#are you allowed to find your own writing hilarious

[possibly-a-table-or-just-gay]

found this in my notes lmao

[artsninspo]

"JEALOUS TYPE" - Rio X Reader

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➨ rio's library - good girl nbc

Summary: The restaurant your date picked to take you out to is owned by Rio, and he’s there sitting at a table when you walk in. Just your luck. This ones a little steamy 🌶️.

Pairing: Rio (Good Girls) X Black Reader

Word-Count: 1.6K

Biting the inside of your lip you stifle a smile looking into your date's brown eyes. His animated expression is feeding off of yours as he tells an arguably hilarious story. Honestly, you wouldn’t know. Your eyes sparkle at his and by some strange miracle you seem to break into a laugh at the right moment. Although handsome, well put together, kind and funny, your date doesn’t have your undivided attention. Three tables away Rio sits with a scowl staring daggers into your side profile. He was having dinner with an older woman when you arrived with your date. Rio’s eyes met yours then looked down to see your hand in your dates and frowned. Since the woman left you’ve been subject to his displeased looks. He hates the sight of you with another man. Especially after resisting his advances. He’s furious really that your pretty ass didn't spend time getting ready to look good for him. Having had enough he calls over a waiter, it's his restaurant after all.

“You’re gorgeous” your date tells you, picking up your hand to kiss it from across the table. He’s a charmer for sure. His dimples and smile are to die for but he’s not the one making your heart race. 

“You’re not so bad yourself” you smile, taking a sip of your wine. The waiter comes over with a bottle in a bucket.

“Vintage Cabernet” the waiter says, putting the bucket on the table.

“We didn’t order that” your date says as the waiter slips you a table card.

Wine by the glass your man’s a cheapskate huh?

Is written in excellent penmanship. You thought he was signing the bill when he started writing. It takes everything in you not to smile as you fold the card. The waiter looks amused. The use of a Drake lyric in such a petty exchange is all the more amusing. Casting a look over to his table Rio sits seemingly unbothered. 

“On the house” the waiter says and your date shrugs allowing the waiter to top him off first. You don’t like that. A man that doesn’t put the woman he’s with first is  a slippery slope. Sitting back you taste the wine as the waiter pours yours. It’s excellent, you raise a glass to Rio and your date is too self absorbed to notice your eyes aren’t on him. After a few minutes you take your leave heading into the ladies room. Your heels click on the floor and you take out your compact to powder the shininess of your forehead and top up your gloss. That’s how Rio finds you. He strolls in wearing all black, which seems to be his signature.

“This is the ladies room” you say mirroring his nonchalance.

“Don’t make any smart comments. I have a dick and it works” he warns casually. It’s crass but you’re amused so you smile anyways fixing your gloss in the mirror.  The look he gives you tells you exactly where his head is. The physical attraction is a ten out of ten. “Get all dressed up for a guy who can’t even buy you the bottle but you won’t get in a car with me” Rio says, offended by your rejection. You turn to face him and he stands there unimpressed with his hands in his pocket.

“I didn’t take you for the jealous type” you tease.

“You can do better” he swallows, stepping forward.

“I appreciate you looking out for my well being. I’m sure you have more important things to do, places to be '' you dismiss, and he nods a little irritated with your flagrance. It's been awhile since Rio had to put in any effort to bag the woman that had his attention for the moment. You pass him to get to the door and he takes your hand. You should be terrified but you aren’t. The energy in the restroom is electric. Your chemistry is undeniable. You feel your heart racing as his eyes look down at your lips, he wets his bottom lip before casting a look back into your eyes. You want it just as much as he does. Your entire body hates the riskiness of your current predicament.

Reaching around you Rio locks the door Rio closing the remainder of  the distance between. Leaning in his lips connected to yours, he purses his lips tight against yours chastely before pressing his body against yours in a dominant gesture, pressing you between himself and the door. Pulling back he comes in for a second time, this time parting your lips, goading you into a slow, sloppy and seductive make out session. His kiss is teasing and claiming, you feel your temperature rise as you indulge in forbidden fruit. His hands slip under the hem of your dress gripping your thighs, snapping you out of it. Pushing him away your chest heaves. You want him so much but it’s not right. You're on a date, Stan warned you about him and he carries weapons.

“No no no no no” you snap to yourself as you hear a knock on the door.

