#I'm posting at like midnight I'm not doing 24 right now

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

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

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

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

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

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

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

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

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

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

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

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

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

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You do know. 

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

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

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi.

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

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

“So you just… showed up?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“So why did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “It was something.”

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

But you don’t move.

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

You lean in and kiss him.

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

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

You kiss him again. And again.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

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

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

You: i am. what’s up?

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

You: is this a booty call

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

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

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

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

You: yeah

You: come over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like you,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

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

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

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bury your face in his neck. 

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

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

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

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

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sobers you a little.

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

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

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

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

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

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

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little.”

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

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

“Fuck—” 

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

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

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

You hum around him. That does it.

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

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

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

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

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

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

Or try to.

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

What the fuck was that?

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

It’s what came after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

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

How can he be so sure?

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

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

You know he’s good with his hands.

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Maybe.

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

It scares the shit out of you.

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

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

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

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

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

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

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

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

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

There’s a pattern now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

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

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

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

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

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

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

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

The opening credits roll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

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

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

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

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

You make out. A lot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

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

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Completely.

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

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

You don’t.

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

So he starts with his mouth.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

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

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

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

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

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

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

“Yes, please—”

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

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

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

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

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

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

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

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

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

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

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

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

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

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

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

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod against his shoulder.

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

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

He keeps going.

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

But something’s changed. Settled.

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

And you let him.

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

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

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

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

And so is he.

✧

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

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

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

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

He just watches for a second, quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

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

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

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

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

“You do,” you say, instantly.

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

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

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

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

But he’s not around as much.

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

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

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

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

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

And that makes you want to try, too.

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

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

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

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

You laugh. You keep writing.

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

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

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

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

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

And then you don’t tell anyone.

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

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

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

Fuck. There it is. 

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

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

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

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

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

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

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

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

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

You stare at him, slackjawed.

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

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[huh-1260]

I'm late again

Day 18: food and drinks

Potato Mochi and drink ( idk what they serve) for a depressed Emmet. ( Tunnel the Gligar sleeps in Emmets hat)

Day 19: AU/ Crossovers

Princess Mononoke

Drawing snowy backgrounds suck

Hehehehe Adaman x Emmet

( guys what do we call this ship? I've only seen two people on Ao3 do this ship and there are 6 works Help)

Day 20: Bugs

Thats a big ass Joltik you got there Emmet

Day 21: Loss

I guess losing your memories does fuck you up in the end huh?

Day 22 hair styles

Long hair Emmet my beloved

( I just realized his hair reminds me of N)

Day 23 dreams

"In my dreams there's a man who looks like me...I think we would discuss pokemon battles."

Even far apart in alternate timelines/versions of Hisui with amnesia, they remember small bits of each other.

[gorillawithautism]

A little over a year ago, on February 3rd 2024, Clark Joseph Harman was murdered. He was 12 years old. Not even 24 hours prior, He had been legally kidnapped by two men from a "transport" or "escort" company that had been hired by his parents. He was brought to Trails Carolina, a "wilderness program" and part of the troubled teen industry. The act of being legally kidnapped in this manner is often called getting "gooned" in survivor communities.

Before I properly start, I have a note: I learned of his name because someone in the r/troubledteens subreddit found it not long after I heard of his case. I did not learn his name because it was consensually released by his family. As such, I will use only his initials (CJH) throughout the rest of this post. I decided to head the post with his name because I think it's important that people know it. It was not consensually released, and that should be respected, but he was still a whole person. He was a twelve year old boy with a name and a family and so much life left to live. All of you should witness what was taken from him.

The medical examiner's preliminary report states that after CJH was gooned, he went through a check-in to process him into the program. He was uncooperative at first, demanding a phone call with his parents, but was able to cooperate after talking to them. He was placed on a 1-1 with a staff member who was with him at all times. The staff member says CJH chose not to eat dinner. Then they went to bed. According to Trails' protocol, he was to sleep on the floor of the cabin with a staff member sleeping beside him. His set up was a thin mattress with a thick plastic sheet folded into a canoe-like shape and set on top of the mattress. Above that, a sleeping bag inside a bivy with a zipper alarm that would go off if he tried to leave his tent. CJH slept but he was restless and mumbling. He had a (staff-permitted) moment outside his tent around 11pm but then goes back to "bed." Around midnight, he is restless and mumbling in his sleep once again, and he begins thrashing. It eventually subsided. Routine checks were performed by staff, but the bivy being opaque meant that they did not actually see CJH. I will note that this detail was against protocol. Normally, the bivy has a mesh interior door and the staff would have been able to see CJH in their routine checks. However, the mesh door on the tent they used that night was broken, so they used the weather resistant outer door instead. Despite these routine checks by staff, the thrashing at midnight is the last noted incident until morning.

And yet morning comes, and a little boy is dead. Staff find him in his tent lying on his right side with his feet at the head of the bivy and his head at the tapered end of it. He is cold and unresponsive. 911 is called, CPR is unsuccessful and a little boy is dead. A little boy is dead and they don't notice until morning. A little boy was kidnapped and now he's dead. A little boy was in the troubled teen industry for less than 24 hours and he's dead because of it. He will never get out of the industry and he will never leave that wilderness program and he will never heal from the trauma he was forced to endure because he's dead. They killed him. The program killed him, the staff killed him, our government killed him, those goons killed him, his parents killed him, you killed him. A little boy is dead, and an uncountable number of people are at fault.

There's an extent to which his parents are victims too. They lost their son because of an awful choice they made. And while I don't know these people personally, I do know enough about how this industry works to know it's highly likely that they believed in what they were doing. Everything they did was legal, and everything they did was advertised to them as something that would help their child who they didn't know how to care for. I'm not saying it was a good decision, but I know how predatory this industry is. A parent who doesn't know where to turn, a child who clearly needs help, and suddenly a web page. Or a hired educational consultant. Or another parent. Or a pamphlet. Something or someone that tells them "There are schools and programs for children like yours. There are options for parents like you." They say "Send your kid to Trails Carolina. It's like a summer camp for kids who need help." According to several cult researchers, the troubled teen industry is much like a cult. The parents are often people who genuinely care about their kids and truly believe this will help. The cult drew them in as cults do. CJH was killed by his parents and their choice to send him to trails. CJH was killed by his parents, and that cannot be changed. They will always have to carry that responsibility, and I cannot stress enough how it was their fault and they do have a part in this. But if I let a single person come away from this with the impression that they are entirely or even mostly to blame for their child's death, I will have failed to communicate just what this industry is and what it does to children and their families.

The system at large is what's at fault. The program itself, Trails Carolina, has killed kids before (Alec Lansing, 17, died of hypothermia after being injured while attempting to run away from the program, Trails Carolina, November 23rd 2014). Other programs have killed kids before, both recently (Cornelius Frederick, 16, killed in physical restraint, lakeside academy, May 1st 2020) and further in the past (Phillip Williams Jr., 15, official cause of death was a "brain aneurysm" but this was determined with no proper investigation and he had been severely beaten in some sort of "therapeutic boxing ring" before his death, Elan School, December 27th 1982). These programs are not made to help us. They are made to fix us. And in practice, all they do is kill us and traumatize us. They manipulate, they brainwash, they abuse, they hurt, they kill. All of them do. Even the ones that supposedly don't utilize physical restraint methods. Even the ones where staff don't sexually or physically assault the kids in their custody. Even the most tame and least violent of programs. Even the ones that don't interrupt our academics, even the ones that don't drug us with excessively or incorrectly prescribed medication, even the ones in tourist hotspots like hawaii, even the ones where a kid can work with horses or dogs or rabbits. They all abuse us. All of them.

And it's legal. It's all legal. Even our deaths are legal. Trails Carolina was forced to shut down after CJH's murder, but other programs still exist and the DA chose not to press charges. Let me say that again. The District Attorney. Chose not to press charges. For manslaughter.

On November 6th 2024, District Attorney Andrew Murray issued a press release where he stated that while CJH's case was "heartbreaking" and "tragic," that it "did not involve criminal intent or recklessness sufficient to warrant criminal charges for involuntary manslaughter under the law." The carelessness of having CJH sleep in an opaque tent where the staff could not get sights on him during their routine checks was not enough. Letting him to sleep in a tent where such suffocation was even possible in the first place was not enough. Having an alarm on the door so he would be unable to get out without consequences was not enough. Forcing him to sleep in this tent despite the fact that he was both "audibly and physically upset" about this sleeping arrangement was not enough. A dead child was not enough. And it will not be enough so long as these programs exist. Everyone that put him in that situation and everyone who allowed it to go without any sort of legal charges or reform is at fault for this child's death.

And that includes you. Every single one of you who is not a victim or survivor of the troubled teen industry. All of you who watch these children die and say nothing. All of you who force survivors and victims to trigger themselves over and over again in an attempt to speak up against the system that hurt us. All of you who don't listen. All of you who listen once and then let yourself forget about us. Every single one of you.

A child is dead, and more will die. And it feels like TTI survivors and victims are the only ones who care. How many of us will die because of you?

[moiraimyths]

Howdy, fateful friends! Are you an artist or illustrator with an interest in visual novels?

If so: Moirai Myths, creators of the visual novel The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe), are in need of guest artists! More specifically, we're looking for up to two artists to help us with the content graphics ("CGs") for Maeve and Shae's upcoming routes. All of the details will be listed on our application form (linked below), but here is the gist:

This is paid work with 20-30 business day deadlines per piece!

Complicated revisions in the post-sketch phase are compensated!

You will be prioritized for future guest artist opportunities!

You will be featured/credited on Moirai Myths' website and in the game itself!

Sound interesting? If so, apply here:

Click under the cut for some F&Q 👇

Who are you? (I'm new here!)

Hi! We're Moirai Myths: a small, newish visual novel company based out of Canada. We're making a game inspired by mostly Irish mythology, which was funded on Kickstarter in 2023! Our game's got fairy politics, a diverse cast, a Gaeilge-to-English translation tool, and routes that can be played either romantically or platonically! Also horses. An ungodly amount of horses, really.

If that odd pitch sounded intriguing, perhaps you'd like to play our demo! It's free on Steam & Itch.io.

Why are you looking for guest artists?

