.

Normally he would give up. He does that very easily. But when it comes to you he doesn't stop, and he never will. He hates leaving you on your own, especially when you're upset and even more so when he's the reason you're upset.

"Please, baby," he pleaded, "Let me explain! I never said I would! Please, just open up. Let's talk about this!"

"You can say what you want through the door," you told him, "Otherwise we don't talk at all." And yes, again this was unfair to him, but again you couldn't help it.

"I know what you must be thinking," he immediately started, "And you're wrong. Yes I used to love Kaya, and yes we almost had a relationship, but that was clearly not meant to be. Because I met you, and I fell in love with you, and I can't imagine loving anyone else now that I know what it feels like to love you." He paused for a moment, thinking of what else to say, and then, "You're the love of my life now, and I know that it will stay that way even if we were to somehow end up back in the East Blue. You are my girlfriend now, and I only ever want or think about you. Please believe me, it'll only ever be you."

Hearing all of this slowly calmed you down, and you didn't even notice when the tears stopped. His sincere, loving words hit you right where you needed them the most, and you stood up to open the door.

"You mean all that?"

"Yes," he looked like he was on the verge of tears himself. "Please don't break up with me."

"Oh, Usopp," you laughed and wiped your eyes, "I could never do that. Especially not after such sweet words. You're stuck with me."

"And hopefully always will be," he added, immediately hugging you and almost crushing your bones. "I'm so sorry (Name), I'm sorry I made you cry!" And then he actually started crying.

"Usopp..."

[cheeseceli]

SKZ arguing over the bill

Pairing: ot8!skz × gn!reader (individually)

Genre: fluff

Request: yes!

Warning: mentions of food, reader never pays lmao. Changbin, Chan, Seungmin's were heavily inspired by "Telling your Stray Kids boyfriend you can’t afford to eat out with them" by @ronnierites . If you don't allow this pls lemme know and I'll delete this post. Not proofread

A/n: that's kinda a new format, hope you guys like it! And this have been on my to do list since forever lol sorry for the wait

Bang Chan

Doesn't want you to feel uncomfortable

But he wants to spoil you so badly

Would let you pay if you were uncomfortable but he wants to make sure you get it he would love to pay for you as well

"You know Chris, I can pay for it."

"I know."

"So?"

"I'd rather do it. But thank you baby."

"But-" you stopped talking once you saw his card swiping. You truly should be used at this point "oh."

"Why do I feel like you're unhappy?"

"It's not that I am not happy, it's just that you always pay."

"It's my pleasure."

"But I don't know, I don't want you to think you're being pressured or something like that."

"Babe, I don't feel like that at all. Don't you worry. You're always doing so much for me, that's just a little 'thank you' of mine."

You gave him a little smile and proceeded to hug him, feeling safe in his warmth.

"I'm so lucky to have you."

"I should be the one saying it."

Lee Know

Bro you don't even spare a chance

He's paying before you even have a chance to take your wallet out of your pocket

I'm surprised you even try tbh

"Should we ask for the bill?"

"Oh, I already paid for it, don't worry."

You looked dumbfounded at him while he was finishing his food. You didn't see him talk to a waiter and you're sure he didn't pay for it before you two had your meal.

"What? When?"

"When we were asking for the dishes. Didn't you see it?"

"No?" you tried to recall the moment with no success "Why would you pay? I feel bad that you pay for everything all the time. I don't feel like reciprocating enough."

His eyes soften and a little smile comes to his lips while he watches you pout. If only you knew how much you did for him.

"Hey, look at me. It's okay. You already reciprocate with everything you do. That's already perfect"

Changbin

He pays with the money, you pay back with kisses

Sorry but that's his boyfriend duty

He is physically incapable of not paying for everything

"Hey baby. I'm off work in 40 minutes. I'll pick you up so we can have lunch, okay?"

You were glad that for once you were on a voice call with him instead of being in a face time like you'd usually do. This way he didn't see the way your smile dropped so quickly.

"Um, I don't think I'll be able to."

"Oh? Why?"

"I'm kinda... broke right now. I haven't received my last payment yet."

"Okay? What does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't want you to be the one who always pays for our things. I should be able to pay sometimes."

"You don't need to. That's my boyfriend duty. You know I don't mind, I actually enjoy it quite a lot."

"Still bothers me though. I'd hate to not contribute at all."

"You can always cuddle with me and shower me with kisses. That will make me happier than anything money can buy."

Hyunjin

Stop he'll be like genuinely so sad if he can't pay

He would let you pay if you were really insistent

But then he'll go like :( and you would let him take the bill out of pity lmao

"Hyunjin, stop looking at me like that."

"But darling, I can pay. You know it doesn't bother me."

"Just this once, let me pay, okay?"

"Okay"

"...Jinnie I really need you to stop that."

"I'm not even doing anything."

"Oh God" you sigh and let your head fall, knowing the man beside you won the argument once more "Fine. You can pay."

He didn't waste a second, swiping his card as fast as possible just so you couldn't have the time to change your mind. After he payed the meal, he took your hand in his and started to walk in the direction of the restaurant's exit with a triumphant (and really sweet) smile.

"I swear I don't get why you like to pay so much."

"My love should be treated as royalty, and that includes me paying for everything you wish for."

Han

Bro is offended

Believes with all his heart that he should be the one paying

Tries to distract you when the time to pay comes

"Were you paying while I was in the restroom?"

"... perhaps."

"Han."

"Baby. You know I like to pay for you."

"But you do that all the time."

"It's my way of showing love! If you ask me, I actually don't think it's enough. It's the least I can do."

He could see in your eyes that you weren't convinced. Unfortunately (for you), he only saw that as an opportunity to spend even more money. Maybe then you would believe him.

"C'mon, lemme show you a little bit of love. You can pay me back with thousands of kisses if that's what's bothering you."

Felix

He loves to pay.

If he could, he would pay for absolutely everything that you could ever want or need.

But if that's something which really bothers you, he will let you pay as well

Tries to do that "the one who invites is the one who pays" thing and fails

"Felix. Don't even dare."

He looked at you confused until he realised you were staring at the credit card in his hand, probably hoping that it could disappear before the waiter came back with the bill.

"C'mon, it's just a small lunch. I can pay for it."

"No. I invited you. I pay."

"Actually, if you think about it, I'm the one who suggested this place."

"Two years ago."

"Still counts."

"Not as an invitation though. I'm the one who asked if you wanted to come here."

Felix sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to convince you of otherwise. If only he could.

"Okay. Next time it's on me."

Seungmin

LMAO sorry you're 100% not paying

Don't even try

Boyfriend duty pt 2 except he is even more dedicated somehow

"Why did you bring your wallet?"

"I wanted to pay for this one."

"... why?"

"You always pay for everything."

"And I don't plan on stopping so you can take your wallet away."

"Minnie, please. I don't want you to be the one who always end up paying for everything."

"But I want to. I wouldn't mind paying for every single thing for the rest of our lives. So you can't take your money away of my sight because I'm paying."

"For the rest of our lives huh?"

"Don't tease." But you didn't miss how the corners of his lips lifted once he thought you weren't looking anymore.

I.N

Rock, paper, scissors. The winner is the one who pays

It's funny and neither of you can complain about the outcome of it because it's technically fair

Except you always throw scissors first and never noticed it

And Jeongin doesn't have the heart to tell you

"We should change this game."

"No way" he said while giving the money to the cashier whilst trying to hide his grin from you "Not my fault you are horrible at this."

"Seriously though, I think you're cheating. It's impossible for you to win every single time."

"How does one cheat at 'rock, paper, scissors'? Besides, you won yesterday."

"After losing at least 50 times. And I got to pay for some ice cream. It's not the same as paying for a whole meal."

"Get better at this and maybe you get to pay for a whole meal one day. C'mon, we can have some milkshake now. Maybe you'll win this time."

You had a feeling you wouldn't though. He was sure you wouldn't.

Reblogs and feedback are appreciated!

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[pretentious-blonde]

patched up

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: you help remus clean up after the full moon, reminding him once again how much he is loved, even if he thinks he is underserving

warnings: cuts, wounds, physical pain

a/n: all i write is hurt/comfort, and I'm not even mad

Remus sat on the old leather couch, a book in his hand that just couldn’t seem to grasp his attention. His free fingers traced small circles on your legs, which you had ungracefully thrown over his own as you lounged together in the living room. It was still early, just coming up for noon, you both were aware of the time. Even if the knowledge was unspoken. 

It was the full moon tonight, and despite the routine that you both had become familiar with, the boy couldn’t shake the nerves that coiled and twisted inside of him. 

You pretended not to notice what he was doing, glancing at the door every couple of minutes, waiting for the inevitable knock. James and Sirius would arrive any moment now, take him away, far away for yet another transformation. You were used to it by now. 

One thing that was always constant was that they had always been there for him, he appreciated that, but he hated leaving you. Especially when you gave him that soft, reassuring smile. Like everything would be fine. Like everything was fine.

“Rem,” you spoke softly, catching those big, brown eyes. His body was tense beneath you. 

“I’m alright, dove,” he gave you a weak smile, his fingers stopping their patterns to give your calf a light squeeze. “Just… you know.”

And you did know. Painfully so.

You nodded, understanding him completely. You were about to speak more, but were interrupted by the shrill ring of the doorbell. He stiffened even more at the sound. Hand stilling.

He sighed and closed the book, setting it aside. His gaze moved to the hand on your leg, not wanting to move it, wanting to keep the inevitable away for just a second longer. 

“It’s time,” he tells you quietly, like he does every month. His voice carried a sadness that he couldn’t hide completely. 

You place your hand on top of his own, your smile gentle but knowing. “I’ll be right here. Waiting for you to get back, okay?”

He stood up, pulling you with him, tall body towering over your own. He let his hand linger on the small of your back as you both headed to the front door. When he opened it, James and Sirius stood waiting outside, both smiling softly as they knew what was to come. The car behind them was still running, headlights cutting through the fog, casting a warm glow behind them. 

“Hey, mate,” James begins, smiling up at Remus. “You ready?”

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, his usual smirk missing from his face. “We’re ready when you are,” he said. His voice light in an attempt to ease your boyfriend’s nerves. “If you need a breather before we go, just say the word.”

Remus shook his head, he would rather just get this over and done with, no more stalling. You could feel the stress in his body increase as the hand on your waist held on a little tighter. 

Sirius, sensing the clear tension that settled heavily in the air, finally cracked a smile. “Don’t worry,” he waved his hand in front of him. “You’ll be back here with your girl before you know it.” He said, winking in your direction.

James also turns his attention to you, giving you a mock salute, “He is in safe hands, don’t you fret.”

“And we won’t allow him to get too grumpy when we return him,” Sirius added, side-eyeing the man standing next to you. Remus runs a hand over his face at their teasing.

You rolled your eyes and gave them a half-glare, happy that they were trying to keep things light. 

“I trust you both,” you say, tone teasing but nonetheless truthful. “Bring him back in one piece.”

James nods. “You have our word.”

Remus lets out a small, grateful smile before turning his attention back to you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, allowing his hand to linger on your cheek for a moment. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening, darling. I promise,” he tells you, his gaze was intense. The act of leaving you now was painful. 

You leaned forward and hugged him tightly, his own long arms wrapping around you immediately. Secure and firm, he never wanted to let go. 

“I know you will,” you whispered into his chest, voice muffled by his worn jumper. “I’ll be here.”

Remus reluctantly loosened his embrace, kissing your forehead gently as he allowed himself to linger. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmured as he held your chin. Warm, tired eyes burrowing into your own. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say quickly. He already knew that but—god—did it feel good to hear you say it back. He turned towards the car behind him, giving you a small wave before climbing in. 