“Y/N” your date calls from the other side and you feel your heart racing in your ears.

“I got a call I’ll be right out, go back to the table” you say through the closed door and Rio smiles. He reaches for the lock and your eyes tell him not to. He smiles absolutely thrilled at the prospect of blowing up your spot.

“Are you sure?!” Your date asks.

“Yep, just give me 5” you say and there’s a long pause.

“Ok” he says and you breathe finally. It’s your turn to scowl Rio comes in for another kiss but you push him away annoyed with him and yourself. Rio laughs to himself completely unbothered by your predicament.

All trouble. You think to yourself about Rio as you touch your make up again and Rio smiles looking at his phone. He puts a finger to his lip signalling you should hush and when you walk over you see your date still waiting for you outside the bathroom from the security feed on his phone.

“Give me your number or I walk out,” Rio says, playing dirty. You put your number in and he calls making your phone ring. He looks satisfied.

“Pick up, own the lie” he whispers, coaching you in your deception. His eyes are full of mischief and amusement. You just may be in love.

“I swear I care but I’m on a date sis, please call mom” you say loud enough for your date to hear. Rio unlocks the door letting you out. You smile at your date and he takes your hand.

“I didn’t notice your perfume smells slightly like cologne” he says and you hope he really has no inclination Rio was all over you. His cologne is more sweet than masculine and musky.

“Hmm” you raise a brow.

“Who was calling?” He asks.

“Sister” you lie and he nods suddenly more attentively. Your phone goes off again, you know it's Rio without checking it.

“Family emergency?”

“Sister stuff” you dismiss getting another message and you put your phone on silent feeling terrible. Sitting in front of your date you can still feel Rio’s kiss on your lips, his body against yours, his big hands on your thighs. The rest of the night is more of the same. RIo keeps texting the entire ride back to your house and you end up at square one as your date stands outside of your condo door with you. You dodge his kiss, letting him kiss your cheek. He takes it like a champ and you sigh frustrated. Unlocking your phone you see a flurry of messages of Rio talking shit about you being a bad girl, worse than him, a player. Warnings not to lay up with your ‘lame ass date’ and more. The final tells you to call once you get in.

Smiling, you set his name to Crazy Christopher in your phone. After a steamy shower you head into bed alone. You're far too excited to be sleepy in spite of the time. Your phone rings and Crazy Christopher flashes across the screen.

“Hello?” you pick up.

“Are you home safe?” he asks like he cares.

“Yes, Christopher”

“Yes, Christopher,” he mocks, making you smile.

The phone line goes silent for a few moments and your smile never fades, you haven't felt this giddy about a situation in years.

“You tired? I was hoping to come and wear you out” Rio says, making you laugh. Honestly you want the same thing.

“That isn't how you speak to a woman” you correct him.

“Nahh, you don’t want me to pretend I have manners. That’s not you” he says, reading you right.

“Some other night Rio” you cave, deciding you won't deny yourself a good time.

“Alright, well you tell me when” he responds in his usual tone. It’s an odd relief he doesn't promise forever’s or any other ridiculous niceties.

“Why don't we make it interesting, the next time I run into you - you can take me to your place” you shrug, lying in bed looking up at the ceiling.

“Bet” he agrees. “Goodnight baby-girl” he says.

“Night Rio” you respond.

“Christopher” he corrects. “We’re on a first name basis” he says and you laugh.

“Goodnight” you respond, hanging up in a final act of defiance.

You smile looking up at the ceiling heart racing at the risk. Sitting in his car Rio smiles hoping you stay true to your word before heading into the warehouse to check on his operations. He has plans for you.

Big plans.

_________

Let me know what you think of this update and Rio's bad behaviour 😉😘

Authors note: TYSM 💖 to everyone who's read, liked, commented or reblogged any of my work and more particularly this 'series'. It's been a fun palate cleanser. If you're a writer and need a sign to purge your drafts you think no one will enjoy here it is.

xoxo

[safination]

Could you do a one shot of Human!Alastor with a flapper!reader?

Maybe where the reader is getting unwanted attention and Alastor intervenes.

Smoke and Shadows

|Masterlist| Pairings: Alastor x Wife!Reader Warnings: Murder, Alastor being Alastor Thank you to the amazing writer who betaed my fic and gave me my title @whatswrongwithblue. Give Blue all your love! You should definitely check what she writes. Requests are always open. They're just slow

Smoke blows out of your lips, micing with the cold, night air. The cigar flickers. Each puff warms your body, and calms the growing ire. Maybe, Alastor’s tastes aren’t too bad.