When we originally launched our Kickstarter, the plan was to have our three in-house artists collaborate on the CGs in the same way our header image was. However, we quickly realized that adding CGs, even if they're done collaboratively, onto the existing duties of our artists was a tall order. Add to that the departure of our original sprite artist (who has since been replaced by our graphic designer), and we determined that having our in-house team work on CGs was simply not possible if we still wanted our first release to happen in 2024. So, rather than omitting CGs or adding them in at a later time, we came up with the idea of hiring guest artists. Overall this means our CGs will be a bit more varied in terms of art style, but we like to think of this as a positive! NDM's development will take a number of years to complete in full, so we hope our CGs will allow us to feature a lot of artists either within the VN/indie dev community already, or artists who aspire to work in gaming and are looking for entry positions.

How long will applications remain open for?

This application will be open until Sunday, March 24 at midnight (EST)! If we intend to extend past that deadline, we'll make an announcement about it.

I can't apply right now. Will you look for more CG guest artists in the future?

Definitely! As mentioned, NDM will take a while to develop in full, so this is by no means your only opportunity to apply. That being said, we suspect we're going to end up shortlisting a number of artists over the course of this application period, and we intend to keep a list of all the runners-up. So, even if you won't be able to participate this time, it might be a good idea to apply anyway just to remain in our contacts! Either way, this will not be the last time we have apps.

Will you be looking for guest artists outside of CGs?

Maybe! We already have two guest artists (Nefukurou and Madi Funk) working on sprites and CGs respectively, so it's always possible that we'll have other artistic needs later down the line. Likewise, we may also reach out to past guest artists for future work with us, whether it's on this game or something else!

You say we need to sign an NDA. What does that entail?

The non-disclosure agreement essentially means you will be legally unable to publicly disclose any confidential information you become privy to as a result of working with us. This would include personal information about the developers, as well as spoilers from the game itself. In addition do this, you will be expected to sign over the IP and copyright of any artworks you produce for us.

Can I still use my artworks in portfolios, even if I don't own the copyright?

Yes! We'd only ask, if your portfolio is a website, that you wait to do so until after your art has been made public by us, either on our social media or via the publication of the game. Our first release is anticipated to happen later this year, most likely mid-autumn.

How do you guys feel about AI? Do you intend to use it, or would you ever train an AI off of the artworks whose copyright you own?

No.

Making a game is expensive and time-consuming, but AI is no replacement for human artistry. We fundamentally believe that any advancements in AI should be used for the purpose of giving people more time to make art, not take away opportunities for it. Moirai Myths will never, ever use AI or train an AI off your work.

***

If you've got any more questions for us that we didn't think to include here, feel free to send us an ask!

[mlmxreader]

120+ prompts

this prompt list will run from 13/04/2025 - 31/05/2025. if there are little/no requests, it will be deleted and a new one will not be made until potentially 15/06/2025 (if at all).

rules & guidelines - read BEFORE you request.

do not use as your own - this prompt list is ONLY for the use of @mlmxreader , @tokillamockingbird427 & @kaijubluu who have my explicit consent to use this for their own writing.

prompts below the cut

💬 dialogue

1. "Oh, you think that's cute, huh?"

2. "You're not as tough as you want people to think"

3. "I've been waiting for so long to tell you this"

4. "It's like I lose control of all my senses when you're around"

5. "What the fuck do you mean you accidentally posted a picture of us together to your fucking public social media?"

6. "Don't come round here no more"

7. "What will the neighbours think?"

8. "Give me a hand, would ya?"

9. "Calm down, I didn't go anywhere"

10. "Did you eat today?" "Why do you always ask?"

11. "Am I not allowed to show you off and brag about you?"

12. "This is serious!"

13. "Can I please have your attention? Please?"

14. "Would you mind teaching me?"

15. "No matter where I go, you're always on my mind"

16. "Shut up and put your lips on mine already"

17. "I know you want it, baby"

18. "That's... that's my jacket."

19. "It's your favourite ice cream, ain't it?"

20. "Give me a kiss and I'll give it back"

21. "Now this is about the best thing I've ever woken up to"

22. "I've had a hard day... pour me a cold one, please?"

23. "Honey, I'm home!"

24. "Can we talk? Like, properly?"

25. "Sit still."

✨horror quotes

1. "I want to help you because… because you tried to help me."

2. "You're not gonna leave me here, are you?"

3. "You will die! Like the others before you, one by one, we will take you."

4. "He'll hear you!"

5. "Yeah, they're dead. They're all messed up."

6. "We may not enjoy living together, but dying together isn't going to solve anything."

7. "Well, there's no problem. If you have a gun, shoot 'em in the head. That's a sure way to kill 'em. If you don't, get yourself a club or a torch. Beat 'em or burn 'em. They go up pretty easy."

8. "There's nothing wrong with the radio. Must've been the station."

9. "I do wish we could chat longer, but... I'm having an old friend for dinner. Bye."

10. "I think it would be quite something to know you in private life."

11. "You still wake up sometimes, don't you? You wake up in the dark and hear the screaming"

12. "All good things to those who wait."

13. "Do not touch the glass. Do not approach the glass. You pass him nothing but soft paper - no pencils or pens. No staples or paperclips in his paper. Use the sliding food carrier, no exceptions. If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it. Do you understand me?"

14. "We've tried to study him, of course, but he's much too sophisticated for the standard tests."

15. "I would not have had that happen to you, discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me."

16. "Yes, but then I would have missed the pleasure of your company."

17. "I'm gonna get you outta there, but right now you listen to me. I've gotta leave this room, I'll be right back."

18. "Oh my, does he hate us. Thinks I'm his nemesis."

19. "Whatever you do... don't fall asleep."

20. "Oh, man. Midnight, baseball bats and boogeymen. Beautiful."

21. "This is just a dream, this isn't real. This is just a dream, he isn't real. He isn't…"

22. "They will say that I have shed innocent blood. What's blood for if not for shedding?"

23. "As for our deaths, there is nothing to fear."

24. "We shall die together in front of their very eyes and give them something to be haunted by. Come with me and be immortal."

25. "Allow me at least a kiss. Just one exquisite kiss."

🎶 music lyrics (chosen artist: Slipknot)

1. “You are the only one”

2. “Blood's on my face and my hands”

3. “I'm not afraid to cry”

4. “I'm not like you, I just fuck up”

5. “You fucking touch me, I will rip you apart”

6. “I can feel it on my mouth”

7. “I'd give it all to you”

8. “Come take it, it's all for you”

9. “Relax, it's over”

10. “You are my first”

11. “You are my favourite”

12. “You will always be mine”

13. “I don't know why I never told you”

14. “I guess I'll save the best for last”

15. “Tell me everything's gonna be alright”

16. “Hard to say what caught my attention”

17. “I never wanted anybody more than I wanted you”

18. “Bring me to my knees”

19. “I'm gonna love you now”

20. “What if I never saw you again?”

21. “I won't let you walk away”

22. “Just look me in the eyes and say I'm wrong”

23. “But you asked me to love you and I did”

24. “You told me to love you and I did.”

25. “Are you ready for the time of your life?”

💫 situations

1. secret relationship

2. friends to lovers

3. ww1 AU

4. post-war AU

5. snowed in

6. first date

7. first kiss

8. werewolf!reader

9. mutual pining

10. only one bed

11. bodyguard AU

12. quiet nights in

13. marriage proposals

14. temporary breakup

15. visiting in the middle of the night

16. coming in through the window

17. jealousy

18. dancing together

19. going to a concert together

20. holidays

21. caught in the rain

22. thinking that something had happend to them

23. stealing clothes

24. cuddling on the sofa

25. playful fights/arguments

🎼 songs

1. Waterloo - ABBA

2. The Bad Touch - Bloodhound Gang

3. I Will Always Love You - Whitney Houston

4. How Will I Know - Whitney Houston

5. Run To You - Whitney Houston

6. Pour Some Sugar On Me - Def Leppard

7. I Was Made For Lovin' You - KISS

8. You're Still The One - Shania Twain

9. Everybody Loves Somebody - Dean Martin

10. We Belong Together - Mariah Carey

11. Song #3 - Stone Sour

12. Dying - Stone Sour

13. Imperfect - Stone Sour

14. Hesitate - Stone Sour

15. Through Glass - Stone Sour

16. Wicked Game - Stone Sour

17. Say You'll Haunt Me - Stone Sour

18. Taciturn - Stone Sour

19. Snuff - Slipknot

20. Yen - Slipknot

21. De Sade - Slipknot

22. Dead Memories - Slipknot

23. H377 - Slipknot

24. I Saw Red - Warrant

『••✎••』 NSFW PROMPTS BELOW 『••✎••』

25. Let It Rain - Warrant

『•••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••』

『••✎••』 MINORS DNI 『••✎••』

『•••••••••••••••••••✎•••••••••••••••••••』

🔥 nsfw dialogue

1. "Oh, you like that, huh?"

2. "C'mon, tell me what you want"

3. "You're being so fucking good for me"

4. "Call me that again"

5. "Aw, look how needy you are"

6. "That's it, nice and easy, take your time"

7. "You want me to touch you?"

8. "What do you want? Hands, mouth?"

9. "Fuck, you look so fucking good right now"

10. "Taking my cock so well"

11. "I'm gonna spank you, that alright?"

12. "Just lay back, and let me look after you"

13. "You're so fucking tight"

14. "We don't have much time, unless you want a quickie"

15. "Fuck, fuck! Right there!"

16. "You can cum when you're ready"

17. "Did you just moan my name whilst touching yourself?"

18. "What's the matter? You wanna hump my thigh?"

19. "Don't stop!"

20. "I wanna hear you beg for it"

21. "How bad do you want my cock?"

22. "So fucking good, and all mine"

23. "Please, I've behaved all fucking day"

24. "Quit acting like a brat"

25. "Please, don't tease"

🍑 positions & general nsfw

1. doggy

2. kneeling (oral)

3. laid down (oral)

4. cowboy

5. reverse cowboy

6. against the wall

7. against a window

8. against a door

9. bent over the bed

10. standing (oral)

11. spooning

12. handjobs

13. cockwarming

14. outdoors

15. quickies

16. shower/bath

17. bent over standing

18. on the floor

19. mutual masturbation

20. anal sex

21. anal fingering

22. in the car

23. somewhere secret

24. lotus

25. the bodyguard

🍆 kinks

1. daddy kink

2. praise kink

3. spanking

4. feltching

5. collars/leads

6. restraint

7. blindfolding

8. edging

9. semi-public

10. cucking

11. edging

12. breeding

13. size

14. choking

15. gagging

16. ice play

17. biting

18. scratching

19. possession

20. begging

21. dry humping

22. brat taming

23. nipple play

24. hands

25. rough oral

[ozzyd27]

Spiral Statement

*Fan statement inspired by The Spiral, go look on my profile for my last 3!"