Remus settled into the back seat as the other two slid into the front. He watched you as the car sped away, trying to push down the knots his stomach was tying. Sirius leaned back, tossing him a lighthearted grin from the passenger seat.

“Come on, Moony,” Sirius said, trying to help him relax. “It’s just another moon. We have done this hundreds of times now.”

"Another moon, another miserable night,” Remus grumbled, no longer having the will to fake a smile. You weren’t there anymore. 

James glanced back from the driver’s seat, a sympathetic look now in his eyes. “You’ll be alright, mate. Besides, from the way you’re moping, I’d say you’re just lovesick.”

“Definitely lovesick,” Sirius said, nodding his head in agreement.

Remus sighed, staring out the trees flying past the window. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am. I’m damn lucky to be.”

James and Sirius exchanged a quick, knowing look, but didn’t tease him further. Remus just wanted to get through this—so he could go back to the one person who made everything else worth it.

Remus tried his hardest to be silent when he entered, opening the door gently to lessen the loud creak, his movements were slow and heavy as he stepped inside. It was late—much later than he intended to be—every inch of his tired body screamed in protest at the slightest movement. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his ribcage, having to reach out and steady himself against the wall, closing the door behind him. 

It had been bad this time. Really bad. James and Sirius had confirmed it, as if the fresh wounds couldn’t tell him that already. Their concerned faces still clear in his memory. 

The cuts on his body were deep—deeper than usual—one stretching across his chest, another on his arm, and a particularly nasty one that covered the side of his face. He had no recollection of how he acquired them, but they offered a fresh reminder of what he was. What he could become. 

He trudged up the stairs, each step more painful than the last, eventually making his way to the bathroom. He avoided the mirror, the last thing he wanted to see was his reflection—the scars, the bandages, the tired eyes that always seemed more hollow after the events of a full moon. He quickly redressed the lacerations on his torso, delaying touching the one on his cheek. 

He didn’t want to see what it looked like, but he had no choice. He needed to change it. He would just have to do it fast. 

Glancing up quickly, he caught a brief glimpse of himself. He felt the air knocked out of his lungs. Immediately he looked away, biting down another wave of familiar self-loathing that flowed through him. 

He hated this—hated how he looked, how his body was always going to be a physical reminder of how cursed he was. How much of a monster he was. 

With shaky hands, he removed a bandage from its plastic casing, placing it on his face as swiftly as he could. He pulled out a loose set of pyjamas and quickly slipped them on his aching body, just wanting to crawl into bed and pretend the previous night never happened.

He opened the door to your shared bedroom and paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of your sleeping figure. You were lying peacefully on your side of the bed, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the sound of your breathing drew him closer to you. 

He paused before he got in, just standing there for a moment, taking you in, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips for the first time in over twenty-four hours. He loved you. God, he loved you. The one thing in his life he would never get near his tribulation. The one thing that kept him going. 

Carefully, he slipped in next to you, taking extra care not to rouse you. The ache in his arms flared up as he pulled back the heavy duvet, but he forced himself to ignore it. After all, what was a little discomfort when he could be close to you?

He shuffled closer, wincing at the pain that shot through his muscles, but it appeared to melt into the background as he felt your warmth permeate his skin. 

For a moment, he was content just laying there next to you, watching you sleep. If you were awake you would probably call him a creep. He stifled a chuckle at the image that formed in his mind. 

His heart ached—not from the wounds or exhaustion he had sustained, but from the overwhelming combination of emotions he felt for you. He hoped you were sleeping well, lord knows he wouldn’t be. Not with the soreness that was coursing through his drained body, but his own well-being didn’t concern him right now. What mattered was that he was here, with you. 

With a soft sigh, he gently pulled your sleeping form closer to him, his arms trembling slightly with the strain. The throbbing in his chest flared up again, but he ignored it. Instead, he buried his face in your hair and let the steady sound of your breathing soothe him. He kissed the top of your head, whispering into the silent room. 

“I’m home, love,” he murmured, voice almost inaudible as sleep began to pull him under. “Promised I would be.”

The first thing you felt when you stirred was a familiar warmth, strong arms wrapped around you, and for a brief moment, your heart swelled with relief. He was back. He always came back to you. But every time he managed to crawl back home you couldn’t help but worry if it would be worse than the last time. You shifted slightly, turning in his embrace in order to get a better look at him—that’s when you noticed. 

The fresh bandages, hastily applied, peeked out from his long sleeve, another covering the side of his face. You ached for him at the sight of them. You pulled your arms from beneath the duvet, reaching out to touch the dressing. Your fingers hovered just above it, pausing mid-air as you stopped yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him more. You didn’t know what lay beneath them. 

You wriggled out of his hold, taking additional time and care so as to not wake the man sleeping soundly next to you. He needed the rest. You were certain he would be in pain as soon as he rose, and as much as the idea of staying in his arms sounded heavenly, you decided to make yourself useful. 

Padding quietly to the kitchen, odd socks on your feet, you grab two cups from the cupboard above your head. You had to go on your tiptoes to reach them. Usually, Remus would insist on getting them for you—he had once seen you clamber up onto the counter and it nearly gave him a heart attack—but he was preoccupied today. 

The kettle bubbled softly as you pulled out the jar of tea, along with the packet of biscuits—chocolate, of course, his preferred choice. You prepared it in the way he taught you, letting it brew for a good couple of minutes before removing the teabag, pouring in a healthy glug of milk. You returned to the bedroom, steaming mugs in hand and the packet of biscuits under your arm. 

The brunette began to stir at the soft crackle of plastic as you placed the treats on the bedside table, holding your own mug close to your chest as you sat on the floor beside the bed. You watched his eyes as they fluttered open. 

“Hey,” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to look at him horizontally. “How are you feeling?”

He winced as he shifted over, his body still unbearably sore. His tired eyes met yours, and despite everything, he managed to give you a faint smile. It was hard not to when you looked at him like that. 

“I’ve been better,” he replied, his voice husky with sleep. 

You shook your head at his attempts to downplay his clear discomfort, trying to mask the worry in your eyes that was surely present. 

“I made you tea,” you gesture to the cup next to you, pale wisps dancing around the top of it. He liked it hot, straight from the kettle. It amazed you how he could handle drinking it so fast. “And your favourite.”

“I’m a lucky man,” he said as he sat up, voice slightly strained as he finished his sentence. He reached out and dipped the biscuit in his mug, making a sound of relief as he popped it into his mouth, allowing the rich flavour to melt over his tongue. 

He took a sip of his tea, sleeve rolling up slightly as he leant over, bandage visible. You didn’t want to mention how poorly they had been applied, you didn’t want to remind him. But it had to be done, for his sake. 

“Rem,” you began gently, not wanting to upset him. “You need to change those.”

Immediately, he stiffened, his body pausing mid-sip. He loathed this part—being looked after and the vulnerability that came with it. 

“Do I?” He muttered, voice lacking the spark it had when he woke up, clearly embarrassed at your statement. 

You nodded solemnly, cringing at the discomfort in his eyes. “It might get infected,” you tell him. “You’re tired. Let me help you, please?”

He hesitated for a moment, an internal battle occurring in his head, before giving you one of his kind smiles. “Alright,” he responded, trying to keep the sadness from his voice. “Can I finish my tea first?”

You giggled, worry easing just a little. “Of course,” you say, nodding your head. “We’ll do it after.”

He placed his soon-empty cup on the side next to him, sighing heavily as he nodded to you. “Alright, love,” he said reluctantly. “I’m ready.”

You stand up slowly, reaching out to take his hesitant hand, leading him towards the bathroom. He traced your knuckles with his thumb as you both continued down the hallway. When you opened the door, he immediately hopped up on the counter silently. Ignoring the mirror and instead choosing to look down at his lap.

The first aid kit was under the sink, a pack that you always kept fully stocked. You quickly grabbed it before returning to your place in front of him, standing in between his spread legs. Your heart felt heavy at how exhausted he looked. How broken. But you refused to let him see that. He didn’t need to worry about you being worried about him. He had enough to deal with as it is. 

“Can I take your jumper off?” You ask him softly, afraid of raising your voice. You needed to take care of him, and from the looks of it, he wanted to be as far away from this situation as possible. 

His eyes left his lap and locked with yours. For a second, he looked as though he might say something, but instead, he just nodded. Words seemingly too hard to form right now. 

You tried to keep your hands steady as you reached out, gently pulling the fabric over his head, keeping the material as far away from his body as you removed it. You folded up the material and placed it to the side, allowing him to get more comfortable with his bare skin showing before you gave him your attention again. But nothing could have prepared you for what you saw. 

Bandages—there were so many of them, scattered haphazardly across his torso and arms. Each one was a significant reminder of what he had been through the previous night. You swallowed hard, putting on a brave face as you knew he was watching your every movement. 

“You ready?” You asked, needing verbal confirmation as you knew this was going to hurt. Not just him, but yourself as well. 

His lips twitched up into a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he quipped, trying to take the edge off, but the pain was clear in his low voice. 

You peeled off the dressings, not earning a large reaction from the boy sitting in front of you. Most of them had become unstuck as he slept, making your job easier. You reached for the cloth and antiseptic, deciding to start with the easier gashes first. Your touch was diligent and gentle as you cleaned him, dabbing carefully at the blood and dirt that clung to his skin. 

He must have been shattered last night to skip this. That fact made you even more determined to fix this. To fix him. You couldn’t offer much, but you would do whatever you thought would help. Every few minutes, you’d glance up, wordlessly checking on him. Waiting for the swift bob of his head as he urges you to keep going. 

“Am I hurting you?” You knew the answer already, but you needed to know how much. 

“Only a little,” he lied, a faint smirk appearing on his face. “I’ve been though worse, dove.”

You roll your eyes at his ill attempt of humour, but at least he was able to crack a joke. That was a good sign. 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you murmered as you pressed down on a particularly nasty cut, earning a small hiss from him. You hurried up when you heard the noise, not wanting to be the one behind his torture. 

Finally, you turned your attention to the injury on his face, the angry red line that ran from his collarbone all the way up to his cheek. The sight of it yanked at your heartstrings and you knew you failed to mask your reaction, his body stiffened. Eyes darting away from yours as he attempted to look away. You caught his chin before he could withdraw into himself, forcing him to look at you. 

Big, doe eyes filled with guilt, shame even, and it devastated you. He cleared his throat with a sharp cough, his voice gravely. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he muttered, gaze dropping again despite the grip on his chin. “You shouldn’t��have to take care of me like this.”

You removed your hold on him, allowing both of your hands to continue working, dabbing gently as his mouth curled at the stinging sensation. “Remus,” you whispered, your voice filled with compassion. “I want to take care of you. I love taking care of you.”

He shook his head slightly, the conversation paining him more than your actions. “You’re too good to me,” he tells you, his voice monotone as if he was just speaking a fact. “Look at me, darling. I’m—I’m a mess.”

You smiled at the angelic boy in front of you and placed a kiss on his cheekbone, just above the cut. He really couldn’t see what you saw. What his friends saw in him. How he treated you all. He was the most selfless person you had ever met, going above and beyond for each and every person he cared for. 

It wasn’t a skill that could be taught. It was innate. It was Remus. Always had been. 

“You’re not a mess,” you say firmly. “You are mine. I love you—every scar, every mark, every part of you.”

You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, his eyes slightly glassy as he stared at you. He always struggled to allow people to give him affection, not believing he deserved it. He didn’t know where to put all the love you gave him. He always felt unworthy of it. 

But in that moment, just the two of you in the cramped bathroom, illuminated by the small ceiling bulb. It felt right. Your fingers brushing over his scars, some fresher, some older, he thought maybe…just maybe. It would all be alright. 

You finish the last dressing, smoothing it over his skin with the same tenderness you treated all the others. “All done,” you tell him, feeling proud of your handiwork. 