There’s a question that nags at you, demanding your attention . . . . No, you won’t do it.

A click of your tongue. Alastor would be annoying about the topic.

Even hinting at the idea of his ‘good’ cigar tastes would receive you a shit-eating grin or a week’s worth of that smug smile of his. You wouldn’t know what would be worse. Knowing Alastor, he would find a way to do both.

The mere thought wavers the settling calmness, and that would waste the effect of a perfectly good cigar.

Tonight’s piano player brims with talent. The sound of their jazzy keys dance with the saxophone. It brings you into this deep, deep, smokey lull. Even when those heavy, metal doors muffle their notes, it spills out into the alley, and forces that smile on your lips.

But . . . it begins how it always begins; with an alley, and a man too absorbed in his own ego.

The door opens with a slam, and that’s quite the talent, indeed. Piano notes flow out louder, it’s sound refusing to be drowned by the fever of the of the other instruments. That smile grows a fraction higher.

A man stumbles to the alley, a hand on the wall and clearly, drunk out of his mind. He rubs his fingers together, and blows his breath to keep them warm.

Smoke and laughter spill out of your lips.

It’s quite the cliché’ isn’t it? Alastor would, surely, find this hilarious – a man, a woman, and an alley.

The man snaps towards you, and that smile of his grows wide. Despite the dim lighting . . . huh, those are soft, blue eyes. They’re nice, but you prefer the warm brown ones for those warm, brown eyes wears the ring that matches yours. (His eyes crinkles when he laughs, and through that smokey haze, you wonder – Are they crinkling right now?)

“Hello, there!” he squeaks out as he rubs his hands together. “I mean, umm . . .  Good evening.”

Words spills out of that mouth of his. They carry neither weight nor substance.

So, with a lazy smile, and cold fingers, you enjoy the smoke that flows into your lungs, and tumbles out of your lips. It’s more exciting than whatever he’s saying, that’s for sure. You throw in a couple of, ‘huh . . .’s and a few dashes of, ‘oh, wow’ just for to see how long the conversation can keep going.

Smoke hits his face when he takes a step too close. A single step back, and that’s all you take.

Still, you make a point to show-off how you lean closer to the shadow’s behind. It’s funny, really, how the darkness brewing behind brings this sort of peace that not even the cigar can compete with. (An annoying peace, but still quite peaceful)

The man reaches for your cigar, snatching it right from your fingers.

“Young ladies shouldn’t be smoking these.” He takes a long inhale, then coughs out smoke. There’s a strained smile on his lips as he observes the cigar. Instead of returning a perfectly good cigar, this idiot drops it on the damp ground, and kills the flickering light with his heel.

“Ha!” You smack his bicep in good fun. “Not that young.”

“Hey, you’re looking a few minutes shy from turning into a popsicle,” he tells you, as if the cold isn’t already seeping through your bones. “Why don’t you take my coat? It wouldn’t be right to allow a lady to freeze. You can always return it to me tomorr—”

“You’re taking too long.” You click your tongue towards the shadows behind. “Hutty up. It’s cold, and you’re making me wait too long.”

It’s starts with a soft whistle of a tune. . .

The echoing sounds of footsteps bounce between the brick walls. Each step demands the attention of all. Alastor steps out of the shadows, yet their dark hands still cling to the edges of his form.

There’s a coat folded across his arms. Alastor drapes it around your shoulders, pulling on the lapels from behind to secure it. There it is again, because it’s funny, actually. The wind blows cold between the small alley, yet the cold ebbs away because of the command of such a simple jacket.

Alastor pulls on your shoulders, crashing you towards him with a hearty laugh. It bounces between your bodies, and settles into your bones. (And oh . . . his eyes are crinkling.)

“I apologize, dearest.” Despite the smile, there’s a part of you that doesn’t actually believe he’s sorry. “I was curious to see just how long you were willing to hold out for.” Alastor pokes the edges of your lips upwards to force a smile. “I had quite the laugh!”

Your eyes roll, and settle it towards the man. “He likes to think he’s hilarious.”