Ozzy Statements Episode 4: Chaotic Geometry

Statement of Jeremy Pilchard regarding his time in a nightmare of shifting reality. Original statement given February 9th 2001. Recorded by Ozzy, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

God I don't even know why I'm writing this, none of this is real. You're not real, none of you are. Maybe it wants me to face it's utter insanity as a way of gloating. Maybe you're going to save me. Either way, I'm just so tired of this chaos.

On the off chance you *are* real, you'll probably wanna know my name is Jeremy Pilchard, and that I'm currently 24… I think. Who knows at this point? Either way, it's time to confront my insanity! How fun!

Normal was my middle name growing up, I never stood out to any degree. I never got any awards, I had the average amount of friends, unremarkable grades, just a boring guy all around to be honest. I think I took it for granted. I would do anything to just go back to that bland, dull life. It even continued a couple of years into adulthood, I got a boring office job, an average amount of exes, an uninspired apartment, a standard wife, you get the gist. And, as you might expect, I was feeling a tad depressed. I looked forward 20 years and saw myself living an identically uninteresting life, buried so deep within the crowd that I could never escape. The thought terrified me, so when the letter came, I was giddy.

There was nothing overly special about that day, although there never was for any day. Nonetheless, the mysterious dusty letter came out of the blue, it slipped through my letterbox without me even seeing who had delivered it. The envelope itself stood out to me as odd, a seeming contradiction. The paper seemed old, not overly yellowed but still showing significant wear - tea stains, wrinkles, battered edges, et cetera - yet the stark and intricate modern pattern evoked a sense that it really shouldn't be. A sense that this was important, and should have been taken care of. The front of the envelope, below messy angular handwriting of my name and address, consisted of dozens of tiny interlocking triangles forming a sort of ocean near the bottom of the letter. Growing out of this ocean of geometry, a fractal emerged, seemingly also made of rudimentary shapes like triangles and squares. It was hard to be sure though, because it seemed to shift as I looked at it, I was getting a headache just studying that envelope. Clearly I was enraptured, as I stood there with it in my hand for half an hour, before dazedly tearing it open.

Within, there was a small slip of paper, far smaller than the envelope suggested, about the size of a Post-It note. This scrap was pristine in comparison to its container, and held a simple proposal: “Make everything change - go to your nearby field at midnight”.

There was no question in my mind, it was not a suggestion, it was a command, it was hope. I desperately craved to spice up my life in some way, and that is what this peculiar letter promised. I did as it asked. I know you'll likely find this decision stupid, but at that point in my life it felt like it was either that or have a mental breakdown from sheer boredom. So at midnight, I did indeed go to my local field, which was only a ten minute walk away, and was shaking with excitement. This was perhaps the only risk I had taken in my entire life, and I desperately hoped it would pay off.

It was immediately clear why I had been told to go there: in the middle of the field, where kids would play football in the day. Now, explicably, there was a nondescript wooden shed right in the middle, at the kick-off point. From what I could see it was a cube, tiny and rickety, ready to blow away at any moment. I wondered who exactly had built it and why; surely it's construction would have taken more than a day, and yet I hadn't heard any kids complaining of not playing football. Either way, I made my way to the shed, and placed my hand upon the handle. The door was shiny and intricate, marked with those same fractals and triangles, but the handle was rusted, as if it has seen months of rainfall. I was shaking, but still excited, “what the hell, why not?” I thought as I pulled it open. The instant I did, my eyes blurred and reality seemed to pervertedly bend, until for some reason I appeared to be standing on the other side of the door, facing the outside. It didn't even occur to me to turn back around; whatever this shed was, it had already done what it sought to do to me.

As soon as I stepped back outside, the world twisted. The field undulated with hills, until I was thrusted up high by a mountain emerging. The clouds welcomed me, and I could see nothing but white. But then I realized that I was actually just looking at the white paint of the football pitch. I lurched my head away, but ended up knocking it hard on another field, suspended in the air. Blood ran down my face, then suddenly started running back up into my hair as gravity shifted and I fell back onto this other football pitch. I blinked and the other one was gone, I blinked again and suddenly everything was a pitch, as if I was trapped in a sphere of pure turf.

It started getting smaller and smaller, enclosing around me like a massive snake's body. I looked down at myself and realized with horror that I had no arms, I had no legs, I was instead made of pristine glazed wood. I was… the shed. Before I could consider how fucking ridiculous that was, the world squeezed my frame and my supports buckled. Every plank was splintered and crushed ceaselessly, as the spherical confines squeezed down to nothing. Just as reality ceased to exist, constricted to oblivion, I awoke. Tears rolled down my face as I bolted upright, looking desperately around to confirm that all was as it should be. I gasped wretchedly relieved breaths, shuddering at how real it had all felt.

After ten minutes of sobbing, I finally composed myself, and got out of bed. My wife walked in, probably ready to confront me about me disappearing at midnight. Before she could step any closer to me though, time seemed to freeze, and slowly she unraveled. Her eyes extended out like a grotesque version of a cartoon character, but they kept extending, turning to flaky paint and losing their third dimension. Torturously drawn out, she began to scream, wider and wider her mouth stretched until she was torn in half. What was my wife had green insides, and they contorted out, unfurling from the organs. The house disintegrated into a flurry of triangles as the football field returned, flowing out below me. I screamed, begging on my knees. I looked up at the sun, a factor that hadn't been there in my previous bended nightmare. Suddenly when I blinked the sun expanded to a million times it's original size. Gravity shifted again and I fell away from the football pitch - the lines of which seemed to be now arranged in a cruel smile - to fall into the sun. A cacophony of senses imbued by horror embraced my mind as the blaring sun melted everything from my soul.

I awoke once more and… I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this. That time the walls of my houses started shifting and shuffling until I was split in half by a banister emerging from a wall. I awoke the time after that to just a void with floating simple shapes in it. I was crushed between a triangle and square. At this moment I think I've woken up around 2328 times. I don't know what day it is, I don't know the true nature of this awfulness, whether it is a loop or whatever. All I know is that every time I wake up, the geometry of everything changes to torment me. Multiple times I've found myself back as that shed, what kind of curse turns you into a fucking shed?! Sometimes I see other people, but they usually bloom into weird shapes or turn into a field. Maybe nothing has ever been real, maybe my boring life was just a fantasy I made up long ago to cope with this Hell.

I woke up here, but I don't know why. Usually I've died in a gruesome way by now. Or perhaps this isn't real either, maybe this is all in my head as I'm actually hurtling towards another evil football field or bundle of triangles. I'm just so tired.

[Jeremy was found split in half outside of the institute shortly after this statement was given. Flakes of white paint were found on his body.]

Statement ends.

[solshii]

Some Jiyan Fun Facts

SPOILERS: Chapter 1 Act V and Act VI, Jiyan's Companion Quest and pretty much everything in Jiyan's profile

I got the source of Jiyan's character stories from his profile in the Wuthering Waves fandom wiki, and his voicelines in game.

- As I mentioned in one of my posts, Jiyan is around 23 years old.

From what Yangyang retold in the beginning of Ch1 Act V, we know that Jiyan became General after the "Battle Beneath the Crescent".

Taoqi explains Battle Beneath the Crescent in the beginning of Act VI as a gruelsome fight that occured 3 years prior to the game's events against TDs that were native to the norfall barrens and produced by Retroact Rain.

In Jiyan's character story 2, "The Reason To Fight", Jiyan was said to have taken the role of General at 20.

In summary, 3 years have passed since the Battle Beneath the Crescent, the event that led to Jiyan becoming the General at 20. Hence, Jiyan is 23 years old during the game's events.

I would like to clarify though that it's not clear how soon after the battle Jiyan became appointed as General, and I'm going under the assumption that he got the position within the same year as the battle. At the very least, he is 20 at the youngest and 24 at the oldest.

- He is the youngest General in the Midnight Ranger's history, as described in his character story 2 : "The Reason to Fight".

This also means that Geshu Lin is older than Jiyan.

- Jiyan joined the Midnight Rangers as a medic around the age of 13.

According to Jiyan's Companion Quest, Jiyan was part of the temporary team that set the record of the Gulpuff Relay 10 years ago. One of the illusions of the audience members from that decade-old relay also describes Jiyan as a "new recruit".

Knowing that Jiyan is around 23 as of the game's events, this means that Jiyan was 13 when he joined the Midnight Rangers.

If I stick with the idea that Jiyan was 20 at youngest by the time of the game's events, this would mean Jiyan joined at the age of 10.

- Jiyan was born into a medical family, becoming his mother's assistant at age 10.

As described in character story 4: "What's inside his gourd?". As a little bonus, he stores common medicine inside his gourd.

- The scales on his left jaw appeared after his forte-awakening/when he got his powers. It seems like that's the only place where the scales are.

As described by Jiyan's Forte Examination Report: Resonance Evaluation Report.

"Post-Awakening observations found some growths that resemble Loong scale on his left jaw. No indications of progressive expansion have been detected."

- Jiyan first got his resonance power in Yuanwang camp in Desorock Highland.

As described by Jiyan's Forte Examination Report: Resonance Evaluation Report.

"Resonator Jiyan's Forte-Awakening was observed at the Yuanwang Camp located in Desorock Highland." It was recognised when Jiyan accumulated air currents to form a lance.

- Jiyan has not yet Overclocked. Apparently his frequency is highly stable, hence his low risk of Overclocking.

Described by Forte Examination Report: Overclock Diagnostic Report.

For those who forgot (bcs me too tbh), Overclocking is just essentially where a resonator's powers are overused, and can cause disasters. Other characters, such as Mortefi and Sanhua, are more prone to Overclocking.

Side Mortefi fun fact: his scale growth increased after Overclocking, meaning that Overclocking can change a resonator's appearance.

I would really love to go more into the lore information about Jiyan's power in the Forte Examination Report but a lot of things in it are unclear right now, though they do look interesting.

- The death of his last patient and friend, a Midnight Ranger named Beiwang, was what finally pushed him to join the battlefield. His spear is fashioned after Beiwang's own.

A summarisation of character story 4: "What's inside his gourd?" and voiceline: "Chat I: This spear was modelled after the weapon of Captain Beiwang."

- Jiyan doesn't like Bittberry, though claims to have grown accustomed to it.

Essentially his mother believed that enduring bitterness meant you will become better, and she always put it in his food. He didn't find it very pleasant but got used to it since supplies are scarce.