Remus lets out a relieved chuckle at your pride. “I’d say you’ve missed your calling, love. Should’ve been a nurse.”

“Oh yeah?” You laugh, feeling the tension leave the room. “Maybe I’ll change careers.”

“I take it back,” he says quickly, eyes softening with affection. “I want you all to myself. I’m selfish.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I have the whole of today off,” you say, throwing the used bandages and their wrappers into the bin by the door. “We can do whatever you want.”

He raised an eyebrow, your words tempting him. “Anything?”

“Yep, anything at all,” you nod at him. “Within your...physical capabilities,” you quickly add. There is no way that would be happening in his condition. 

“Well you’re no fun,” Remus frowns playfully, mischief still swimming in his eyes. “But I’m sure I can come up with something riveting for the both of us.”

You put your hands on your hips, assuming a determined stance. “I’m ready for whatever you’ve got in mind.”

He hums, pleased with your statement, lowering himself down from the counter and pulling his jumper back on. Grimacing as it brushes his skin. He motions for you to follow him into the living room, watching as he winces as he sits down on the couch, his face briefly tightening in pain. But then, true to form, he opens his wide arms and looks at you expectantly. “Come on then.”

You go to take a step forward but hesitate. You would love nothing more than to drape yourself over him, but the sight of his bandages stops you. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

A look of warmth crossed his face, shaking his head with a tender smile. “It’ll hurt more if you don’t let me hold you, darling. Come on.”

You can’t help but melt at his kind words, you gently ease yourself onto the couch, mindful of his injuries and not putting your full weight on him. His arms encase you instantly, pulling you impossibly closer despite the clear discomfort it caused him. 

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” You scold him, your cheek resting on his chest, mindful of the dressing on the opposite side. 

“Stubborn? No.” He quips, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Hopelessly in love? Maybe.”

You giggle, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you in a steady rhythm. “A bit of both, I think.”

It’s his turn now to chuckle, his tired bones relaxing further into the soft cushions. “You might be right.”

You both just lie there in a comfortable silence, the sound of the world beginning to wake up outside only added to the ambience. He was at peace with you In his embrace, glancing down at you as you gazed at him softly. Fingers tracing gentle circles on an unharmed piece of his chest. 

“So…” you begin, continuing your motions. “Any grand ideas for today?”

He shakes his head, stopping to meet your eyes, lips curling into a lazy smile. “Honestly? Just this. Just you.” His voice is playful but his words have never been more true. “Don’t need anything else.”

“Smooth,” you say sarcastically, suppressing a smirk of your own. 

“I’m serious, love,” he chuckles. “I can’t think of a better way to spend today.”

Your heart soared at his words, you carefully shifted to cup his face. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

He pushes himself further into your palm, eyes closing for the briefest of moments, his hand coming up to cover your own. “Have I mentioned that you’re too good for me?” He tries to make it sound like a joke, but the familiar self-doubt can still be heard in his voice. 

“Unfortunately, far too much,” you playfully glare. “You stubborn man.”

He reopens his eyes, now filled with an overwhelming amount of affection. It almost takes your breath away. 

“Then I’m sure you’ve heard me say how lucky I am as well,” he teases, his expression never faltering. 

“I’m the lucky one,” you grin cheekily, brushing back a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “My boyfriend makes an excellent cup of tea.”

“Is that all I’m here for?” He asks in mock offence, pulling you flush against him, despite the twinge of pain it caused. “Keeping me around for my tea-making skills?”

“Exactly,” you nestle your head against him. 

At that moment, everything felt right to him. Just the two of you, safe, together. Nothing else mattered to him apart from the girl in his arms. He knows the pain will linger—the scars, the transformations, all of it. But with you—his anchor—it feels just about bearable. And for the first time in a long time. He allows himself to feel hope. The hope of your future together. 

[musical-chick-13]

You know...normally the "guy is sad and murders people over it because how dare other people be happy" archetype is very annoying, but I think they made it work this time.

[taegularities]

you're okay | myg (m)

Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.

➳ pairing: Yoongi x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: s2l/est. rel.; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: this one's heavy :') pov switches, switching between past and present, reference to the d-day documentary, mental health issues, therapy, depression and anxiety, mentioned unaliving attempt, mentions of fainting, slight mention of SA, implied panic attack, lots of trauma, lots of sadness, healing journey/healing with yoongi, feelings of loneliness, feeling unworthy, oc is very unsure and thinks she's a burden, tears and crying; explicit sexual content: (brief) protected sex, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, kissing/making out. please heed the warnings <3 ➳ word count: 11.5k ➳ a/n: hi hi. not the average taegularities fic, i think. once again, please do note the warnings before reading. it's okay if it's too heavy and you need breaks – take care of yourself. it's a very very personal piece that i just needed to get out of my system. yoongi's snooze inspired it; i still cry when i listen to it – i'm thankful it saved me in so many ways, and i hope you feel the same way about this fic. i love you all; here's to healing and living 💕 ➳ listen to: snooze by agust d ft. ryuichi sakamoto & woosung 🤍

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

The weather changes at warp speed these days.

When you left just this morning, it was raining buckets. The shower barely allowed a glimpse at the sky, grey as smoke; ominous clouds were bursting, fast cars and busy passengers on the sidewalk rushing through the world.

You were one of them, not necessarily impressed by the downpour. But you smiled when someone halted, stretching an arm to force the doors of the bus open until you were inside.

The tender gesture lit up your gloomy morning, a proof of how the world isn’t all misery and ruin. For a couple minutes and hours, that stranger’s smile lifted the weight off your leather jacket clad shoulders. You were burdened by nothing but the bag hanging on your side.

But now, the same jacket is draped over your arm and feels much heavier than before; stripped off when the sun broke through the clouds around the afternoon. The additional weight gives you grief; you’re relieved when you hang it onto a rack, step out of your shoes and drag yourself to the bathroom.

God, all actions seem so passive these days.

Passive and automatic, just half-conscious. You’re fatigued and lost in your head. Frankly, you need your bed. You hate that you still need to shower. You wish you could skip that part and still keep your body healthy and clean.

And as you stand under the water, shifting your balance to the right leg and back, you realise that another work day is over and another one is coming. Interactions, productivity, the craving your bed. You need the weightlessness.

So much so that you soon feel the knot in your chest, intensifying, and the heat of the water combines with an uncomfortable breathlessness until your knees bend a little. Immediately, you plant your palms against the bathroom tiles, taking a seat on the shower floor.

You cross your legs; the thought of your father is immediate because he always taught you to take a seat wherever once you start feeling dizzy. Since that one adolescence day when you passed out and hurt your chin, you have followed this advice and prevented worse.

Your head spins for a moment, your chest tight; and you hear a dull thump. There’s an odd rustle in your ears, mixed with the sound of the dripping water; so you don’t notice the call of your name right away.

Keeping your answer absent for another moment, you only wrap your arms around your chest, just to keep yourself whole. You feel like your body might fracture into a dozen pieces.

The shampoo bottle that presumably caused the thump before rolls against you, and you gasp in uncomfortable surprise; immediately hear another slurred, “Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on?”

It's him; he’s always worried. Maybe that’s what you’ve been struggling with so much lately. The fact that you never suffer alone whenever the weight on your shoulder and brain drags you down too far.

A worried voice chimes again, breaking the sound of the shower jet, and you suddenly become hyper aware of his concern, rushing to finally get out. You exclaim a reassuring, “All good!” before the silence can prolong or betray you.

His calls stop, probably relieved when you add another, “Coming.”

You envelop your body in your towel; just a moment later, he knocks. You would’ve opened even if he hadn't.

Yoongi stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and breathes in the sauna-esque air. His mouth turns into a surprised circle, and he blinks before he blows out a breath and states, “You showered hot today, huh?”

“Mhh,” you hum, “the sun never keeps me from doing so. Feels good.”

He smiles, watches your lotioned hands hydrate your skin, very slowly and very delicately. When you sigh in something he interprets as fatigue, he asks, “Do you need help?”

Four simple words, but they soothe something in your wrinkly, grey brain. The knot of stress loosens just a little, and you sigh deeply, telling him, “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate to step behind you, picking up the pink, wooden brush lying on the laundry basket next to you to release the knots in your wet hair. For a couple of minutes, you indulge in the massage; and then wallow in the feeling of his hands on your face, taking over to do your skincare.

And then, gentle as he is, he helps you into your clothes. You feel somewhat pathetic, but most of all, thankful — anything to get through the night.

“You all set?” he asks once he’s done, palms on your shoulders. You touch the digits of his left hand, leading them to your lips to kiss them softly before you nod.

You follow him into the living room, detecting the still present sunrays protruding through the spots that the sheer curtains don’t filter. It’s not dark yet, but the light is slowly fading. The star is preparing to drown behind the horizon, dusk in motion.

The pretty hues give you a brief yet strange burst of motivation; often, you fear the night more despite its serene reputation. Too dark, too haunting.

Yoongi has already set the table; he starts to ladle the sundubu-jjigae into your bowl, rice in another smaller dish next to it. You sit; you feel endlessly indebted and silently terrified at once. The food looks amazing, so the taste isn’t the problem.

Your boyfriend is a good cook, and you thank the deities every day for his existence. It was much harder to get by and assemble a meal when you lived alone.

But your expression is still the opposite of what it’s supposed to be, and when he sees it, he asks, “You good? Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then eat a little, okay? As much as you can.”

You gulp, oblige. You know your body calls for it, so you listen to it, chewing a couple bites, even though it feels impossible to actually swallow. God; you need to stop your chest and stomach from trying to convince you that everything is heavy.

Your clothes, your heart, your thoughts.

You know it isn’t true. It drives you mad when your own brain proves this treacherous, attempting to lie to you like this.

Then again, energy dwindles faster these days. Your body knows; maybe that’s why you feel tired. You need to sleep — maybe that could help you feel a bit more feathery.

But shit, you wish there was a more efficient charger for human beings than sleep, so you could be productive. Your mind won’t let you sleep properly anyway.

“Is it good?” Yoongi asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s always the first to notice when you’re overexerting yourself, even just at dinner.

“It’s very good,” you respond truthfully, even raising your voice to make yourself sound livelier, “as I’d expect from you.”

“Then I’m glad. Thought I’d make you something good, since you worked longer.”

“Always attentive, aren’t you?”

“I try to be.” His spoon drops in his bowl, and he reaches out, touching your cheek just long enough for your heart to stir. “How was work?”

Hm…

You don’t remember too well. You know you went there at least, and you know you did whatever you had to — but you can’t recall details. So all you say without dousing the atmosphere in negativity is, “As always.”

“Was Nayeon at work today?”

“Nope,” you tell him, sending wordless, good vibes towards your best work buddy. “Still sick. A stomach bug, I think. I really hope she feels better soon.”

“Sana again then?”

“Yeah, spent most of the day with her. She’s always so sweet, though… I should talk to her more often.”

You dig into your rice again, trying it with a bigger bite this time. Then, you shake your head in apology, looking back at Yoongi as you ask, “Ah, I’m sorry, baby… how was work for you?”

“As always,” he echoes, “thought of you a lot.”

“Mhm… obsessed much?” you jest, trying a little beam.

“You know me.”

That’s it. You nod; you understand the weakness of your smile, so you lower your head altogether. He sees; of course he does. Yet, he waits and watches you toy with your food. You know the question is approaching before it lands, “Another low?”

Another low…

You could cry. You could burst into tears immediately if you didn’t feel so… empty. A vacant soul, pieces coloured by nothing but him. Yoongi sparks the magic most of the time, even drilling through the numbness.

“Yeah,” you whisper, not crying yet, but the corners of your mouth drop. “It’s been a while.”