“Ha. Ha! Ha!” Alastor’s eye twitches for a moment, and his lips purse together. “I guess humor is something only the few possess now. It’s unfortunate to see it’s decline.”

“Oh, don’t say that, my dear,” you say, pressing a kiss on the edges of his lips with a smile. “I’m sure one day you’ll possess it as well.”

The man clears his throat, and reaches out for a handshake. It’s never given. “You sound familiar,” he says, after a long beat. “I think I’ve heard your voice before.”

“Is he being a bother, dearest?” Alastor leans towards you, and blows straight into your ear. His reward for such an action comes in the form on your elbow digging into his stomach — “oof. That’s not quite the answer I was expecting.”

“We’re all friends here.”

Alastor is smiling that strained smile that only appears when he’s relying on his habit to keep his smile up. “Hush now,” he says, and places a finger across his mouth. “I was talking to the lady.”

Those warm, brown eyes that Alastor own . . . they look at you expectantly.

You consider it for a moment, weighting your options. The real question is whether or not you actually cared about the man enough to be bothered. Notes of smoke and rich leaves linger on your tongue, and damn, that was a really good cigar. Despite that smokey hazy of calmness from the cigar, it’s the peace of Alastor that settles its annoying fingers on your nerves. He won’t release it anytime soon.

“You decide,” are the words you find yourself saying. “I don’t particularly care—Just make it quick.”

The edges of his lips curl just a little bit softer, and you know you did good.

Alastor grabs your wrist, lifting them up in the air with such an irritating flare. Really, it should be considered a talent of his – not anyone can find your last nerves, and tap-dance all over them. He places your palms over your ears. It’s a silent command, and one that you follow without complaint.

Alastor brings a hand over your eyes, and suddenly, darkness is all you’re able to see.

See? It’s a Cliché.

It began with an alley and a man, and it will end with an alley and a man.

Only the shadows listen in on the quickened footsteps. It’s lasting longer than it should, and like all games, it eventually comes to an end. And well, . . . let’s just say Alastor likes ending things with a bang!

Gunfire rings across the wall, and you sink just a little bit deeper into the arms that steady you.

Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek, and suddenly, you’re able to see once more. His body blocks the view of the corpse. There’s a moment there, where you try and lean over, but Alastor pokes the edges of your lips to force a smile. It doesn’t stop until you’re smiling up at him.

“I want to see,” you say, slapping his hands away. “I was the one who lured him out, and I was the one who had to wait in the cold.”

“Now, now.” Alastor plants kiss across your other cheek. “That wasn’t our agreement.”

The edges of his coat slide off your shoulders. It’s the way Alastor grabs the lapels, and secure it around your body once more that prompts the answer, “Fine, but I want to go home now.”

“Give it a moment, dearest. We can’t just leave him here.”

You fling your arms around his back, pulling him into a hug. It’s easier to sneak a look when Alastor sinks straight into your hold, and . . . woah, that’s one killer aim – straight through the head. “It’s really starting to get cold.” You blow into his ear. “So, hurry up. I’ll wait inside.”

Alastor brings your wrist high up into the air, and you have to go on the tips of your toes to stay upright. He slides his fingers across your palm, forcing them to open before intertwining your hands. “So, your ‘help’ only extends on being the bait?”

“I waited in the cold.” You try to pull your hand back, but Alastor’s grip stays firm. “As far as I’m concerned, I already did my ‘helping’.”

One of his hands snake around you, and Alastor lifts you into his hold, settling you against him. “Of course,” he says, catching your free hand to hold it once again. “But, when there’s a body to be dragged, suddenly, your assistance becomes limited.”

You show him your most innocent smile.

Alastor whistles along the tune of the piano. The feather on your head sways along as Alastor dances to the music, twisting to the beats of the notes. If the weight of carrying you in his arm hinders that determination to dance . . . well, no complaints fall off his lips.

“Al,” you begin, and lean into the crook of his neck, “the body.”

“It wouldn’t be right to allow a lady to freeze.”

Your smiled widens, warmth blossoming in your stomach. It spread through your limbs with a tingle and settles into your cheeks. Maybe, just maybe, you would admit to leaning just a little closer. “I can’t wait to go home with you.”

Alastor laughs into the air, bright and airy. So, so, full of delight.

It’s everything to you.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 30

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Somewhat graphic depictions of afterbirth; Breastfeeding; Newborn bodily functions; Scars and allusions to past child abuse.