As described by voiceline: "Disliked Food"

Side fun fact: I bring this up because you can see that he looks a bit nervous to receive Bittberry tea relative to the other characters in the Bottoms Up! Bittberry Tea Web Event lol

[strangersteddierthings]

Gut Instinct: Chapter 6 - Saturday

[Art] [Ao3] [Prologue] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Interlude] [Chapter Three] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six]

[This chapter is mature. MDNI. It does fade to black though because I got too shy about writing and posting smut]

Munson follows him upstairs. It'll be nice to have the help now, as much as he wanted space back in the kitchen. Munson can carry the pillows while Steve gathers bedding. The couches in the rec room are comfortable but the room itself gets colder than the rest of the house at night. Due to the proximity to the garage.

He enters his room with the intention of just pulling his comforter off and stealing the pillows, and Eddie follows after.

"Jesus, Harrington! What in plaid hell?"

Steve takes in his walls, the realization that it's been a long while since someone else besides him was in it. Well, Robin's been up here a few times, but they prefer to hang out in the living room.

"I didn't pick the wallpaper, man," Steve says even as he frowns at the walls, "but, uh, yeah. I really should move to a different room, huh."

Munson barks a laugh. "Just gonna move into one of the guest rooms instead of deal with this?"

"Sure," Steve agrees, amused, "I'll just shut this door and tape a sign up that just says Torture Chamber on it. Lock any of the gremlins in here for being too annoying or something."

That gets him a real laugh from Munson, who also looks surprised that he laughed. Which reminds him.

"Did you get to look at the note?"

Munson looks at him, confusion clear on his face.

“The one I gave you after the basketball game?”

The confused look clears and Munson says, "oh, uh, no. It's- I think it's in the van?"

"Your van!" Steve exclaims, suddenly remembering the abandoned vehicle. Macx had said she say Eddie flee in it. They should go get it before someone finds it. "we should go get it, while it's dark out. Where did you-"

Steve, who had turned on heel and was heading to the door, is stopped by Munson, a hand landing solidly on his chest even as he also moves to block the door. "Dude! No! It's hidden, and nowhere near your house. People are gonna know I'm here if they see it."

"Did you miss the empty three car garage we parked in somehow? No one will see it. Especially not if we go get it right now, in the dark."

Munson doesn't look convinced, as his eyes flick away from Steve to his window and back. It would have been missable, the tension in Munson suddenly, except his hand is still on Steve's chest and he feels the twitch of it as Munson seems to steel himself against his own thoughts and- oh.

Munson's entire life has been upended and it's just now coming up on the 24-hour mark. It was just last night that he watched Chrissy die. God, Steve's an idiot. Of course, he doesn't want to go on a midnight adventure to retrieve his van. He probably just wants to try and get some sleep.

Steve brings one of his own hands up to cover Munson's, and aims for reassuring and calm as he says, "Hey. Yeah, it can wait. We got more important things to do tonight."

That brings Munson's eyes back to his face, when they had previously been staring at Steve's hand covering Munson's own. Steve can see some of the old fight and fire back in Munson's eyes. It makes him look less like a traumatized man and more like the person he was when Steve was in school with him, ranting on cafeteria tables and unafraid of anything.

It makes Steve want to kiss him.

He pulls away before he acts on that urge and moves to his dresser. "I'll just get changed and then we can get cozy."

"What side do you normally sleep on? Or, do you have a favorite pillow I shouldn't use?" Eddie asks once Steve's retrieved his own pair of sweats and turned back around. Eddie is eyeing the bed but turns his gaze to Steve while he waits for an answer.

"Uh, no favorite pillow. Just, pick whatever. I'll be right back. Gotta brush my teeth," Steve dips out the room and down the hall to the bathroom.

He's not in the bathroom long. Brushes his teeth and changes, throwing the day’s clothes into the pile he made by the door earlier. He realizes he didn't bring a t-shirt and debates putting the polo back on but decides he doesn't need it. He can sleep without a shirt, it's not like Munson's never seen a guy without a shirt on.

“Okay, so I’ve got more blankets in the-” Steve starts to say as he enter his room, cutting himself off as he loses his train of thought. Munson has not stripped the bed, as Steve thought he would, but instead has crawled into it.

He’s on the far side of the bed, laying on his back, but his face is turned towards the door when Steve enters. He’s under the covers, his own shirt removed if the bare arms and shoulders he can see are any indication. His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t see that Steve is staring at him.

It occures to Steve only now that Munson might have misunderstood where Steve meant for them to sleep.

“Are you going to actually get in the bed, or stare all night?” Munson grumbles without opening his eyes.

Steve should probably clear up the misunderstanding. He should.

Except that he doesn’t feel bad about not doing it. There’s no churning in his gut that says this is a bad idea. Munson seems alright with sharing a bed, and Steve’s slept in the same bed with friends before.

Steve flicks off the light and crosses the room, crawling into his bed and settling on his back, mirroring Munson.

It’ll be fine.

It’s about fifteen minutes of what feels like awkward silence when Munson rolls over in the dark, and Steve does his best to not move. He's probably just rolling in his sleep. It’s been long enough to fall asleep, right? And Munson’s probably exhausted.

Fingers brush his side and goosebumps break out in their wake. Those fingers retreat, and Steve thinks perhaps it was an accident, Munson reaching for something in his sleep that isn't there. But then, the fingers return, press more firmly to his side, sliding along the waistband of his sweats. He feels his muscles spasm beneath Munson's hand and he doesn't know if he wants to pull away or push into it.

"Eddie?" he whispers into the darkness.

"Is this- do you not want...?" Munson whispers back, trailing off his question. He doesn't move his hand away but he does halt its movement.

Does Steve want? Yes, of course he does. He's been simmering on just this side of horny since Munson manhandled him into the wall of the boathouse, bottle to his neck notwithstanding. However, Munson's had a shit 24 hours and needs decent sleep, not Steve being a horndog.

Although.

Steve knows a good orgasm can help with falling asleep. And if Munson is wound up, he's more than willing to help.

He's been silent too long, it seems, because Munson's hand starts to retreat.

"No, no, I do want," Steve breathes out in a rush, bringing his far hand to land atop Munson's -Eddie's- hand, because if he’s going to get off with him, he’s no longer going to be just ‘Munson’ in Steve’s mind. Steve placing his hand on Eddie’s does halt Eddie, so Steve trails his fingertips up Eddie's arm to his elbow and back down to his hand. "But, do you? It's been a long day for you, I think, and we can just sleep."

Eddie let's out a harsh breath, "I'm in thee Steve Harrington's bed and the only thing that's going to be happening is sleep?"

Steve doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't get why Eddie said his name like that or what he means. Is he being sarcastic? Is he teasing? "I mean, yeah. Beds are for sleeping."

"Do you want this or not?" Eddie asks, slipping a couple fingers beneath his waistband.

Yes, Steve thinks, but you do? His stomach clenches, not really nausea but certainly not the good feeling of the Just Knowing he's gotten used to. He grabs onto Eddie's hand, lifting it from his body and shifting it so they're palm to palm. Steve links his fingers with Eddie's but he doesn't fully return the grip. He hears Eddie's soft gasp as he scoots closer, rolling over and propping himself up at the last moment, taking the hand intertwined with Eddie's as he goes, pressing that hand into the pillow near Eddie's head so that Steve is somewhat hovering over him now. The light is dim but it's enough that Steve can see Eddie's face, see that his eyes are open and wide. "Do you want this?"

He watches as Eddie's brow furrows, like Steve's asked a complex question and not for simple consent. "I- isn't this what you wanted?"

"What?"

"You!" Eddie basically shouts, and if Steve didn't currently have one of Eddie's hands pinned to the bed and the other trapped between their bodies, he's certain Eddie would have thrown them in the air. "You've been, like, super suggestive all fucking night, dude, and I thought- it seemed like you were implying a certain way you'd like to end the night! I... Did I get the wrong read here?"

Steve's a little embarrassed that he's been this obvious. He did try to keep his attraction under wraps, if only to not make Eddie uncomfortable. But he doesn't seem uncomfortable about realizing Steve's little crush on him. And he reached out first. "Yes. Or, no, you didn't read this, me, wrong, but I wasn’t trying to- it's late and you just learned monsters exists, so we can-"

"Great. You want, I want, can we get on with it? You said there were plenty of ways to distract from the horrors. So, distract me, or whatever," Eddie huffs and Steve feels him half roll towards him, hooking a leg over Steve's before falling back to the mattress, a move which pulls Steve closer, his leg slotting in between Eddie's, who now rolls his hips to rub against his leg.

A grin spreads across Steve's face slowly. "Oh, I can distract." He shifts, clasping tighter at the hand already holding Eddie's, gets his leg into a better position for Eddie to roll his hips against and leans down to nose at Eddie's neck, drags his lips along its wake. He's pleased by the soft sigh Eddie lets out, head falling to the side to allow Steve more access. His hair, wild and curly, is in the way, so Steve places his weight on his elbow and uses his free hand to sweep the hair away before dropping a kiss on his shoulder, then another further up, and another. "You okay with biting?"

"Fuck, yeah," Eddie hisses out and Steve grins against his neck, placing a few more kisses there before opening his mouth to nip playfully. Never fully biting down, not in the way Eddie seems to want if the hand that's freed itself from between them and found purchase on the back of his head, trying to push Steve closer is any indication. But that's not what Steve meant by biting; he's more a 'little love nips' kind of man, soothing them quickly with kisses and licks.

"I thought you were going to bite," Eddie groans, sounding annoyed even as he rolls his hips against Steve's thigh.

"I am biting," Steve ends the sentence by nibbling up and down Eddie's neck quickly, which earns him an honest to God giggle from Eddie, who frees his hand from Steve's grasp to shove it into Steve's face, pushing him up and away from his neck. Muffled by Eddie's palm now, Steve adds, "what, too much?"

"Jesus Christ, you are the biggest dork on the planet," Eddie mutters but from between Eddie's spread fingers, Steve can see he looks almost fond. "is this how you treat everyone you bring to bed?"

"Hmm, no," Steve mumbles into the palm still in his face before pressing a kiss there, "just the ticklish ones."

"I am not ticklish!" Eddie squawks indignantly, dropping the hand from Steve's face down to Steve's shoulder. "It just felt weird."

"Pretty sure weird feelings that make you laugh means you're ticklish."