“Months, yes? Which is great, my love.” His voice is so mellow, deep, like an antidote. “You’re doing really well.”

“Yeah.”

You are. Because at one point in your life, you used to feel this way all the time. Ever since you found somebody to rely on, someone who listens, you’ve gotten a bit better. He puts you together as if he’s resolving a dispersed puzzle.

But certain phases at certain times still hit you unexpectedly, like a revved up truck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi offers.

“There’s nothing really to talk about…”

“Okay. Do it if you need to, though, okay? Eat a little more?”

You do. Fuck, you feel so babied sometimes; you wonder if he discerns things like this, too. That he isn’t really taking care of and loving his girlfriend, but rather babysitting a broken child.

You whoosh the thought away with a blink, finishing more than half of your meal before you set the cutlery aside. You down the last bite with cold water, sauntering to the bathroom, and then meet Yoongi on your bed.

He probably already put the food in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher; he must’ve operated rapidly to be here already, awaiting you. The laptop is open and its screen bright, and you know without stepping onto the mattress that he’s opened YouTube.

Less for him, more for you.

If he wanted to spend the remaining minutes of the night scrolling through reels, he could easily do so on his phone. But no… this feels more like an invitation. A quick, sweet date before sleep, just to watch a few animal videos that rarely ever fail to make you smile.

As you crawl into him, watching cats protecting newborn babies or dogs jumping their owners affectionately, you do smile. You laugh, even. You feel somewhat at ease here with him, but you know you’ll go back to ground zero in the morning.

When you’ve left and he’s gone to work.

And you hate it. You hate that you’re dependent on him like this… Yoongi calls it finding comfort in somebody you love, and you don’t disagree. But adding to this, you think you’re limiting his options by shackling yourself to him.

By demanding that comfort.

You sigh in his arms, breathing calmer than before, but not enough to sleep. Yet, he asks, “Hey… sweetheart. Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“I’m just thinking… Do you want me to call the therapist tomorrow?”

Shit… why does the ball of guilt keep growing? How does he think of this and you don’t? Have you really sunk this deep again? You’re stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I… I should do it myself,” you mumble.

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I’ll just do it in the morning. I think I should… do things for myself, too, right?”

He pauses. Ponders your words; or at least, that’s what you surmise from the way he breathes and sighs and hums. And you’re proven right when he inquires, “Do you feel like I mind doing things for you?”

Yes. No.

No, you do not think so. But you sure as hell waste his time. Occupy it with this nonsense when he could be happier somewhere else, living his life, making plans for the future and rambling about the job he loves.

But no…

Fucking calling the therapist for you.

You break.

It always happens in the worst moments; you don’t know what it is, how it happens, but you break. Hard. Your motions stop, maybe even your breathing. But then you do sigh, so deeply that it burns, trying to keep your voice from shaking, to keep the tears at bay.

But this time, it doesn’t work. Emotions heightened when Yoongi utters something he’s provided as a reminder over the years, “Don’t hold back.”

So you don’t.

There were days when this lesson was necessary, a gentle nudge to release the weight, and today is one of them. You weep, starting with soft whimpers that grow louder steadily, and you press into his chest until you're suddenly sobbing.

You sniffle with an aching head, holding onto him for dear life, barely noticing when your sobs, once again, morph into absolute wailing.

He embraces you, tighter with each inhale and exhale. You’re so impossibly close to him, garbling something that he doesn’t understand. His voice is pain-struck and trembling when he encourages, “Come again, baby? Talk to me.”

It takes a while; it doesn’t work. And then, he chants, “God, baby. My baby… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No!” you cry out, slurring your words, “No… am a burden. Am fucking burdening you…”

This is a clear thought, isn’t it? Even in a moment like this, you think it’s true. And that maybe…

Maybe you should’ve never agreed to the lunch he offered you all those years ago. You would miss everything good in your life, lose the one thing you so cherish, but you’d at least rid him of you.

Those long six years ago, you should have just told him you were fine.

As a student, Yoongi always trod the same path from the second floor down to the entrance of the college, living into a routine — never really noticing much of significance. He’d see other students who’d be eating; talking; rushing to class.

And as a TA, Yoongi was used to another, different journey throughout the building, too; climbing down the same spiral staircase, hurrying through the scary, empty mezzanine, passing the same few rooms on the ground floor.

He’d prepare to go home or to the library after attending his favourite psychology professor’s classes, assisting him to his best abilities. But this was different from all the other familiar routes he’d grown accustomed to.

These Wednesday afternoons did offer something of significance. Someone of significance. 

Because every time he reached those rooms on the ground floor, you’d be there.

At first, he reckoned you always waited for your class to start, just at the time when his ended. But you were alone each time. The doors to the classrooms and lecture halls were all closed, and then there was you, a sole soul waiting for whatever miracle to appear.

It took a couple weeks for him to gather that you might not have been supposed to be there. He noticed it when he saw your eyes fixated on a spot, pupils never moving an inch, even when he walked past. At some point, he’d memorised just this expression on your face.

And then, bit by bit, he realised that your stance didn’t seem quite normal. Your eyes were dead, hands never flinching. You emanated a sense of loneliness and stupefaction that he couldn’t express in words.

Today, something in him stirred. Perhaps because he’d just covered social behaviour as a topic or perhaps because any proper human would recognise that something was wrong with you.

Your hands were holding a lidless cup that day, barely steaming anymore. You were blinking slowly, if at all. This time, he approached you with care, as if nearing a wounded deer; as if trying to keep it there and not frighten it away.

But when he leaned into you, a hand scarcely touching your shoulder, your head moved up to look at him slowly but surely. And your first reaction to him ever was a smile.

You remember that when you first looked at him, like really looked at him, his face seemed familiar to you. You were sure you’d seen him before, even if just in passing. He had this long, pretty, dark hair, covering his neck, a couple inches above his shoulders.

A kind face. A calm demeanour.

He stood there with pure relaxation between his eyebrows; one you hadn’t felt in a while despite your falling face. Flawless porcelain skin, free of dark circles, free of exhaustion. When did you last look like this?

You smiled at him instinctively, a curious expression; you couldn’t guess at all what he wanted or needed, but you were ready to listen. You’d always listen to people — listen, listen, listen. Perhaps that was the exact problem.

This very attention towards him, coming this easily, made your shoulders sink in new dejection; everything did. Every thought was intrusive, unwelcome, too stretched for your liking.

Whenever you had a normal thought or a bad one that’d at least pass immediately, you considered it a good day.

But you felt a tension around your temples by now; your head never felt at ease.

Yet, you asked, “Yes?”

And he wondered in return, “Are you okay? You looked distracted and I thought I might ask.”

“Oh… that’s nice,” you commented, your voice a bit too quiet yet surprised; you cleared your throat, spoke up, “but I’m okay. I just sit here sometimes after my classes.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. To take a little break after all the information dump, yeah. I’ll go home soon, though, no worries.”

“Hm… yeah. I just,” Yoongi started, hesitant — you now know he was trying to reveal something without appearing creepy. “I noticed you here a few times, so I wanted to ask just to be sure.”

He saw you here? You? And he came up to talk to you, just because he’d noticed you before? Baffling. You didn’t think you were visible to anybody. You thought you faded in front of others’ eyes.

“You’re honestly so nice,” is all you said, hoping your eyes didn’t reveal too much. How much his words affected you, and how they made you think you were just a little, a tiny bit perceptible.

“Sure,” he responded, nodding. And when you failed to come up with more appreciative words, he prepared to move, bidding you goodbye with a single, “Okay…”

Then, he was walking away; as grateful as you were, your energy-lacking body forced your eyes shut. You drew a deep breath. These few words you’d exchanged with him took everything out of you — that was the worst part of all this.

Interaction drained you. Loneliness drained you. The world and life were all draining, and you couldn’t figure out anymore how to feel… awake. Sober without ever drinking.

When your eyes closed, you felt your surroundings starting to spin. Or maybe, it was you; as if someone had gripped your shoulders and was turning you in circles. There were so many weird particles behind your eyelids.

The rotation was insane, but nothing new. Shut down most of your other senses and people’s voices; like the one that returned a second later, the same as before. Shit. Had he seen you struggle? Was he seeing something nobody else ever would?

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger with the familiar face asked, concern in his voice. “You don’t look like it.”

What was it? What was it about his gentle, low voice that lured you in? What was it about his attentive tone that made you want to tear up? Maybe because you’d bottled things up for so long.

But you held the liquid locked in your eyes. Proudly, barely.

“I’m…”

You considered lying. You considered pulling a lame excuse out of your ass. But something in you snapped, snapped hard, and the truth spilled just before you could think twice—

“If I’m being honest… I’m feeling pretty faint… I often do? I usually just need to sit down a bit or I’ll pass out.”

You hated using the word usually. As though your condition had become irreparable, like a chronic illness; and you were stating its treatment, only temporary.

“Hmm…” he hummed. “Have you eaten?”

“Not much…”

“Then that might be it,” he concluded, content with the deduction. In hindsight, you think he was hoping it was only that, nothing more. “Do you have something with you?” You shook your head. “Are you getting something?”

You shrugged.

You could’ve easily told the truth and said no; that the appetite was absent, that you were going to go home and hardly remember how you got there. That you’d throw your bag on the couch, take off all your clothes, not really bother for a shower and jump into your bed.

Then, you’d breathe. Survive.

You didn’t have the energy to eat, to shower, and right now, somehow not even to lie. The remainder of it had been used in today’s class and in this conversation.

He knew you couldn’t come up with any bad justification, so he offered, “Listen… I still have this sandwich with me that I was going to eat after class. You can have it if you want.”

What? That was…

“Oh, no,” you blurted, raising a hand to reject, “you should eat if you haven’t yet.”

“Look, I totally get being selfless, but you don’t look good and…” He sighed, tilting his head. Eyebrows raised and expression suddenly stricter. “If I can help anyhow, I’d rather have that than anyone else finding you unconscious here later. Please?”

How could you’ve resisted such a plea?

He was taking care of you and he didn’t even know you. And your body understood; your body heard him. Because your stomach grumbled at the mention of the meal; it didn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to your hungry, craving body.

It often did that. Wishing to eat; then, not letting you swallow a bite.

You grabbed your bag and warily, carefully got to your feet. The man lifted a hand in caution, as if expecting for you to lose your balance. You did, just a little, swaying until you’d grounded yourself.

Goddamn it.

You nodded with a deep exhale and followed him as he suggested, “Let’s go to the courtyard. Get some fresh air. We can eat there and talk… or not talk if that's what you want.”

You kept moving your head up and down, fine with whatever. The fronts of it hurt due to the  lack of nutrition; it was past four pm and you’d only eaten a damn banana.

He found you a shadowy spot away from the sun; it was late spring, the summer steadily approaching. The shade protected your tired eyes, guarded you from further headaches.

As you plumped onto the grass next to him, your fingers grazed it for a moment — and it felt good against your skin. A pleasant combination, the wind and the scent of grass; nearly freed your chest of the stuffy pain.

You watched his soft fingers fish out the sandwich, and then some salted peanuts for himself. Urged you to eat before spilling a handful of the nuts into his palm. God, you felt horribly guilty, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to convince him to share the meal.

He… didn’t even seem to mind a bit.

Wiping his hand on his pants, he finally introduced, “I’m Min Yoongi. Psychology student and TA. Judging from your spot every single Wednesday afternoon, you take psychology classes, too?”

“I do… yeah.”

You took a bite enough for mouses, but then proceeded with a larger, human-appropriate one. Your stomach felt odd; Min Yoongi’s small talk helped you eat, but the nervous feeling in your chest that never really went away weighed heavily on your tummy.

You added, “Thinking of dropping it, though…”

“Why?”