A/N: Fuck me sideways, I have struggled to write since all this shit in my personal life. This chapter is pretty boring but I guess there are some fluffy aspects. And Thumper gets a name.

The tiny creature that had just been shrieking in Hershel’s grasp, was now rooting around angrily while you studied every perfect little inch of her. Her skin was pink beneath the drying, waxy mess of vernix caseosa—or whatever Hershel had called it—and blood. The old man had said if he had to guess, he would put her at about six pounds. Hilarious since she felt like she weighed thirty while you carried her. 

Her round little face scrunched up before she wailed again, disturbed from her meal-seeking venture by Carol leaning around Daryl to drape a blanket over her. When you looked up to smile at him, you found the archer studying his baby like he wasn’t quite certain about something. 

“What is it?” You asked, moving the blanket a little so he could see her better. 

“S’just—” He reached toward the bundle but withdrew. “Feels like—feels like she ain’t real.” You could see the tears brimming on his waterline, crystal droplets shining beneath the pale yellow illuminance of the van’s interior overhead light; how he would squint instead of blink in an attempt to keep them from falling. 

“Daryl, you—ow.” You placed your hand on your lower abdomen, finding it tight within a cramp even if the skin itself was slightly looser. 

“Ow?” Daryl appeared panicked but was desperately trying to keep himself together. He wasn’t doing a very good job. It was so odd to see him constantly grappling for control over his emotions when he had always—for the time you’d known him—been so careful not to allow too much to show. 

The veterinarian checked the cord to find it no longer pulsing. The contractions you were having now were mild cramps compared to before, Hershel advising you that you would need to give up your hold on Thumper to deliver the afterbirth. The archer watched as you handed off Thumper to Maggie. You wondered if he even realized why you hadn’t given him a chance to hold his daughter yet. Regardless, it was immediately apparent he hadn’t been listening in the slightest—

“Just an easy push, Y/N.”

“Wait! What?!” Daryl shouted. Meanwhile, you were clenching your fists and bearing down. It wasn’t the worst pain but considering you had just pushed a tiny human out of the same opening, you were a tad bit sore.

“Good, good. I can see it. One more push.” 

Daryl’s hand wrapped around one of your fists. You uncurled your fingers and let his slip between them. “See what?! The fuck she pushin’ again for?” The archer gave no time for anyone to answer that particular question before he was crawling and leaning above the space between your knees—just in time for the placenta to exit your body while you groaned through the discomfort. “What the flyin’ blue fuck s’that?!”

“It’s alright, son.” 

“It’s okay, Daryl.” Carol repeated. 

The archer had gone white again, swaying slightly and swallowing convulsively while scooting back toward you on his ass. You tugged gently on his hand before anyone else could interfere. “Hey, tough guy. Look at her.” God, you were exhausted but keeping your partner grounded was your priority. He had a baby to meet. Daryl’s eyes shifted to you and then behind you to the infant over which Maggie was currently gushing.

“She’s perfect.” The elder Greene daughter chuckled through her own tears. 

The hunter stared at Thumper, the color slowly returning to his skin. “Rick!” He belted out suddenly. “We clear?”

“All clear for now.” The former deputy called back, even though there was little more than five feet separating them.

“Good. Stop.” 

“Stop?” Rick glanced back over his shoulder, once and then again. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Stop the van.” This time Daryl barked the command, growing irritated. He gently extricated his hand from yours, moved toward the door, and wrapped his fingers around the handle. It was obvious he was waiting for the vehicle to come to a halt.

“Daryl, what the hell are you doing?” You queried while trying to divide your attention between him and Thumper being placed back against your skin. The baby began to squeak, working up to another bout of shrill cries before you shifted her, trying your hand at offering up a breast without any guidance. When her tiny mouth latched onto your nipple immediately, you felt a tugging sensation, but no pain like you had actually expected. 

“You’re a natural!” Carol exclaimed through her own tears and sniffles. 

Before you could offer comfort while the other woman was obviously distraught—likely reminiscing of the times just after the birth of Sophia—the van jolted to a stop and Daryl was opening the door, jumping out with his bag and crossbow, and closing it before you could say a word. 

“What’s happening?” You sat up just a little, your eyes wide. “Where’s he going? Rick?”