"Yeah, well, you promised biting. Not... whatever the fuck that was," Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Just getting a nibble," Steve grins down at him before grinding his leg against Eddie's cock. God, the feel of him. Steve wants to touch him so bad suddenly. The desire to feel the weight of him in his hand, the velvety feeling along his palm, how his cock might feel in Steve's mouth, how a different a dick not his own in his hand might feel, all of it hits Steve hard.

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a dork,” Eddie says, in a tone of breathless disbelief. Steve thinks the two, the breathlessness and the disbelief, are seperate from each other but he has no real way of knowing. “Have you always been a dork? Does this work for you?”

“It’s working on you right now isn’t it?” Steve lowers his head to whisper the words into Eddie’s ear, “you still want me to touch your dick, right?”

Eddie’s silence is enough to tell Steve that he’s right.

He turns his face into Eddie’s neck and presses his lips to the skin there once more. He drags his lips down to where neck and shoulder meet, pressing a kiss there and trailing them a bit across his shoulder before he finally bites down, pulling a pleased sounding his from Eddie then.

“Can I leave a mark?” Steve asks. He wants to, the possessive part of him wanting to leave a large hickey on Eddie’s neck for people to see and question. Nevermind that the only people who will be seeing him for an unknown amount of time is pretty limited.

“No,” Eddie is quick to say. Steve tries not to let it sting. It makes sense, after all. How would they explain the hickey when the only person Eddie’s been around is Steve? And no matter how much Steve trusts everyone, he still hasn’t come out to them. He wants to do it on his terms, and not because they put two and two together.

Also, Eddie definitely gets a say in whether or not anyone knows about him.

“Well,” Eddie adds, softer than his ‘no’ was, “I guess if it’s somewhere it’ll be hidden by clothing that’s fine.”

That sounds like a good compromise. “Good to know.”

Eddie’s snorted half-laugh turns into a groan as Steve’s hand, which he’d been slowly moving closer to Eddie’s dick, finally makes contact, rubbing teasingly through the boxers for just a moment. Steve adjusts his weight to get more space between his thigh and where he’s trying to slide his hand beneath Eddie’s boxers, tipping his head to look down between their bodies.

Turns out holding someone else’s dick in his hand does feel different. Everything he thought Eddie’s dick would feel like in his hand is true, though; the velvety skin, the weight of it, the warmth. The length is a pleasant surprise. Steve’s not going to whip his own dick out to measure right now, because he wants to focus on making Eddie feel good, but he would place good money on Eddie’s dick being a bit longer than his own.

Steve hopes that this isn’t a one-night, distract-from-the-horrors-only thing, because he really wants to have this dick inside him at some point. Despite the fact that all of Steve’s sexual experience has been woman, he’s experimented. He likes a dildo up the ass, so he thinks he’ll really like Eddie’s dick there.

“Fuck,” Eddie curses, reminding Steve that more than just Eddie’s dick is here in bed with him. A bit embarrassing to have forgotten the rest of the guy. “You’re quite a good distraction.”

Steve looks back up to Eddie’s face and gives a smirk. “I’m just getting started babe.”

[eyezdrawz]

👁️INTRO POST👁️

Meet the artist!

Last updated: dec 24 '24

ASKS ARE OFF UNTIL DEC 28TH

Hi! I'm Eyez or Ken or Margo! My pronouns are he/him🏳️‍⚧️!!

I am a minor so please take that to mind when you talk to me, like, please don't be weird if your 18+

(purple: what I like most)

I like Pepsi and mt. Dew 🥤

Insta: eyecantibal

discord: eyecantibal

Art archive side blog: eyezreblogz

pfp by @/whattheheckins

DNI: Homophobes, Transphobes, p3dos, pr0shippers, racists, bigots, fascists, people who make AI "art", and other idiots

DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT REPOST MY ART WITHOUT CREDIT.

I believe in peace and freedom for every country (ESPECIALLY FOR THOSE IN NEED RIGHT NOW!🍉)

✏️What I post!: Art, music rants, random thoughts, and reblogs

Link to my ocs master post: https://eyezdrawz.tumblr.com/post/763241944591761408/oc-master-post

❤️Main interest!:

Camp here and there (my fav podcast and this is what I mainly draw/write about) (finished podcast)

Malevolent (two episodes i need to listen to)

TMA (finished podcast) (not caught up with tmagp)

Old gods of Appalachia (need to relisten to)

Interview with the vampire (TV show and movie, currently ready the books)

Hannibal NBC

Midnight Mass

Joker (2019)

The Stanley parable

FNAF

BG3

Dead plate

8:11

Tokyo ghoul

vampires

Cowboys

Vulture Culture/Bones

Heavy Gore/blood/body horror/Eldritch horror

Ocs (Santiago, Mikeal, Andias, and Bernadette)

And more!

🎵Music I listen to!

Will wood/will wood and the tapeworms (fav artist)

The Dear Hunter

Shayfer james

Amigo the devil

System of a down

The Hush sound

Hozier

Penelope Scott

Bear ghost

Tally Hall (and other tally hall related bands/members/projects)

Chonny Jash

And more!

All of my special interests/fixations: vampires, gore, gothic lit, bones, vulture culture, my favorite animals (deer, vampire deer (Siberian musk deer/Chinese water deer, wolves, hyenas, shrikes, maned wolves) human anatomy+medical terms and examination

Characters I relate too:

Armand from iwtv (I kin him so much it's not normal)

will graham from Hannibal

the butcher from malevolent

John doe from malevolent

Arther Fleck from joker 2019

random blinkies I like✌️: (i did not make these blinkies, all credits go to the people who made these) (chnt hourglass blinkie made by @/delicatecentipede)

Are you a writer? A poet? An artist? A singer? A creative person? Consider joining the poets discord! (14+)

https://discord.com/invite/nvq4nRkkXx

[away-ward]

Just Get the Tampons, Will

Note: The original link was giving me trouble, and I think it's because it's a reblog, so I'm making an original post just to link.

--

No disrespect to PD but I just really wanted Will to get the tampons.

So I wrote it.

Here you go. It’s not heavily edited, written in 3rd person POV, and meant to give you a laugh. I hope it gives you a laugh.

“Guys, shut up, my wife’s calling,” Will announced to the still rowdy car. Smiling despite it, he slid his thumb across the screen and hit the speaker button in a fluid motion. “Hey babe, you’re on speaker,”

“Can I not be?”

Three pairs of eyes slid his way; Damon from his left, Michael from the rearview mirror, and Kai rotating around from the front passenger seat, each with a salacious gleam. Grinning, Will turned toward his window and dropped his voice. “Why? You got a secret you wanna tell me?”

His wife huffed. “Not like there’s any secrets in this family anyway. Can you pick me up some tampons on your way back into town?”

The scandalous vibe of the group immediately dissipated in the face of real world responsibilities. Will shifted to check the clock on the dash - nearly midnight. They had finished up some meetings in Meridian and stayed for a late dinner before starting back to Thunder Bay. “You’re out?”

“I had a box, but our son thought they looked fun ‘growing’ in the toilet water. The pharmacy here’s already closed, not that they carry my brand anyway.”

“I’ll call Banks,” Kai offered from the front, already pulling out his phone. “Maybe she can run some over.”

“Thanks, but she uses a different kind.”

Will scrunched his face. “Does it really matter?”

“Do you have a favorite condom brand?”

The only sound that could be heard in the car was the low music as each man considered the question. None volunteered an answer.

“Thought so.” He could hear her smugness on the phone and imagined that look she got when she knew she was right. He had to remind himself his wife probably wasn’t up for sexting now, given her physical state. Though he had heard that organisms help with cramps, so maybe…

“So, can I count on you or am I free bleeding in your bed tonight?”

Will blanched at the idea. Michael was already hitting the freeway exit. “You can count on me,” he said, not at all excited about it. “Send a picture?”

A few minutes later, Michael pulled into the empty parking lot of a 24-hour pharmacy. “Thank god,” Will muttered, opening the door and stepping out. “Wish me luck.”

“Embarrassed?” Kai asked, laughing to himself.

“Nah,” Will lied. As much as he loved sharing everything with Em, he loved her even more for keeping that part of her life to herself. She even promised to handle The Talk with the girls when they were old enough. He was only slightly concerned that Indie was getting close to that age. What was next? Bras? Boys?

His mind pulled hard left away from that thought.

How did Michael do it? They only had Athos for a few years before she was a teenager. He felt like it was going by all too quickly, and couldn't imagine how Michael handled it.

On the other side of Michael’s Land Rover, Damon stepped out. “You’re going too?” the driver called in disbelief.

“And miss this moron wandering around the Pink aisle?”

Will rolled his eyes and swung the door shut behind him. He made it five feet before he heard all three doors shut and shook his head. “You guys’ suck balls.”

The four men strutted into the pharmacy the same way they strutted to face any opponent, with confidence and swagger. Once inside the door, they came to an immediate stop, unclear of where to go next. The bright florescent lights spanned across the ceiling of the large store, shining down on the many, many aisles.

“Where would they be? Near the medicine?” Will asked.

“She’s not sick, dipshit,” Damon said.

“Well, I don’t know!”

“We should ask,” Kai reasoned.

“I’m not asking.”

“Either ask or I leave you here,” Michael told him. “I want to see my wife tonight.”

Will grumbled, grabbing a cart and heading farther into the store. His eyes swung from side to side, looking for any sign that he was nearing his target or a store employee. He hoped for the former.

He found the latter.

A young girl stocking the bottom shelves of the paper goods section. Brown flyaway hair that had parted from her ponytail stuck fell around her face. She looked fourteen. A wire ran from her back pocket to one of her ears, muffled music playing as she focused on her task. He hated himself.

“Uh, hey,” he said from the end of the aisle. She jumped, dropping the 12 pack of extra-large toilet paper rolls. Quickly, she pulled the headphones from her ear. “Sorry,” he offered weakly. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Uh. Where are the, uh…”

Exhausted and not nearly as entertained as he thought he’d be, Damon interjected. “Where’s the girly shit.”

“The what?”

“You know, the shit girls use.”

She blinked, eyebrows drawn in confusion and probably fear. At nearly forty and with five children, Damon still had that effect on people. “Make-up?”

Will could feel Damon’s irritation twisting at his side. “Tampons!” He shouted to cut his friend off. “I need tampons.”

Michael and Kai tried not to be obvious with their laughter, hiding behind their hands, but Will could still hear them at his back.

“Oh,” the girl gasped, but then she gathered herself. She pointed deeper into the store. “Three rows down, on your right.”