“Because I might be failing anyway. Haven’t done much, and I still have a presentation on my paper left but have prepared nothing for it yet, either.”

“Have you asked the professor about a potential extension?”

Of course you’d thought about it. You always did. Which is why you despised having to answer, “No…”

No. Of course not. To most professors, mental health didn’t matter as an excuse.

You understood, though. They graded every paper they received, surrendering their free time, their summer and their winter breaks. To grant you special treatment was something you regarded as unnecessary; you didn’t think you were worth it.

“Do you feel like you could do better next term?” Yoongi asked.

“I don’t know.”

Your sandwich was done and gone. You were still hungry; you felt the appetite all of a sudden. You knew it often came and went in waves, but somehow, the sandwich left you more pining than anything these days.

Yoongi saw as you licked your fingers clean of the mayonnaise; offered you some peanuts that you politely declined, greedy for something proper. Maybe you’d eat an actual dinner tonight.

After a while, Yoongi spoke, “Okay, I know I’m a stranger to you and everything, but if you want, I could try to help you.”

Shit, but… that would’ve meant putting in the effort. To get up, to meet him, to focus and to study. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do all that. You didn’t know how to—

But his eyes were so sincere; a pure dark brown, sparkling in hope, for whatever noble reason. And you thought… you thought…

If there was any chance to pass this class and get over with it, wouldn’t you feel a gigantic wave of relief wash over you? After so damn long? Wouldn’t it be worth it? Maybe a spark of hope ignited in your chest after all… maybe you could turn things around.

“Yeah…” you finally obliged. “Yeah, that’s really nice.”

“Great. Are you free this Friday afternoon?”

After that, it became part of your routine to meet up with Yoongi every Thursday or Friday, depending on his own schedule. A couple weeks passed like a breeze; or at least, compared to the days you were used to.

Some time later, those meetings increased, and you found a profound liking in them. You still often struggled with leaving your apartment at all, sometimes deeming getting out of bed or brushing your teeth an impossible task.

But whenever Yoongi called, offering a nearby café — always a nearby café — you’d place all your energy into moving, throwing on clothes, leaving. You felt unworried with him; at least for a couple hours.

He wasn’t just smart to an admirable degree; he was humorous, too. Motivating. Praised you for your ideas and your sharp mind. You’d forgotten you still had it in you — you thought time had altered your brain chemistry, killed too many of its cells to still let your mind operate.

Today, he didn’t suggest a café but a place you hadn't been to before. Yoongi had never invited you anywhere that wasn’t a public space, careful with your feelings without ever mentioning the obvious issues you had.

He only really crawled out of his shell and gave you the address to this new spot once you’d invited him over, too — he couldn’t make it, helping out the professor he assisted. But you reckon it was telling enough for him to understand how comfortable you’d grown with him.

So you went where he told you to go, and once you arrived, you recognised it as an office. A small one, but elegantly decorated, furniture sparse. And it wasn’t just any office. A therapist’s office.

“This is my mom’s,” Yoongi explained as you inspected the books on the shelf and the overall soothing and fitting atmosphere, “she’s out of town, so I thought we could study here today.

“Oh…”

He had to have heard your hesitancy, your uncertainty. This is the place they usually suggest in guidance books and in conversation to people like you. You didn’t know how to feel; the emotions washing over you were an odd sensation. Not good, not bad.

But scary, somehow.

Yoongi put a soft hand on your shoulder, making you turn, and asked, “Is that okay for you?”

“Yeah… it’s just… I’ve only really thought and read about therapy, but never quite seen an actual room like this.” You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “It’s crazy. How have I never been in one despite studying psychology for so long?”

“Hmm, many students haven’t been.”

“Yeah.”

You stripped your bag off of you, taking a seat on the cosy patient’s couch. Pulled out your laptop and placed it on the table between you and where he seated himself on the therapist’s chair. 

Swallowing a strange lump, you cleared your throat, starting the study session with, “Okay, so… I was thinking about what you said about the research question last time.”

“Right…”

At this point, you couldn’t really fathom why, but he seemed reserved today, a little distracted. Still providing as much information and intellect as he could; but his thoughts were slower and his eyes gentler.

You think you studied barely forty-five minutes when Yoongi called for a break — unusual, because it was mostly you to announce a pause in thoughts, when your brain would demand a couple minutes of peace.

He sighed, hands touching his thighs and then got up to bring you something to drink. Came back with two cups of tea. You thought he’d be returning with a glass of water, but upon seeing the beverage, your eyes widened; you told him, “This is super nice of you, thanks.”

“Of course.” Pause. You slurped; then he did. A second later, he inquired, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Mhm.”

You waited. Nothing came. You took another sip of the fruity winter tea in the middle of summer, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat under your nose that the heat caused. Then you looked up, big eyes staring into his just in time to see his mouth open.

“You always seem so surprised when I’m nice to you.”

Ah…

He’d said he’d had a question, but the indication of an inquiry, the one lifting in tone at the end never came. His statement was his question. And you thought it wasn’t the first time you heard it; you just never noticed you were doing it again.

Yoongi left the conclusion there, and the question mark hung somewhere between the two of you. Unspoken, containing a silent, ”Why?”

So you answered, “I just… uhm. People don’t just do something like this for me without me asking. It’s new to me how attentive you are.”

Sad. Just sad. You hated having to actually echo your innermost thoughts; you knew this wasn’t normal.

He knew, too, because he said, “This… is not how things should be.”

“But this is how they ended up being. I mean it’s just tea. But I don’t think anybody else sees me sitting there and goes like, Okay, I’ll do this lil something for her, you know?”

“Which is insane. You deserve it all so much. More than anyone I know.”

If you’d still been drinking, you would’ve choked. Those words were rare, not often uttered to you; how were you supposed to respond to them? You’d long forgotten how to react to things at all — it didn’t come too naturally to you anymore.

So all you did was laugh a little, as if replying to a joke. Genuinely, you wondered, “How can you say something like that?”

“Why not?”

“I mean, you probably know so many people.”

Yoongi blinked at you, as if waiting for your argument to proceed; but when it didn’t, he lifted a shoulder, steadfast with his opinion as he answered, “So? What do you think? That you feeling that way about yourself makes everyone else feel that way about you, too?”

You shrugged your shoulders just an inch, imitating his motions. Your gaze fell, as though catching yourself spewing pure gibberish. He continued, “You have a pure heart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being mean. And you’re strong, careful, and endure a shit ton.”

You looked up at him instantly. Let the last words reverberate in your mind, pushing them to the forefront between all your other messy thoughts. “Of course you knew,” you said.

“Of course. You’re so obviously hurt and I hate that you are.”

Well, you hated it, too. But… 

Your desperation came out in a whisper, “I don’t know what to do about it…”

You put the cup back onto the saucer; your fingers were warm when you pushed them into your hair, pressing your palms against your forehead, holding onto your mane. Elbows on your thighs. The world spun again until you felt his hand on your arm once more.

“Hey.” He sounded softer again. “Do you want to take a longer break? We could stop for today and talk?”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to. But it feels to me like you’ve never done that before… people don’t want to listen.” His words hit you like bricks. Like heavy cement bricks. The pain was excruciating. “Is that it?”

You were still staring at your lap when he posed the question; your head whirred, so you didn’t know where to start. Which is why you held onto the first complaint — you knew they were valid worries, but you always called them complaints, like you were a burden — and said,

“I just… I listen to everyone. I let people vent, I let them feel hurt, and I try to be there and lend a shoulder and just,” the words cascaded out of you like a wild waterfall; your throat clogged up again, “to be a good person and a good friend.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, the pressure back in your chest. “But why do I not get any of it back? Why is it that everyone goes silent when I’m hurting? Do I deserve this somehow?”

You felt tears pricking and burning in your waterline, and you blinked them away. Took another quick sip just to help your dry throat. Then, “I hate that I sound selfish? Like I only do things for people to get love back, but… that’s not it. I just want to feel worthy of something, too.”

“You don’t sound selfish. It’s never wrong or inhumane to demand affection and care, and if it is, then… every person’s selfish. Whatever.”

Up until that point, you hadn’t known that someone could be this tender and direct at once. Yoongi lived in a reality that wasn’t sugarcoated, but he understood empathy and heartbreak, knew to dip his words in an ointment alleviating enough.

You wondered what he’d endured to become this type of person; sympathy and a mind this sage often stem from grief once encountered, and you so hoped he was an exception to this belief of yours.

You looked at him with delicate fondness, mixed with some lasting trouble. He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t know what came over you when you leaned into his palm, kept his gaze, and stayed in place when he moved in.

Kissed you.

And you didn’t know why, but the moment opened your heart as if it’d been locked before; he was the key, undoing the lock so easily. That was when the first tear rolled down your cheek, meeting his skin, and you started trembling as he moved his mouth against yours.

You couldn’t grasp why he was doing it; even if parts of you knew. Did he not care that you were broken? That you were still breaking? That the ache always consumed you, that you felt whatever your brain inflicted on you throughout your entire body?

Maybe not. He always said you were funny, sweet, never humorous at anybody’s expense.

It was different from the things you’d heard before.

Nobody will love you like this.

Stop acting like you’re traumatised.

I didn’t love you — I kept you because you were attractive. Because you let me.

You had always asked yourself: why had your feelings always been shoved aside when you voiced your opinion? Whenever it differed from the one in your family or your friend’s circle?

Why were you told to never open up about your childhood memories? When you were caged in; when somebody three times your age indulged in impudence when they shouldn’t have, long ago when you were a child; when you fell in love at a later age and were forced to let go?

Why were you told you were tainted, that you couldn’t get any affection like this, to keep your pain to yourself and forget about your past? And why was this sequence of nightmares plaguing you right now, like you were dying, just when he was kissing you…

Because you were scared. So scared.

If you told Yoongi any of this, would he bolt? Would you hurt yet another person? Would he see you as a shattered porcelain doll, distance himself from you? Because honestly, why would he stay at all; with someone who hasn’t healed, who’d pulled him underwater, too?

Yet, you didn’t say any of this. You sighed; leaned into him. Took residency in his heart, cried into him.

He kissed you for another second, and then backed away. Wiped your tears. You broke and broke until your voice broke, too, giving way to quiet sobs.

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

And somehow, the realisation hurt anew, deep in your core and beyond.

Your tears had mostly dried when he resumed his position, sitting in front of you. His fingers were entangled and he waited.

Yoongi knew you’d cry again, though. The patient’s couch had some magic to it, his mother always said. They’d always cry, but they’d heal at the same time. Recognise hidden parts of themselves.

He was uncomplaining and composed, and kept looking at you until you said, “It just feels… like I’ll never be enough. I can do as much as possible, but none of it is ever seen because I’m taken for granted.”

“Who takes you for granted?”

“Everyone. I’ve spent many nights awake for people, and they abandoned me. In a crowd, others will always be praised for one thing and I’ll be ignored for the same. It’s made me bitter.”

He nodded in true therapist fashion, but his expression wasn’t as neutral as one; he looked pain-struck for you. Said, “You’ve been hurt… I see that…”

“I’m… hurting,” you corrected, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Yoongi attempted a different approach; you were in a hopeless spiral, and the strategy he needed to try wasn’t just to dig out your trauma, but to make you familiar with the good parts of your life, too.

So he asked, sincerely hoping you had an answer to his question, “Who could you trust as you grew up?”

“I don’t know…” Yoongi’s chest deflated, motivation dropping — that is, until you muttered, “My brother.”

“Parents?”

“Part of the problem.”

Okay; your answers came more rapidly now. He took it as a good sign; as readiness to talk.

“Where’s your brother?” he wondered.

“In this town,” you answered, and Yoongi sighed in relief. “But I can’t bother him with all of my shit.”