“Stay still. Relax.” Maggie cooed, dragging a finger tenderly down Thumper’s cheek. “Let her nurse. I’m sure Daryl’s got his reasons.” You nodded even though you weren’t truly satisfied with the answer. You were just simply too exhausted to think about it any further. Carol started handing Maggie blankets to roll up behind you. “We’re gonna getcha all cleaned up and as comfortable as we can until we can find somewhere safer, okay?”

“Just wrap this up until Daryl gets back.” Hershel spoke softly, placing a bloody blob of something onto a large piece of cloth before handing it to Carol. The sac was connected to Thumper by the slimy cord. 

“Do you think he’ll want to?” The other woman whispered. Sight and sound were starting to fizzle out. Your body was demanding rest, all reserves depleted. Thumper was suckling away, making the sweetest little snorting breaths between gulps. Maggie was wiping the sweat from your face and neck, sweeping the fabric back and forth over every inch of skin she could reach.

Hershel and Carol worked together to clean up the mess between your legs, the area swollen and sore and thank god you were so exhausted or that would have really hurt. When you opened your eyes again, you were covered with a blanket and Thumper was gone from your chest. 

“Thumps?!” You bolted upright, caught halfway by Hershel’s gentle hands on your shoulders. 

“She’s fine. You were quite out of it when she finished. Maggie tried to burp her but breastfed newborns don’t always need it. Now she’s there with Carol, getting cleaned up the best we can without warm water. The vernix caseosa can stay on her skin until she can have a good warm bath. It won’t do any harm. We just thought she could do without the other fluids.”

You nodded tiredly. “How long did I sleep?”

“Only about half an hour.” Carol answered, shuffling on her knees with the baby in her arms. “Rick grabbed the diapers from the truck and checked on everyone. She’s such a tiny thing, the newborn size almost swallows her.” She pulled the blanket away to place the baby against your skin and then covered her again with the small receiving blanket. Once Thumper settled, Carol pulled the thicker blanket over both of you. 

You felt your expression light up—casting shadows over your exhaustion—at the sight of that little face. God, she was tiny. The lack of blood revealed wisps of blonde hair, still molded flat in some places by the waxy covering. You could already see so much of Daryl in her that it—

“Where’s Daryl?”

As if summoned by his name on your lips, the van door opened to reveal the archer, clearly shivering. He tossed his bag and crossbow to the side and climbed in, rubbing his hands up and down his sleeved arms. He was clean, his hair wet while the strands appeared damn near frozen. His dirty clothing—vest and poncho included—was missing, likely in his pack. 

“Daryl Dixon, are you trying to end up with pneumonia again?!” Carol admonished. She shoved his bag out of the way quickly and tossed the last larger blanket around his shoulders. 

“C-c-couldn’a held ‘er like I w-w-was, right?” His teeth legitimately chattered, his gaze leaving Carol to look you over. “D-doin’ alright?”

You narrowed your eyes above the ghost of a smile. “Did you really go find a body of water to take a bath in the middle of winter?” 

“W-wouldn’a left ya but w-was d-d-dirty. Wanted t-to—wanna hold ‘er.” Once again, he was pale as milk but there was some color slowly seeping into his cheeks. Hershel wasn’t freaking out over his current state, so—contrary to the pressure threatening to choke you from the inside—you wouldn’t either. Daryl ran his tongue over colorless lips and ducked his head.  “If that’s alr-right?” 

Your mouth fell open, your brow furrowing while you blinked at him. Did he just— “Daryl, she’s your daughter. Of course you can hold her.” You were already moving an arm from beneath Thumper’s miniscule weight. When your hand found his, you pulled back with a hiss. “Maybe just get a little warmer first though, okay?” The archer nodded, but he still looked so uncertain. 

Hershel cleared his throat. He had remained still and silent throughout the exchange but then slowly crept down to sit on his knees at your hip. “In the meantime.” With a gesture toward Carol, he held out his hands. The cloth-clad placenta was placed onto his palms. It had apparently just been traveling around with Thumper wherever she roamed within the van. “Would you like to cut the cord, son?”

Still shivering but teeth no longer clicking together, Daryl’s expression molded into equal parts disgust and confusion. “The hell would I wanna do that?”

“It’s a tradition.” The old man explained. Carol was busy cleaning her knife with some rubbing alcohol. “It marks the start of life outside of the mother, when the father can begin to be physically involved in caring for the baby.”