Will nodded, looking to where she was pointing. “Thanks.” He pushed the cart. He didn’t even know why he had the cart, other than it was giving him something to grip. How many boxes was he going to need? He should have asked. He pulled his phone out, checking to see if Em had sent that picture.

Nothing. He sent a question mark, hoping for the best.

Behind him, Kai said, “You really shouldn’t be listening to music if you can’t hear the door. Anyone could come in.”

“Move it along,” Damon called. “You can’t be everyone’s hero.”

Will found the aisle just where the girl said it would be and walked in. He scanned the shelves, looking for something that was familiar. He’d seen the box below the sink a hundred times. It sat right next to… her face wash? Mouth wash? Extra toothpaste? He really needed to pay more attention.

Was it a pink box? Nearly every box was pink. Some were black. Who were those for? Did she want the pretty one with the nice applicator or - what was super? Super meant better, right?

He checked his phone again. Still no picture.

“What’s the hold up?” Michael asked. He seemed to be avoiding looking at the boxes all together.

Will shook his phone. “No picture.”

Kai picked up a random box. “Reusable? How- “ he flipped it over. “It’s a cup?”

Michael cleared his throat, casting his eyes to the box in his friend’s hands. “I heard Rika and the kid talking about that. Apparently, it’s better for the environment.”

“Athos uses it?” Will asked, grabbing a second box. “Is that healthy?”

“Says it last ten years,” Kai read aloud. “Medical grade silicone. I wonder if Banks would like it.”

Damon grabbed the box from Kai’s hands, ignoring the glare he received. He tossed it into the cart, along with five others that were on the shelf. “Decision made.”

“Hold up,” Will said, “I don’t even know if that’s what Emmy wants.”

“It’s good for the environment and is reusable so we never have to do this again. What’s there to consider.”

“Um, what my wife wants,” Will argued. “What if it’s not comfortable? What if it doesn’t work for her?”

Damon motioned to Michael. “Call Athos and get the details.”

The three men looked at him like he was insane – which, considering…

Michael scoffed. “It’s past midnight. She’ll be sleeping.”

Damon arched a brow. “Did you sleep you’re first week at college?”

Michael pulled out his phone, ignoring the way his friends laughed. Holding it out, he waited as it rang and rang, silently daring her to not answer.

“Dad?” Athos questioned on answer, a note of curiosity, but not sleep, in her voice.

“Do you use a – what’s it called?” he asked the guys.

“A menstrual cup,” Kai finished.

There was a beat of silence from the phone, before a whispered, “It’s never what I think it’s going to be.” Raising her voice, she answered, “Yeah, and how do you even know what that is?”

Will took the phone from Michael. “Is it comfortable?”

Athos laughed. “Is this for you, or someone else?”

“It’s for Em.”

“Then shouldn’t I be talking to her?”

“This is an emergency.”

“A menstrual cup emergency?”

Damon snatched Michael’s phone from Will. “Listen, you little brat,”

“No, you listen, you werido,” Athos broke in, still laughing, “Don’t get her anything she doesn’t already use.”

“I don’t know what she uses,” Will shouted at the phone. Then his eyes diverted to the end of the aisle. A second later, his friends did the same.

The employee stood at the end, the cart of items left to be stocked next to her, staring at them in bewilderment. Will could only imagine how they must have looked to her; four grown men arguing over tampons and cups at a quarter past midnight.

“Hey, little girl,” Damon taunted, “you wannna help us?”

“Oh my god, Uncle D!” Athos’ voice rang from the device in his hand. “You can’t say things like that to people.”

Damon hung up on her, tossing the phone back to Michael, who was only thankful he still had the reflexes to grab it mid-air. He started towards the end of the aisle, to the girl, but was pushed back by a hand on his chest.

“Ignore him,” Kai said, stepping in front of Damon. “He’s unstable. We’re working on the proper combination of meds, but until then-“ Kai lifted a shoulder as if to say, What can you do?

“Okay,” the girl answered, not giving away how she felt about Kai’s explanation. Damon suspected she might be too stupid to have processed what he said. Then she stepped forward, motioning toward the shelf. “Did you need help?”

The men paused, staring at her. She really did look young, her face round, eyes big and brown. She was small too. “Is it even legal for you to be working this late?” Michael asked, suspicious.

She nodded slowly. “I’m nineteen.”

“Oh,” Will said as they all immediately relaxed. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to some young kid about period stuff. Honestly, this is the first thing that had gone right all night in his book. “Great. Then, yeah. I need tampons for my wife, and I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

“Do you know what size she needs?”

Four gazes landed on back her. “There’s different sizes?” Kai inquired with astonishment.

They spent the next half-hour quizzing the girl who proved to be a wealth of knowledge. She gave the menstrual cups a glowing review, assuring Will that his wife would be happy with it, but also recommended a variety box of tampons that she pieced together was Em’s usual picked based on what Will could finally remember once he stopped panicking.

“What’s this one?” Damon said, pulling another box off for her.

“That’s a disk,” the girl said. “It’s similar to a cup, except you can have sex with it in, so there’s no blood.”

Kai looked over boxes, inspecting the difference from the one he was already holding. “Really?”

“Afraid of a little mess, Kai?”

“My sheets are expensive,” Kai responded, not bothering to feed into his goading, and tossed a few of the new products into the cart.

Feeling like he’d done his due diligence as husband of one Emory Grayson, mother of his children and woman who warmed his bed each night, Will pushed the cart to the front. Not only had he taken the girl's advice, but he filled the cart with everything in the aisle that had piqued his interest. His girl would be well stocked, and the aisle was a little less intimidating at the end of it all.

Tapping his card against the reader, he looked at the angel in disguise sent to save him. She looked tired but hadn’t given any indication she wasn’t happy to help. “You like the night shift?”

She shrugged. “I’d prefer morning so I can do want I’d like with my nights, but the manager gives those to his favorites.”

“And you’re not?”

She smiled, her eyes slanting in a way that communicated a deeper message. “I’m a bit of a troublemaker. Don’t always do things by the book.”

Will grinned, feeling like he knew exactly what she was talking about. He liked her, he decided. “Well, my friend, have a good night.”

Things usually worked out for his friends. One way or another.

–

The horsemen get the girl her morning shifts (cause in my head they occasionally use their influence and amassed power to do nice things for people they like).

Emory thought she hit send on the picture and fell asleep. She was very happy to wake up to not only the right brand of tampons, but the cup, since she wanted to try it. She was also impressed he did it without the picture… until the boys ratted him out.

Damon makes sure all the women have multiple cups so they don’t have to worry about cleaning it right away.

Kai still invests in the whatever cup he picked. I don’t know. It’s probably women owned, though.

Rika got a very confusing phone call from Athos the next day, but it made sense eventually. She had a good laugh at Will and then made sure the boys knew they couldn’t just go around asking people what products they use.

Michael’s just happy it’s over.

-

Thank you for reading! As always, likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated and welcomed.

[halaboyz]

to yours, jongho

ateez busker! jongho x gn! reader fluff, angst wc: 1.8k warnings: injured reader (wheelchair-user and is said, described a few times) a/n: another inspired by one episode in the kdrama called 'tomorrow'; song has no connection to the storyline! only this song was used for the plot in the kdrama itself, and it's good! + lyrics used in the fic are from random songs, i will input it after the fic. thank you!

"How was everyone's day today? It's almost time to finally rest our eyes and end the day. There is a saying by Talmud, that rather regretting things that happened, regret the things that have yet to happen and haven't done yet. The last song for today is..."

The lady behind the radio solemnly introduces the song but it quickly fades as the bus zooms away, leaving you alone under the heavy drops of the pouring rain.

Just there. Sitting on the your wheelchair beside the bus stop, letting yourself get rained on, hopeless, tears mixing with the drops of rain in your cheeks. It was almost midnight and not even going home was on your mind, nor finding a shelter to be under in.

It felt like it was you against the world. The only thing that made you happy, dancing, was now impossible and out of reach just because of a single injury.

You glance at your casted foot and braced knee, prompting more tears to flow out of your eyes. You thought you've ran out of tears when you got your injury, your eyes seemed to always prove you wrong.

Your thoughts come to a stop when someone reaches out an umbrella over you, letting the rain fall on his back. You reluctantly and emotionlessly face the person, quietly asking him what he needed.

Surely, he's not a thief- if he wasn't dumb enough to see you still on your hospital dress.

"I'm busking near Han River tomorrow night, same time. Do you want to come?" He tries to be cheerful as he offered, his voice soft.

"Sorry. I don't have time for that." You turn, ignoring his presence again and facing in front.

"You have a whole day to decide, you shouldn't give me an answer now. It feels like you're not interested and it hurts. Do I look like I'm not a good singer?" He jokes around, but your face doesn't even budge for a small smile. He awkwardly coughs, regaining his composure. "Come on, I'll give you a VIP spot, just for you!"

"I told you I don't have tim-,"

"If you go around the corner of the convenience store there, you'll find me. Not if it's raining this hard, though! I'll have to cancel and move it to the next night. I'm a pretty famous busker there, so make sure you go early! I'm expecting you!" He blabbers, almost not making you understand.

He quickly hands you his umbrella and runs through the rain, crossing the road safely as your eyes only follow him.

When he's out of sight, your eyes trail to his umbrella, yellow brightly lighting under the lamp post.

Tomorrow's another day. Written on one side of the umbrella, with a drawing of a sun plastered beside the words, you sigh.

"Right. Another day."

It felt like it was just a blink. Did you even sleep? You rise on your hospital bed, finally zoning back in reality.

"Good you're awake. I just finished your discharge papers. Secretary Jeong will be outside after you've changed. I need to go to my office for more paperworks. Make sure you're not a pain in the ass like last night." Your mom only carelessly caresses your hair before leaving, leaving you on your bed.

Your eyes trail outside the window, sun brightly beaming its last hour.

You sigh, calling a nurse to help you around to change your clothes instead. When you were done, you were assisted out of the ward in a wheelchair, getting passed onto your family's secretary.

By the time you got home, there was nothing to do but to stare outside the window. Doors locked, eyes were on you 24/7. The sun sets in front of your eyes and it makes you dread the incoming day once again, the moon isn't even up yet.

You hear a knock outside your door, but you didn't bother even answering, knowing all too well that it didn't matter if you did. They'll force their way in, anyway.

"It's Secretary Jeong, y/n, it's late and you haven't taken any meals for today." The second you glance at the clock, it was already eight in the evening. Your eyes go back to the window, and the moon was already up. Although you swore you just saw the sun setting a minute ago. "Do you want anything?"