Your symptoms were as typical as they could be; you regarded your self-worth as buried deep under the ground, never wanting to disturb those who still deemed you close and loved. You’d established this distance between you and the others; he didn’t blame you.

The symptoms were typical.

“Why do you think so?” Yoongi prodded, whispering your name when you didn’t answer.

“I’ve bothered them all enough…”

“How so?”

Maybe he was doing too much. But it seemed you were on board with it; you weren’t complaining, not sighing, not withdrawing. You were listening and talking. Nobody let you talk, and now that you were, you looked like you needed to let it out.

You spat, “Because they never seemed to want to hear anything.”

God…

It hurt to see you like this. Damp eyes, a heavily rising chest, as if you were close to panicking again, but desperately holding back. He knew it; he saw it in the way you drew your breaths and in the things you said.

He knew you’d braved multiple nights and many, many sleepless hours before, spending these dark moments clutching your chest, trying to get rid of the unbearably tight feeling in your chest.

He knew that torturous pressure. He’d been there before. The persistent feeling of fear and unease — like somebody had dropped a weight onto his ribcage and tied up his stomach. The shallow breathing and thumping heart would strip him off focus.

Thoughts circling and circling, around each other; absolute bullshit most of the time.

He couldn’t imagine how overwhelmed you felt, but then again, he could. Was the world louder to you, too? The way it used to be for him. Did you hear that constant screaming in your head?

Vulnerable, senses heightened, sensitive to the slightest change.

He hated the thought of a wall between you and your peace. Hated hearing the words you narrated; of your home, of your childhood, of the people you met. The disrespect you suffered and the dirt you were treated as.

You deserved none of it.

Maybe he felt that way because nobody ever deserved it; or maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you. Not because he needed to save you, or because he felt like falling for someone who he’d have to fix could be a welcoming challenge.

He knew people who treated depression like this; saviour complex in full effect, they needed to be the hero or heroine to stitch a broken heart.

No — he fell for you because you were you. Despite everything and every pain you endured, you were still you; and most of the you that you were before you got hurt this badly was still there, under the surface.

He saw those joyful parts of you reemerge sometimes, breaking through the waves. Sometimes, right before your head would fall again; your body weightless; drowning — he saw those parts on those days for a split moment.

But not right now.

In fact, the true parts of you that knew to feel happiness were absent now, and he knew — in that sense, he was prepared for you to utter what you said next. Was ready to hear it, no matter how little he actually wanted to hear it.

“And sometimes, when it got too much…” You gulped. Yoongi knew what you’d say; he knew. But— “I didn’t feel like being here anymore. It seems that was the only and last time I opened my family’s eyes.”

But when you still said it, it stabbed his heart like a dagger.

“Only, after that… it soon became irrelevant again,” you continued, “they told me I should be thankful for being alive and regret the mistake I made… what I tried.”

And you spoke on. Spoke on and on. He leaned back, allowing himself a better position to breathe. His heart felt like a sewing pin cushion, riddled with tiny holes. His eyebrows furrowed in agony, but he saw worse pain in your eyes.

Tears slowly reappeared.

“And when I was judged for this, too… I realised I didn’t regret ever trying to leave the world. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.”

Maybe he felt that way because nobody deserved it; maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you.

But your words split him in a million tiny shards, like glass, until his pieces became tiny enough to resemble dust.

”Am a burden… Am fucking burdening you…”

Yoongi’s voice defeats the others in your head just barely; as if you’re separated by a glass wall and hearing him from afar, only clearing when you hammer through it and break the surface. He’s quiet compared to your cries, a hand firmly on your back.

His grip around you wants to glue you together so desperately; he’s not letting go, even though you get restless soon, quivering and ruining his shirt.

“Hey, baby…” you hear him say, but you interrupt, obstinately shaking your head.

“No… I’m— I never should’ve let you this close and—”

“No.” It’s his turn to interject. And he does it with determination; tone suddenly so low, cold, so you silence. “Stop.”

You do, only now noticing that he’s imprisoning your wrists in his grasp. Not painfully, but still solidly enough for you to understand what he means. You confirm it for yourself when you look up.

You already know your eyes are bloodshot, cheeks thoroughly wet; but you still recognise the heavy breaths he draws. See something entirely different in his eyes than yours.

Pain.

You hurt him. And this time, you could once again lament your destructive behaviour, argue how you keep inflicting these shit ass feelings on him. But…

The ache in his expressions says something else entirely. Fills you with hope, fills you with guilt.

Shows you that he despises the thought of you possibly regretting this relationship. His gaze proves that he doesn’t. That if he could go back in time and meet you again, talk to you again, fall in love with you again — he would.

You know it because he’s said it before. You know.

But your brain is half melting, hurting, spitting all negative assumptions at you like nobody’s business.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you stammer, pierced by the sorrow in his eyes.

“What?”

“I… shouldn’t have said that,” you start, gulping. Your crying ebbs down for a second as you register the growing agony in his heart, and you explain, “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I can’t stop thinking that…”

Break in conversation.

Then him again, “…That?”

“That you’d be better off without me. That you’re here so I stay alive and that you’d be less burdened with someone else…”

Another pause. 

He stares at you, as if pondering his answer. Bites into his lower lip softly and releases it right away. Blinks, looks to your wrists, lets go of them and then whispers, “Do you want to know? What I’m thinking, do you want to know that, too?”

“…What are you thinking?”

“That it’s true that I’m burdened.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

The pain is searing, a burning arrow shooting through your heart. It’s what you expected and what you feared and what still hurts so much upon hearing and—

Are you crying again? Are you tearing up? You don’t know.

You’re not sure, but it does seem like you’re breaking once more when he shushes you carefully, touching your cheek. He calms you, and then speaks again—

“Of course I’m burdened, too. Yeah, of course. I’d be lying if I said seeing you like this doesn’t make me feel helpless… but do you know what it means that I’m still here?”

Your voice trembles when you speak, “Because you’re scared of leaving me in this condition.”

“No. I learned early enough to prioritise myself when I need to. No, I’m not leaving because I don’t want to — simple. Because I’ll share your, mine and the world’s damn pain along with my heart. ‘Kay?”

Retrospectively, his words sound logical. He said it’s simple, and in some way, it is. If you didn’t have the brain that you have, it would be. If you weren’t so neck-deep in the quicksand pulling you into doubts, you’d be less surprised at the finality in his tone.

“Baby—” you start, but he squeezes your hand, eyes glistening.

“We have enough enemies in this world. Don’t regard me as one, too. Okay? Please…”

“No, you’re not,” you defend, moving your head and the palm on your cheek along with it, “you’re anything but that.”

He nods, sniffling; you know he’s holding back the same salty, pouring liquid as you. He’s always done that, providing a sense of strength and safety to make you feel just that.

“We’ll be okay one day, love. The world hurts us a shit ton, and life is difficult, but…” His voice cracks here, and he waits to regain control, sighing. “We only get one of it and… it’d be so unfair if we were destined to stay like this, right?”

You don’t believe in divine beliefs that seemingly predetermine how your life plays out. Fate or destiny or whatever synonyms to notions that Jung or Freud believed in. You’ve heard of this stuff plenty in your studies, but it never affected your curiosity much.

You know Yoongi isn’t necessarily a representative of it either; not one to dive too deep into things that suggest the potential absence of a free will.

But the thought provides hope when nothing else does. You know. The fact that you can’t leave this world without fixing things; that you’re here to contribute to much larger and more important things.

You cannot have been born to spend your days here without the joy you deserve.

You’ve felt much of it thanks to Yoongi, but you’ve had too many setbacks to call this a proper life. You don’t want to end it like this. You don’t want to grow old like this.

And you want to gift him the life he deserves, too.

Fuck…

You need to get better. You need to get better. You need to get better.

You need to help yourself. Even if it takes time; even if the non-linear process of healing irks you, stealing hope and leaving anguish in turn. And it’s as if Yoongi reads your mind when he says—

“It’s okay, you know? To feel that way. It takes time. It doesn’t matter how much, but it’s okay to fall back and have ups and downs, as long as you don’t give up. Yes?”

“I can’t, I know… I— I won’t give up. I just… need you to be here.” Your voice is unsteady, and your heart is, too; fickle as can be. But you’d rather hang onto the aspiration right now… nothing else. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I’ll fix this for us, I will.”

“For yourself first. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

“…I love you.” Your breathing is staggered, leftover pain still keeping the anxiety in your chest. It’ll take a while. But there’s power in your admissions when you repeat, “I love you so much.”

You lean in carefully, and he mimes the movement, bending into your kiss. It’s a peck, soft and gentle and encouraging, and you murmur through your sniffles, “So, so much.”

And then you climb up, using all your strength. Half your body comes to a rest on his; the immediate proximity and warm touch evoke motivation and longing in your heart. For not only him, but every second of a possible serene future, too.

This very hope is often born and reborn at the end of your lowest lows. It’s what pulls you up again, keeps you going each time before the next valley can swallow you. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes not.

But you so desperately want this. Want it to work now.

You want to be okay. Want to travel and soak in the sun. Want to dance in the rain and scream from the peak of a mountain; want to snorkel in clear, blue seas.

The life you picture for yourself, the one you follow in those healing vlogs on social media — it’s what you yearn for. It’s what you want to feel. With him on your side.

Sometime in the future, you see yourself beaming in genuine happiness, see yourself smiling. And you want to work towards it. You’ve always wanted to.

Ever since Yoongi first showed you what love, contentment and merriment felt like, you’ve craved this. Ever since that night he told you he loved you, despite everything.

Despite, despite, despite.

He was there to catch your fall when you couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. When your knees weakened and the ground turned into clouds, and you plunged through them and towards the cemented earth that’d shatter you.

He aided you in staying whole. Let you lean against his shoulder, nodding off into a slumber there, allowing you to dream because until then, you didn’t dare to.

You thought dreaming was pointless; just a fabrication of the unconscious mind to distract you from the horrors of the world. To keep you occupied, to torture you even when asleep. As time passed, you started making these horrors your life, and the line between reality and fantasy thinned.

Until…

Until he turned those nightmares into daydreams. Blossoming, vibrant colours appeared where you’d perceived greys before. Somehow, you fell apart a lot less when Yoongi spent his time with you, taught you to love again.

You became less terrified by dreams then, because the content changed. And whenever you weren’t dreaming, away from sleep, you experienced the utopia you’d always sought.

The day Yoongi first told you he loved you, you’d long defeated the semester you’d so worried about; started and survived the one after; and were now already tackling your very last one.

Even after all these months, you never let him forget how grateful you were for passing the last summer semester eventually, and in return, he never let you forget that he’d stay even after.

You didn’t study all the time anymore either; now, your afternoons and nights were filled with gentle words, promising embraces, lips against lips. It took some time to truly open up. To stop feeling like you were making a mistake.

“Doing yourself to him,” you called it, as if you were about to hurl him into his very own mistake.

Even then, you wanted to get better for him; you knew it hadn’t and wouldn’t happen overnight. All of it was much easier said than done; healing sounds so doable for those who attempt to support those who need it, yet they cannot grasp the meaning of a broken heart and scared mind.

But there was something so wonderful about the simplicity between Yoongi and you. So simple that it called forth feelings so complex. 

They were tough to navigate, but never tough to admit.

That March night, the sentiments roamed your body the clearest, even though the skies were anything but that. The thunder sounded like the universe had cracked; the white and silver of the striking lightning illuminated your room.

It was the night you felt hope in all its glory, for the very first time in years.

“You keep hiding from me,” Yoongi said, legs crossed like yours, sitting vis-a-vis.

He was close enough for your knees to collide, and when they did for the umpteenth time, he put a careful hand on your fingers resting on your thigh. You didn’t protest, so he didn’t withdraw.

“I’m not hiding from you. I just…” you stalled, “I just want you to be sure.”

“About you?”

If it had been this easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Because you knew the answer to this. Yoongi didn’t need to explain it to you; he was already certain about you to an indisputable degree.

You shook your head. Elaborated, “About everything. I don’t just come with the few good times we had the last couple of weeks. I come with… everything I’ve ever experienced and that shaped me into this.” You gestured over yourself. “You’d notice soon.”

“I already do.”

His answers and arguments came promptly, as if he knew the script to this talk and had already thought out every response he’d be giving. This was so effortless to him; thinking about it today, you wouldn’t even have needed to say a word.

But it was important to you. You couldn’t permit him to grow this attached without making sure.

“You just take it, do you? All that I am,” you concluded delicately; wanting to inform him, but so terrified of scaring him away. “But if you fall for me, then you’re committing. And I want you to think about it because I don’t— I don’t want to ruin your life.”

When he spoke again, he seemed to finally deviate from the script he knew; because confused, he asked, “If?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, if I fall for you?”

Oh… oh.

You understood. It didn’t take the tiniest of nanoseconds for you to fathom what he meant. And you could’ve sobbed right there and then, but the storm distracted you a little; the thunder was growling, threatening to explode again.

Somehow, the chaos outside kept you at bay. But only for so long.

“…Yoongi.”

His fingers moved from yours to your entire palm, taking it in his with a whisper of your name. Then, he clarified, “The possibility of something happening is redundant if it’s already happened, you know? And I’m…”

You held your breath, but at the same time, you were nearly panting. Maybe one first, then the other? You can’t remember anymore. You felt dizzy. Teary-eyed and joyful at once when you saw him at a loss of words.

“You’re?” you encouraged.

“I’m just so… feet deep underwater and in love with you that you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”

“I—”

“I love you. You know I do.”

Fuck… fuck, you knew.

Of course you knew.

Your heart was vile at times, cooperating with this demon of a brain and feeding you wrong information. But this, you knew. You fought through the congested mess of thoughts and admitted this to yourself every day.

Isn’t this why you were having this conversation in the first place?

But to hear him say it…

I love you.

You know I do.

“Even if you try to deny it,” he continued, “you know I love you and that I’ll keep doing it.”

This is when your waterline gave up; lined with the liquid you’d always held back. But why? There was no reason to. You felt at peace; Yoongi knew your heart. There was no use in keeping you closed off anymore.

So you cried. Let the first tear roll that he caught with his hand, holding your face so firmly that you thought it was the only thing keeping your head upright. Optimistic.

“There’s… there’s a chance that I start doubting you,” you contended for whatever stupid reason, sniffling, “that I doubt myself and then regret pulling you down with me and— there’s a chance I forget that you’ll keep loving me, no matter what, you know—”

“I’ll keep reminding you.”

“I’m a handful.”

“My hands are big enough, baby.”

The endearment didn’t slip past you, but instead made your beating organ swell. You don’t think you’d ever heard your pulse pounding in your eardrums this loudly. And he kept inching closer; his forehead nearly touched yours until it did.

“Can you love me even if I fall, Yoongi?”

“I’ll pick you up. You know that.”

“…What if you feel like you’re not good enough?”

Stop asking questions. Stop stop stop.

But he kept answering.

“Remember what you told me a couple days ago?” Yoongi asked, his voice quiet, drowning in the storm. “That it’d been long since you’d felt happy like this.”

“I do right now… I just…”

“Yeah, and I— I think. If I’m able to stay by your side and make you smile anyhow? Then I think this… we… are good enough.”

That’s it. Your throat was dry, your mind out of questions. You could renounce doubts if he didn’t have any either. He seemed convinced enough; so you admitted your own convictions to him, too.

“I’m… I love you, too. I love you, I fucking do.”

Your last word was cut, merely a breath. Swallowed when you leaned in and kissed him, pulling him back with you onto the bed. Yoongi landed on top of you, draping the two of you under the thin, floral blanket.

The early spring rain tapped your window softly before the gentle noise turned into more aggressive knocking and hammering. This very storm they’d announced was the reason Yoongi had stayed tonight.

That’s what he’d told you at least; in truth, it was an excuse.

Before today, you rarely spent your nights together.

Whenever you did, he allowed you your space in order to not overwhelm you. He knew you were cautious, slow, took your time to trust. He’d sleep on the couch or crawl back to you when you approached him in the dead of the night.

Touching his elbow gently, shaking him awake, telling him so sweetly that it drove him insane, “I don’t want to be alone.”

So he’d cuddle in when you sought out his arms, dozing so peacefully. It delighted him because whenever he didn’t slumber next to you, he’d hear you from the other room. Woefully moaning in your sleep, as if crying, turning.

He never saw or heard any of that when you leaned into his embrace, held onto his shirt. Never did anything more than sleep; he was content with that.

But tonight was different, less chaste than that — and he was content with that, too. 

You said you’d wanted to talk. And you had. You’d trembled through the conversation, heart combusting in your chest like it wasn’t part of you anymore, that treacherous thing with its own, stupid will.

But it thumped differently now when he kissed you like this. You felt the change so clearly when he held you, pushing you into the mattress; stripping you naked bit by bit; asking over and over again if you were okay, if he should stop.

You lived differently, too, when he pecked your bare skin, up and down, from head to toe, to and fro. His tongue explored your waist and your thighs and the wetness between your quivering legs.

And you loved differently when he immersed himself in you. Sighing and moaning against you as his tongue lapped you up. You felt the chills everywhere. Felt your shoulders rise, your hand in his long hair, the oxygen running out.

You’d nearly forgotten how such a moment felt — then again, you’d never experienced it like this before. You could barely breathe, and for the first time, you loved it. For the first time, it wasn’t your usual reason.

But the picture of the man over you pumping himself, covering his cock in the condom you’d bought weeks ago, just in case. Back when he started hanging around at your place. He was surprised about your preparation; was delighted about it, too.

And God… God, when he kissed you, sheathing himself in you, every inch connected with every piece of you. Souls and hearts and bodies merging. Moving in and out slowly, then a little quicker, cradling your face and kissing your neck.

Between all that, he kept asking if you were doing okay, and you said you’d never felt better. And the best part was that you fucking meant it and that’s when you knew—

That Yoongi warmed your coldest, most frigid spots. Helped you find a sense of heat that you’d long forgotten, that not even summer could ever bring back. The spring was right inside you, in the middle of your chest despite the rain.

But at the same time, somewhere next to it, he was there, too, becoming the storm that raged outside.

All at once, you remembered again. Even if you might forget in your worst times; even if he’d really need to remind you again.

You remembered that you could be loved, and that you were deserving of love.

You remembered that love towards somebody is often subjective and it’s not entirely up to you who feels it for you, and that only because somebody else was unable to give it to you the right way… it doesn’t mean everyone would act the same.

Yoongi was the spring and the storm; the rainbow you saw the next morning as the sky cleared.

Your mother used to struggle with migraines. Back then, you’d see her tied to the bed for half a day, struggling to get up, sleeping for a couple hours after swallowing her sumatriptan.

The evening or the morning after, you’d ask her how she was doing, and she’d say the headache was gone, but that some of the pressure still lingered. She’d feel it in the heaviness of her head, like it was falling against her clavicles.

Back then, you were too young to understand; you still don’t suffer migraines, knock on wood. But you somehow get what she meant — you guess the same applies to any other part of your body.

Like the soul.

They say a body becomes lighter after death since the soul leaves; and the morning after bawling in Yoongi’s arms, you feel the opposite. Like your grief makes you weigh more than during your good days.

Like you’re heavier than a month ago, without gaining a single kilogram.

But at least that means you’re alive. A soul intact.

And, just like your mother’s medicine, the night alleviated at least some of your pain. Maybe it was the conversation with Yoongi. Maybe the reassurance that he didn’t perceive you as the task you thought you might be.

Many years ago, you refused to seek help in others; be it loved ones, a partner or a therapist. Yoongi taught you to own who you were and to admit the problems you faced; that they were as valid as anything else.

Living with him and loving him this profoundly showed you that it’s okay to confide in someone. That someone will care. But it also taught you that ultimately, nobody is responsible for your well-being as much as you are.

That to heal, you need to accept yourself. That to accept yourself, you need to acknowledge the issues you face.

And for that, you need to be ready to combat your demons, understand that they can be fought.

You’ve always known that. In that sense, it isn’t true that you’re fully dependent on Yoongi. You know deep down that you’ll be the one pulling you out of this.

But…

It’s never bad for someone to initiate that thought process, is it? Even when it’s you emerging from the grave you dug for yourself; it’s okay to grab the hand as the earth breaks, pulling you out of the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi is the rope helping you out; but you’re the one to walk on once the endless well ends and you spot the daylight. You can rely on him. You can rely on yourself.

You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks as you slip into your shoes. You look up, and nod, your smile soft. “Just a few more days, right?”

Right. 

You’ll live day by day. Survive the hours, strive towards a better future. Count your blessings, find things to look forward to. It’s alright to fall sometimes, and whenever you do, you’ll remember you’re not alone.

That you’ll get up eventually. You hold onto this.

And onto those few last days until vacation calls. You booked it so long ago; it can be that one thing to grasp, to look forward to, right?

And… you laugh. Because you remember Yoongi telling you to get your nails done, that he’d even go with you. “But do not forget, because blue suits Greece and I’d love to see the colour on you.”

You act like you don’t know what his plea means. You act like you don’t know how much he loves you. How this very approaching plan of his proves that he couldn’t even let go of you if you gave him another reason to.

Isn’t this enough to understand that he never feels guilty of loving you?

Why are you so afraid…

Because.

Yoongi never viewed your pain as something you had control over or something you caused; whoever hurt you is at fault, not you. And Yoongi knows that; knows that you matter, with your past and present and future, however cruel they might be.

But despite the fact that your past made you who you are, and that your future will determine how you’ll further turn out to be, Yoongi always preaches to focus on the controllable.

We won’t ever be able to manage the future entirely; maybe you won’t even ever be faced with the fears you harbour, you know? The past is the past, the present is the present and the future is the future. They will torment us if we put too much meaning in them.

I know it’s hard. But it’ll be alright. One day, it will be — you’re okay.

It has to be…

You’ll be okay. You’re okay.

The weather might change at warp speed — but soon, it’ll be sunny again.

i know i said it's okay if you skip this one, but if you're reading this, you might not have, and i'm thankful for that <3 i needed these feelings out of my system, so it felt very cathartic to me. maybe it helped you a little, too? i hope so, at least – things will be okay 🤍

what do you think? since you're here, i'd love to know how you feel about this piece 💕

[ellecdc]

babe I recently discovered ur account and now I'm obsessed!!!!! I have devoured ur masterlist! Also I'm new to tumblr so I'm sorry if I'm doing or saying anything wrong pls correct me! I just wanna hype u up queen! Also ok fic request! It's not smut it's smut adjacent! I imagine this with Remus but u can totally change it if u want! Imagine reader whose boobs get super sore before her period and may be Remus is trying to initiate sex like they r making out and he goes to touch her boob and she winces and he's like did I just hurt u? And she's like no no it's fine and may be he believes her but he touches her again and she flinches and he's just like what is wrong don't lie and it's that her ex never cared if her boobs hurt or sex sad painful before her period and just Remus love (sorry it's so long def self indulgent bc my boobs r super sore and sex kinda hurts leading up my period and I just want someone to understand and not make me feel guilty about it)

aawweeee so glad you found me! and thanks for the prompt, lovie <3

Remus Lupin x fem!reader whose boobs are sore close to her period [1.4k words]

CW: things get sort of steamy/lead up to smut with no real smut, sexual & non-sexual nudity, mature themes, 18+

You couldn’t help the smile that took over your face when you heard Remus navigating the hall in a way you could tell he thought to be quiet before his head of messy, tawny brown curls appeared in the crack of your bedroom door.