The secretary doesn't even expect any answer from you, but stays behind you anyway.

"Fresh air. Outside." You simply say, not even glancing at the secretary.

"You know I can't do that."

"Then try not asking next time." The oh-so-sweet attitude of yours was now long gone. As you glared at the window after being ticked-off, Secretary Jeong sighs.

"Fine. As long as this doesn't reach your mom, okay? And please, no wheeling away."

You and Jeong, as you like to call him, drive to the nearest park in your house, which is coincidentally the Han river park.

He takes you around to get the fresh air you've been wanting, holding your wheelchair tightly at all times. You do nothing and plan nothing but to admire the night view, trying to cheer yourself up.

"..Mic check, mic check..." A loud and clear voice followed by numerous cheers perk your interest in one corner of the park, and you let out a small chuckle. Jeong double checks if he hears right, furrowing his brows.

Your eyes wander around and you see the convenience store in another corner, and a forming crowd in another side.

"Right. Can I watch?" You go back to having a poker face, glancing at him. He reluctantly nods and pushes your wheelchair on a side where the crowd can't trample on you, but the singer is visible anyway.

"Then, I'll start now. Please look and listen to us prettily," He smiles and points at the people behind him having cajon and a piano on the side. He looks around first with the goal of finding someone before sighing and prepping.

A rose blossoming among the concrete Please be alive Thrive and grow, don’t snap A blanket of thorns How tough it must’ve been Thank you for standing strong

He starts off solemn, cheery. He gains a few more people to listen and interestingly look at him, singing along and waving along. The lyrics hit you like a brick, making you sigh. You enjoy the way the words flow out of his lips melodically, like it was so easy to do in real life.

“I didn’t want any of this” I can say I can hate but nothing will change Looking back now I see the me with eyes forward Standing strong getting’ by moment to moment Didn’t think much just believed in me ... I’m a rose among the concrete Until this bleak city becomes filled with color I’ll keep my head up, stand my ground until the very end Until they get drunk off of my scent and smile

When he finished the song, he gained a loud cheer and applause, making him shyly succumb behind the thin mic stand while muttering continuous thank you's.

"Okay. That was our first song," He smiles, eyes still looking around. When he finally sees someone sat on a wheelchair just behind the crowd, he finally heaves a sigh of relief and smiles at you. "It's not the end of the world. You can bloom even in the smallest things, unexpected places. You can cry, you can take a break. As long as you don't give up, the world will be a better place."

He doesn't break eye contact as he says everything, smiling at you and then back to the crowd as if he didn't do anything such as change your life by helping you.

"Okay, next song!"

Jeong takes a good look at you, because finally, after weeks, there was a smile on your face and as much as his phone was getting bombarded by your mother's calls, he couldn't care a second.

"Let me finish another song and then we'll wrap up for today. Again, tonight too, it has been Choi Jongho, everybody. Thank you!" All that mattered was his name. He still introduced the ones that came with him, though. You just didn't care.

Though a permanent scar May be the price of holding you I'll give my all to you, to you ... So you won't get any scars, I'll hold you Even when I'm hurt, I'll guard you No need to worry, I'm here for you Look at my smile, it's my all for you When all lights fade When I sink to the ground When I drown in despair I'll still hold you close

"Did you enjoy? I thought you didn't have time?" Jongho, after fixing his things and bidding goodbye to his group, has come and smile brightly at you. "I told you I had a place for you. If you came a it earlier and where I can see you, I would've placed you there beside us."

Jeong only walks a few steps away in confusion for your privacy, still keeping his eyes on you.

"Who did you come with? Who's he?" Jongho curiously looks at the man, and Jeong only looks back. When he gets no answer, he takes his eyes back on you. "Are you that starstruck?"

"Thank you." You smile, "I actually didn't remember until awhile ago, when I was already here and you were already starting. I'm glad I wanted fresh air. I'm glad I was taken here. I'm glad to hear you sing. But most importantly, I'm glad that you had the most melodic voice I ever heard." You joke around, chuckling. He also laughs wholeheartedly, smiling at you.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it too, then."

"Those songs too... Thank you. I'm not saying you sang it for me, but it definitely did its part for me. So thank you, Mister Choi Jongho." He gives you a small smile and extends his hand for you to shake.

"I believe I deserve an incentive." He sharply inhales and glares jokingly at you.

"Oh. Right. I don't have anything on me, but Jeong will." You were about to signal for Jeong when he takes your hand, shaking it.

"I was joking. Your name will do. So let's start again. Hi, I'm Choi Jongho and you're...?" Jongho smiles expectantly, waiting for you.

As your name slips out of your lips, he shakes your hand mumbles a nice to meet you.

"Don't you think you owe me another one for my umbrella?" He shakes his head, looking down on his feet. You chuckle, asking him what he wanted.

"Is it finally money because I can call Jeong,"

"Your number and maybe a few dates?" He mumbles, looking wherever except your eyes.

It takes you a few seconds before you break into a genuine smile, reaching for his phone in his hand.

"There." You give it back to him and he squeals internally, giddily on his toes and checking his phone.

"Okay, maybe that umbrella- I just found it on the lost and found area. But it served great purpose!" You gasp at the confession, finally laughing at your heart's content.

Because finally, even when you thought your world has just been broken down to pieces, an angel has come and saved you.

h1key - rose blossom young k - guard you

*i got all english lyrics from genius!

[meraki-yao]

RWRB Script: Meraki Thoughts and Notes, ACT I

...Remember when I said if we don't get something new I'll reach the phase where I dissect the movie frame to frame?

Yeah so I did decide to annotate the bloody script I am that obsessed, will put this into either two parts or three parts, this is from the start to Paris

Highlight:

Red: Deleted Scenes

Yellow: Different from the movie

Blue: Fun/Interesting Movement Descriptions

Green: Extra Information of character/set

Right off the bat, we have a deleted scene

I need someone to enlighten me about these markings: what do the numbers and letters mean? I searched online and it said that numbers means a scene, but what counts as one scene? And what is the letter then?

Again, three more deleted scenes, what the fuck. And why is the first one labelled 1? Was the movie originally supposed to start there before they added the receiving line in re-shoots?

Henry was shaking a person's hand when Alex comes up to him in the movie

TRIES TO LICK IT???? ALEX THE FUCK

Also note how the frosting thing is before "tell me something" here but after that line in the movie: In the movie, Henry didn't not see any of the frosting shenanigans since he turned away to greet someone else. The script doesn't state what Henry's doing while Alex fucks up

Two more deleted scenes!!! One of which should be Aneesh's favourite scene to film where Alex asks her how much trouble does she think he's in

Canonical Zahra and Ellen age

Ellen staring at Alex was not in the final cut, we go from the credits directly to Ellen's line. Also the "killing him" is sort of a book reference: P28 Ellen: "all I want is to have the CIA fake your death and ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term"

TWO MORE DELETED SCENES WHAT THE FUCK

ANOTHER ONE

Ah so that's why Taylor's post of him in "Kensington Gardens" captioned “IT'S ALL LUSHHH”

Huh, he's awed

Nick improvised Henry's "Both" line

Clench teeth not that visible in the actual scene but we get the message

"Juicy photo" what the fuck

"This won't be fun" about that Alex....

Two more, one of which is the Cornetto scene, what's the other one?

Obviously we did not get this line about the outlets in the movie, but also ??? Do American outlets not have lights? Is he talking about this thing? (the red part is a light)

Henry you're enjoying yourself aren't you

ANOTHER ONE

Well this is a mess

"Essentially Spooning" WHAT

I feel like "isn't entirely unsexy" is from the book but I can't remember???

"The most shit-eating of grins"

He didn't wave, he did the V hands. That was probably Taylor lol

Canonical Oscar Age! So both Oscar and Ellen are 55, let's say movie Alex is 25 then Jesus Christ he's right they were babies when they had Alex

ANOTHER ONE I'M SOBBING AT HOW MANY AT THIS POINT

Firstprince Book list!!!

So this is the opposite in the movie: Henry was the one to turn around and face up instead of Alex, Alex was staring at imaginary Henry the whole time until he went to press "hang up" on his phone, on his other side

what the fuck 😭

Canon Percy Age: 24!

He was in fact wearing a white blazer with black swirls (I really liked that outfit).

"Percy is just as impressive as his clothes" HELL YEAH

"coppery-mustard"

"knowing smirk" the fuck

POST WALLFLOWER LMFAO

"dancing his ass off" love your word choice Matthew

"subtly bops to the music" yup, somehow think that applied to Nick at parties too

Aww Alex finds it "ridiculously endearing"

"even sexier midnight kiss" lmfao

"crestfallen" awww nooo Henry bbg :(

"Everyone's hands are on him, wanting a piece of ACD"... huh.

WHAT IS IT NOW

"They look so right together"

"panic growing in his chest, genuine fear crossing his face" HENRY　😭

"utterly gobsmacked" again, interesting choice of words, but accurate

TWO MORE WHAT THE FUCK

Alex was not on the floor, he was stretching against the sofa, I feel like that's a Taylor thing, but also he needs to see the TV on the wall

AGAIN????? MATTHEW!!!!

"Young James Bond" YUP

"entranced by Henry"

THREE???? ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

"trying out the perfect suave and sophisticated pose to greet Henry" ends up just standing straight

Can you fucking imagine the table read and Matthew saying "and THEY GO AT IT BABY"

"raw and aggressive and hot -- like they're trying to eat each other"

Note that the movement description didn't mention lifting Henry on the table or Alex hitching his thigh up, so that was designed on set

THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A CLOSE-UP????

“Gently” are we sure about that

"the bluest balls on the planet" lmfao

WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE DELETED HERE OH MY GOD

"utterly devasting" yup

Okay there's a lot of differences here: Henry doesn't close the door, Alex grabs Henry's waist not vice verse, Henry kissed down his neck and chest after this dialogue and they tumble over the sofa, but also how to you expect him to kiss Alex's chest while simultaneously unbuttoning his shirt when they're both verticle

"J Crew finest" straight from the book

"The power of his thighs", "his arse bouncing hard in the saddle"

"who has never been so jealous of a saddle" OH MY GOD PFFTTT

I guess 55 is the extended polo scene with Bea and Pez

"attack each other" "pawing"

"Alex can't decide where to put his hands because he wants to put them everywhere at once" Istg this is a book line but I can't find it at the moment, will update when I do

YANKS in all caps

"Their meals are gone" So the photos from Matthew's BTS post where they had their meals was before this scene? But there isn't a deleted scene before or after the Paris cafe scene in the script?