“Hi dove.” He murmured softly as if still unsure if you were asleep or not; his eyes were warm and sweet as honey as he smiled widely and unbiddenly at you.

“Hi handsome.” You greeted in return as you put your book down and invited him in which he accepted eagerly.

“Fuck, I missed you.” He moaned as he crawled up into the bed and melted into you; arms weasingly around your middle as he shoved his face into the crook of your neck greedily. 

“Missed me?” You laughed as you threaded your fingers through his hair. “You were hardly gone three hours.”

“S’too long.” He mumbled, earning him a giggle as you tried to pull away at the tickle of his breath against your neck.

He groaned somewhat hungrily as he pulled you in tighter, beginning to trace kisses up the column of your throat.

You tightened your grip of his hair which only seemed to spur him on as he shifted so he was hovering over half of you. 

“Didn’t you miss me?” He asked under his breath before bringing his lips to yours for an agonisingly long and slow kiss. “Hm?” He continued as if he hadn’t just impeded your ability to answer him. 

“I always miss you, Rem.” You murmured back as he began marking kisses along your jaw and trailing towards your chest. 

He made a sympathetic sound as he got to the top of the tank top you usually slept in, hooking his finger along the neckline and pulling it out of his way to expose your - quite swollen, actually - tits. 

“Neither of us should ever be allowed to leave.” He concurred, switching between wet, open mouthed kisses and sucking love bites into your exposed skin. 

“Don’t you think your friends would miss you?” You asked then, thoroughly enjoying the show as you continued to mess with his hair. 

“Tough.” He said simply before moving his hand to cup one of your breasts to lift it into his mouth, causing you to suck in a pained breath.

All movements stopped and Remus seemed to be holding his breath as his eyes flit up to yours. “You okay, sweetheart?” He asked cautiously.

You let out the breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding and nodded at him. “Yeah, sorry, I’m fine.” You agreed, trying to ignore how painfully sensitive your boobs were this close to your period as you encouraged his face back down to your chest.

With only a little hesitation, he continued his ministrations before moving over to your other to bestow upon it the same amount of care. 

You could feel him growing hard as he repositioned himself in your lap, and you tried to focus on that slightly warm feeling trying to grow between your legs (though not nearly as effectively as it had been the week prior) and his pleasure as you allowed him to take from you what he pleased.

But one more firm grasp of your tit had you wincing with a small whine and a flip was switched.

Remus was kneeling; his hands no longer on you which only made you wince in embarrassment rather than pain as he scrutinised you.

“What happened, dove? What’d I do?”

“Nothing, Rem, you didn’t do an-”

“Don’t fib.” He interrupted, his tone stern but his lip jutting out in a very dramatic pout. 

“I’m okay.” You murmured, though you did attempt to sit up and replace your boobs into the confinement of your tank top. Remus watched the action with rapt attention. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asked then, and his voice sounded so small that you actually wanted to cry.

“No! No, baby, I’m- ugh, I’m sorry, you didn’t hurt me, I’m just hurting.” You appeased, reaching out to stroke his arm in a manner you hoped to be soothing. 

He seemed to consider your form again as his shoulders sagged. “You’re sore.” He concluded. 

“Yeah, I… well, I get a little sore around this time of the month, you know?” You admitted, watching as Remus’ expression shifted from one of worry to one of abject horror.

“Dovey.” He chided as he stared at you wide eyed.

“It’s okay! I’m fine, we can keep going if you want, I-”

But you only seemed to horrify him even more as his head reared back in shock. “Keep going!? Baby, you are sore to the touch and you were just going to let me maul you?!”

You found yourself very much ill-prepared for this conversation as you shook your head in confusion. “Well, I just meant, if you wanted to we-”

But Remus was scoffing and waving you off before standing abruptly and moving towards the attached bathroom, scolding you along the way.

“Bollocks to what I want, dove. My desire doesn’t come before your comfort.” He explained before you heard water running and him muttering something in Welsh under his breath. 

You were having a hard time understanding whether you were in actual trouble or not before he came padding back out of the bathroom - still muttering to himself in Welsh - with a divot between his brows and a damp washcloth in his hands.

“Take this off, dove.” He directed; tone now soft and alerting you to the fact that there was no real heat behind his chiding.

You obediently shed your tank top and tossed aside as Remus guided you to lay back onto your pillows and placed the cold cloth on your chest.

“Poor girls.” He cooed as he situated himself beside you. “Was being s’mean to them, too.” 

“Rem-”

He simply shushed you and placed a quick kiss on your nose before dotting a gentle one on each of your tits. 

“They’re gonna hate me; they’re gonna think I’m a monster.” He lamented woefully before standing up to change into his pyjamas. 

“They don’t know a damn thing.” You laughed as you let out a breath, relishing in the ease of your banter with Remus.

You weren’t used to it; things being easy, that is. Relationships always felt like hard work before.

Your relationship with Remus still required work, mind you, but it wasn’t hard; it was comfortable and patient and flexible and understanding.

There was no forcing puzzle pieces to fit when their edges didn’t match, there was no walking on eggshells wondering what sort of mood he was going to be in, and there was no stewing on conversations as you tried and failed to fall asleep at night wondering what in the hell you’d manage to do wrong this time.

No, Remus was easy; he was easy to get along with, easy to live with, easy to love.

He was just so easy.

You hoped he thought the same of you.

“Dovey.” He murmured quietly, now apparently kneeling on the floor on your side of the bed as he rested his chin on his forearms. “You know that, right?” He continued when you opened your eyes to look at him.

“Know what?” 

His mouth pursed again in a small pout before he leaned forward to press a kiss to your shoulder. 

“That what I want should never come before what you need; that my desires are nowhere near as important as your comfort.”

His eyes moved to watch as you pulled your lower lip between your teeth. “Okay.” You whispered.

He let out a sad breath as his brows twitched in sympathy, but you were thankful he opted not to comment on it. 

“I love you.” He offered then, eyes moving back up to yours as he used one of his knuckles to rub at your upper arm affectionately.

“I love you too.” You answered readily. 

He seemed appeased by that and stood to press a more assured kiss to your lips. “Do you want me to run this under cold water again? Or would something else help?”

You pretended to think about it before looking back up at him through your lashes. “Think we could cuddle?”

Remus let out a chuckle as he pressed another kiss, this time to your forehead, and pulled the cloth off of your chest. 

“It’s like you read my mind, sweetheart.”

[luveline]

Hi Jade!!! I love, love, love your writing. I was wondering if you could write something for Tsam Peter x reader where reader has a concussion and Peter is just generally super sweet about taking care of them? I have a concussion right now and I feel like he would be so sweet about it. If not feel free to ignore this, love you!!! <3

i love u!! fem!reader, 1k

You’re shivering again. Peter looks up from his book suspiciously, squinting at the curve of your where you’re laying on his couch. He should let you rest —you’re allowed to sleep with a concussion, despite what some might think— but he doesn’t like the shivering. It’s weird. 

“I'm coming, baby,” he says, standing up from the armchair to situate himself by your hips. 

Peter pulls the blankets more firmly to your chin. “Are you cold, bub?” he asks. It might appear that he’s talking to you while you’re still sleeping, but the smile you give when he talks proves otherwise. 

“No,” you force out in a mumble. 

“Are you sure?” 

It takes you some time to think about it. Your body’s been thrown for a loop since you hurt yourself, but you’re healing nicely, and your mental stamina is yards better than it had been. Peter asked you yesterday if you wanted a kiss and you couldn’t answer him for a full minute, and when you did it was an uncoordinated lift of your chin. You’re still in there, still his girl, just mildly incapacitated for the time being. 

“I might be,” you decide. 

Peter grabs a throw from under the coffee table and shakes it out over your arms and shoulders. “There. Need a drink?” 

“Do you?” you ask. 

“What?” 

“You’re asking me lots of questions,” you say, slowly, quietly, but not without character. “I thought I’d ask one back.” 

“I don’t need anything.” He tilts his head to align your faces, leaning in, not quite close enough to kiss you. 

“You look very serious right now, Spider-Man.” 

He glares for show. “So serious.” 

“Sorry I can’t really make you a drink.” 

Peter wipes the glare. “I’m sorry you got hurt. I don’t care that you can’t be my serf right now. When you’re better I’m gonna work you twice as hard, that’s all.” 

You raise a tired hand to his jaw. You’re extra careful to offset your wonky hand, stroking a clumsy but tender line from his ear to his chin. “Can you help me up?” 

Peter doesn’t question you. You’ve been recovering for a few days (he hasn’t realised before your injury that some people can take months to get better after a head injury, even without blood clots or fractures) and he’s not felt the urge to baby you beyond waiting on your every whim and want. If you’d like to sit up, that’s okay. The only thing he’d insist on is getting enough sleep at night, and thats something you’ll do happily. 

“Can I give you a hug?” he asks, his eyebrows pinching up at their starts. “I hate seeing you shiver, it makes me sad.” 

“Makes you sad?”

He squeezes your elbow where the blankets have fallen down. “Is that surprising?” 

You want to trade jokes with him but you can’t summon a retort, and your smile quickly fades. It can’t be nice, feeling a shade of yourself. Peter’s heart aches for you twice. 

“C’mere, pretty girl,” he says, slipping his arms under yours, encouraging you to wrap your own behind his head or let them rest behind his shoulders. He loves hugging you like this, almost lifting you, spider strength begging to be used as you sigh and settle into place against him. You feel a little like a shell of yourself, not quite quick with touches, fingertips twitching against his shoulder blade as he nuzzles his face against yours unabashed. “There you are. Where’d you go, huh? I was about to send out the search party.” 

“I’m right here.” 

“Yeah you are. Lucky me, right? Luckiest guy in the world.” 

You sigh happily beside his ear, your face pitching slowly downward until it’s pressing against the curve of his neck, your arms slipping down his front as you run out of energy. He doesn’t mind, bundling you up with no intention of letting you go. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. 

“Still fuzzy, like… it’s like we’re talking to each other through a screen door.” 

“Do you need something? Or want something? I’ll get you anything.” 

“I’m fine.” 

He lets out a sorry sigh. He wishes you’d want something, god knows he’d love to put a smile on your face. If you were feeling better you might ask him to go and get you something for dinner from across the city, or beg him to find you a bunch of flowers (which he’s always willing to buy). But sick, you ask for nothing. You just lay on the couch and wait to get better. Peter doesn’t think it’s super fair. 

“I’m sorry you’re not better yet,” he murmurs, his lips drifting down to your temple, which he kisses weakly, the barest brush of his lips. “Wish I could take it from you.” 

“I’ll be okay soon.” 

“I know you will, but I still wish I could take it. It’s shitty.” 

You think about this for a while. “It’s not shitty,” you work out finally, hand curling against his waist in a tired display of affection. “I have the… best boyfriend ever looking after me.” 

“I’ll be here until you’re better, you know that.” 

“I know.” 

Peter ushers you back and lifts your blankets, slotting himself next to you with a careful arm held behind your back. You show some surprising excitement at the offering of a cuddle and work under his arm, shuffling down the couch to leave you both laying on the same cushion, blankets uneven but warm over your chests. “You should probably go back to sleep,” he says. 

“Nap with me?” you ask, endearingly hopeful. 

He turns his face, intending on drawing lines into your cheek with the tip of his nose until you either fall asleep or can’t take it anymore. “Sure, baby. I bet you’re exhausted, huh? Let’s sleep.” 

He falls asleep before you, breathing snores into your cheek. You have enough wits about you to laugh, and then you fall asleep, too.