Henry is charmed, huh

"whistles in amazement"

HE WAS SUPPOSED TO WINK?

Alex didn't laugh, we start the hotel scene with his back to the camera

"Henry wraps his arms around him" ... sorta? But in the movie it's Alex's shoulders

"on Henry's chest" okay yeah so this was for short Alex, TZP would have to contort himself to do that

In the movie we only see Henry undressing

(Dammit two more images but I reached the posting limit, hang on)

[its-raining-tonight]

This post contains Wind Breaker spoilers starting from chapter 92, so be careful!

I was re-reading some parts of the manga and I noticed something, I thought the current manga events were happening on June 21st, but now I think it's actually happening on June 22nd

I'll try to explain it the best I can, I hope it's not confusing, please let me know if I'm just seeing this wrong or what, let's go

I thought that it was on the 21st (like everyone I saw talking about it) because it clearly says that date on chapter 99:

June 21st midnight, I interpreted it as midnight of day 20 to 21 (to be clear)

BUT THEN I noticed this chat log from volume 14/chapter 113:

They are talking at 12am, midnight of June 21st right? This conversation happened 24 hours before the war started, at midnight of the 20th to 21st (again to be clear)

Therefore the war is actually happening on midnight of June 21st to 22nd

Because it's already the 22nd, that also means that Takiishi's birthday is actually on June 22nd, likewise I only saw people celebrating his birthday on the 21st

(from chapter 100)

What do you think?? 😭 Am I misunderstanding something? I also tried to check their phones for dates in the chapter where they are on the bridge before the war started but it would only show the time, maybe it's just the chat log date that is wrong? Please give me your opinion if you want!

[bcacstuff]

how is Season 7/2 being received? There used to be so much excitement here, but I didn't read anything so far. And how are the ratings? Thank you!

Personally I didn't post much from Season 7/2 so far. I think it is quite annoying that not even the Outlander_Starz account takes into account that a large part of the fandom isn't able to see the new episodes right away.

Like f.i. right now they're already posting to discuss 7.11 while in a lot of countries that episode will only drop at midnight today, and several other countries have to wait until Monday.

They act as if everyone immediately starts watching at midnight when they drop the episode. While I bet a lot of people wont do so, have a life or just want to go to sleep and see it the next day. Only a group that I think, imho is rather a small part of the fandom. That also goes for sites like 'sheknows' who immediately come with a recap of the episode, while it's not even 24 hours there to watch and as said for a large part of the fandom can't be watched already. Not everyone watches immediately or is in the circumstances to do so. I wish they would take that into account a bit more.

Add to that the many spoilers, like scenes, pics already before the episode airs, and... I don't know about you or others here, but it takes my excitement away. I don't feel like, oh I want to watch that next episode!

Sure enough, I don't have to watch the posts and pics and I genuinely try to avoid it, there are accounts that warn about the spoilers. I scroll by, I don't read but it's quite hard to avoid seeing pics and at the time I watch the episode I already know broadly the storyline, it's just the details or how it's gonna get from A to B.

I watched 7.09 right away when it was available here in NL (on 25 November, midnight 24 November), but I didn't with 7.10. I watched it only last night and I can't really say I enjoyed it. Like I said, no surprises left, and personally I'm not all that impressed by how storylines develop, bit weak I would say, apart from the storyline of Roger and Buck perhaps.

Have to say, I'm more interested in the new episodes of Yellowstone at the moment. Even though I see posts on FB, somehow FB found out I'm watching, but hardly spoilers. The new episodes of that series gave me some whooo, and aaaahhsss. OL didn't.

As for ratings, I should say it's a bit early to go see them.

[vickyvicarious]

Who’s Read What in Dracula? - Lucy Westenra

A spoiler-free breakdown of what documents Lucy has read, and when. I will add a new entry whenever she gains access to, creates, or finishes a document.

Links to other characters’ posts, explanation of the color-coding I’ve used, and all other notes/explanations relating to how I am sorting/tracking this can be found in my WRWD Masterpost.

Tracking begins below the cut.

May 11

Letter to Lucy

Letter to Mina

Lucy receives Mina's letter, probably either on the tenth or eleventh. Given the information she seems eager to tell Mina, I'm assuming that she writes back right away here, hence placing them on the same day. However, Lucy's letter isn't dated, so it is possible that it was sent a few days later.

May 17?

Letter to Lucy

Lucy gets another letter from Mina, in response to her first letter. I'm placing this roughly in between the two letters from Lucy, but any exact dating is speculative as we never get to read this particular letter.

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letter to Mina

May 24

Letter to Mina

Lucy writes a second letter to Mina, describing the three proposals she has received in one day.

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letters to Mina

27 July

Message to Lucy

Mina mentions on the 26th that Arthur is expected in Whitby shortly, then on the 27th says that he's suddenly been called to visit his father who has fallen ill. It's possible that he had other communication with Lucy before now (or maybe the date was set before they parted, and Mina only mentioned it when the time was almost at hand), but at least it seems that he sent a letter or telegram to let the Westenras know his arrival in Whitby would be postponed.

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letters to Mina, Message to Lucy

August 24

London Diary

Lucy begins keeping a diary in an effort to emulate Mina. She's feeling unwell just like she did in Whitby.

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letters to Mina, Message to Lucy, London Diary

August 29?

Post-Whitby Letter to Lucy

Some time between the 24th-30th, Lucy receives Mina's letter about her wedding. I'm placing it here tentatively as I don't think she would wait very long after getting it to respond, but in the past Mina sometimes implied she was expecting letters from Jonathan later in the day.

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letters to Mina, Message to Lucy, London Diary, Post-Whitby Letter to Lucy

August 30

Whitby Letter

Lucy writes a reply to Mina's letter about her wedding. Stoker seems to have messed up his timeline here, because this letter is postmarked Whitby and shows Lucy doing well, while her London diary begins 6 days before and is decidedly less cheerful. (If she were lying, the postmark would be difficult to explain; at the same time, moving this earlier in the narrative would require changing several other dates so I'm not going to try and do that here).

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letters to Mina, Message to Lucy, London Diary, Post-Whitby Letter to Lucy, Whitby Letter

September 17

Lucy's Memorandum

Lucy has a harrowing, horror-filled night in which a wolf breaks into her window, her mother dies on her lap, her maids are drugged, and she is preyed upon by Dracula. She writes a memorandum detailing everything she can recall. (Technically, this was probably written during the early hours of the 18th. It appears that the wolf's escape from the zoo was discovered at midnight, and Lucy talks about being up late into the night. Still, since we have no hard confirmation either way, I'm sticking with the date we're given.) This was also the date of Lucy's final diary entry.

Total documents: Letters to Lucy, Letters to Mina, Message to Lucy, London Diary, Post-Whitby Letter to Lucy, Whitby Letter, Lucy's Memorandum

[dxsae]

henlo, i'm bee 🐝 (22, she/her, gmt+) and i'm so excited to be here as a big fan of the boys and district x's setting !! today i bring oh sae to the table, an antihero and a criminal who punishes criminals. that said, his sense of what's right or wrong is ambiguous and his golden heart is kinda twisted. i have so many plans for him so i'd love to write with every single one of u, please like this post and i'll jump to ur inbox first! but i'll eventually reach out to everyone soon hehe (˶´ ˘ `˶) here's his profile (warning: wall of text) and i do have a plots page if u r interested! below is a quick summary of sae and some plot ideas, but i'm a girlie that loves brainstorming more sooo enjoy ur stay! it's midnight here so i'm off to bed now zzz

summary

26 y/o, manager at toast & coffee 24-hour diner and has a very tight bond with the restaurant's owner

born & raised in district x, middle-class family

lives with mom, dad's in jail. has a bad relationship with them 'cause they hid dad's criminal background from him and his dumbass believed them for 14 years

( tw: murder ) his power manifested when the criminals invaded their home and sae murdered them when he was 14. dad took the blame and went to the detention center

has always wanted to be the type of nice, kind-hearted marvel heroes but his hatred for criminals is too much that it turned him into a violent dude

still applied to the pinnacle institute at 20 'cause he wanted to fight criminals in daylight. was the last one on the acceptance list, tried so hard to pass his classes only to be expelled from attacking his bully

fed up with everything, decided to go on his own path and beat criminals in his own style. slowly, his moral compass became broken and he became what he hated the most: a criminal. but they pay him good, so why not?

tidbits:

in between jobs, he often patrols nearby areas to keep an eye on any criminal he sees. he's always in the mood to kick some ass because punishing them guys is a hobby now. that's how he's the "batman of red lane"

would blow up their heads for entertainment

the type to crack bad jokes with a straight face. he isn't cold like his demeanor, he actually enjoys chatting and being goofy but keeps his distance. he makes sure the wall he puts up is visible without the need to mention

because he's a criminal and sometimes a monster, peeps would assume that he's selfish and irresponsible. in fact, he's very committed to whatever he's tasked with and u can always rely on him.

"i got promoted for a reason, dummy."

sometimes would intentionally explode random stuff to scare his buddies off. he thinks it's funny

moved on from whatever complicated relationship he has with his parents but the wall is there. can't act like they didn't give him trust issues

is under nepa's radar and he's aware of that

gets away with committing crimes because whoever paid him to do the jobs usually takes care of the aftermath as part of the deal

enjoys helping people. some are shocked to see him helping a grandma cross the street

after being expelled from the institute, sae doesn't plan his future anymore. prefers to go with the flow. right now, he's just tryna see if he could make it until 30

plot ideas (some will be taken from my plots page!)

partner in crime, criminal buddies, or supporters in general because he can't make genuine friends with his way of living... he's lonely yall

or "friends" who are very wary of this friendship it's fun too like u are teasing him then stop midway because who knows what if he blows ur head off next

rivals/enemies! sae's easily anyone's rival LMAO. u could hate his moral compass / think he's fked up / hate antihero tropes or he probably did something bad to u or the people u know

someone who thinks he's just a trashy criminal tryna play the hero game

encounter with the batman of red lane while he's on the nobody-asked-him-to patrol

n.e.p.a agents who try to recruit/trick him because his power would be useful for their experiments. he's going to be very sus of every agent he meets let's see what will ur muse bring

frequents at toast & coffee. he's very nice to his customers so u can puke on the floor and he will clean it up for up

pinnacle institute classmates! friends, foes, study buddies, crushes, people who know the truth about his expel and actually feel bad for him

i'm also a sucker for neighbor plots 🤲

just some basic ideas to get you inspired! let's develop more together