The hunter brought his left thumb to his mouth, chewing on the side, granting a physical form to his inner anxiety. “Don’t it hurt ‘er?” You were curious as well, and you looked away from your partner to await the answer. 

“There are no nerves in the cord. She won’t feel a thing.”

Daryl drew back when Carol presented him with the knife. He looked to you. You shrugged a shoulder, careful not to jar Thumper. “It’s your decision.”

“Must be done. It doesn’t matter if it’s you or myself.” Hershel added. 

Lowering his hand from his teeth, Daryl eyed the knife. It was clear that he didn’t believe he wasn’t going to hurt his daughter. His thumb was replaced by his lower lip, jaw inching back and forth to gnaw at it earnestly. Without a word, he reached for the knife. Carol offered him a smile that he unsurprisingly didn’t return. 

“Where do—how does it—”

“I’ll help you.” The veterinarian reassured, balancing the organ on top of one hand while the other lifted the cord. “Right between the tape.” 

“Don’t that leave some’a it?” Daryl’s throat was visibly working as he swallowed. 

“That will dry up and fall off. I’ll show you both how to care for it until that happens.” 

The exhale was audible, undoubtedly something he didn’t intend but also didn’t take notice. Daryl’s hand was shaking, the blade carefully pressed to slice upward and away from the skin of your newborn. You held your breath, afraid any movement or sound would cause her to stir. If Daryl accidentally nicked her, there’d be no consoling him.

The cut was clean and quick, Thumper remaining sound asleep throughout. Your head tipped back against your pillow of blankets, relief flooding through you in a tingling wave that left you once again feeling wrung out. Half an hour was not enough. You wanted to sleep for days. 

Turning your head was a chore, but worth it. Daryl was ignoring everything that was happening below the two of you, his eyes dancing between you and his daughter. “I know.” You whispered. His gaze found yours. “She’s finally here.” He nodded, his lips slightly parted with words he couldn’t seem to articulate. “It’s a lot, Daryl. I know. It’s okay.” 

He was trembling, but you were certain it was no longer from the cold. His entire world had just changed. He was a father, and—judging by the look on his face, the turmoil in his pretty eyes—he was terrified. 

“Do you wanna hold her?” Your question was met with a sharp inhale, his spine straightening. 

“I—” 

You were already shifting the baby, shushing and cooing when she squeaked and stretched in protest. 

“You should bond with her too, Daryl.” Carol was sitting against the interior wall, looking her own personal sort of tired. “If you feel comfortable, um—” She turned her head to look away entirely, staring at the opposite wall. “You should let her lay against your skin.”

Bless him, he looked as though he might hyperventilate. “What if—she might—don’t wanna scare ‘er.” Daryl stared at Thumper, her little head moving back and forth as you offered her to him. You wouldn’t tell him the baby was too little to be scared. That would only leave him wondering if she’d be afraid of him later, when she was older. He was so convinced that his scars would make his daughter fear him. 

That anger you had felt before, the inferno of rage that had boiled beneath your ribs—it was back. Had they been still alive, you would strangle those people that had hurt him, scarred him so deeply. Beyond physical. But they were dead. And you were there. You would do your damnedest to show him a different perspective. That he was good and not a product of his father’s anger or his mother’s absence. That he was loved. 

“She isn’t afraid and she won’t be, not of you.” You vowed, pulling Thumper in against your own chest once more. With a hand then free, you raised the blanket and slid over with a grunt. The pain wasn’t horrible but you were definitely sore. “Get under here with me first.”

Maybe one day, he would be beyond the urge to hide that part of himself. Until then, however, you were more than content to help him find any measure of comfort you could offer. 

Daryl hesitated, giving you a quick once over. “Won’t hurtcha?” 

You smiled, small and tired but genuine. “No. Now get under here. Don’t make me drag you while holding a newborn. You know I can do it.” You challenged playfully. Maybe you could lighten the atmosphere. With a pfft, he took the blanket from your hand and shed the one around his shoulders, his eyes darting over to Hershel and Carol. They had knowingly turned their backs. You almost wished they would leave but having someone knowledgeable there was a comfort you weren’t ready to be without. You had no idea what you were doing. Once he was settled, you did your best to pull up the blanket until he took over. “Unbutton your shirt?”

���Dunno if—”

“She already loves you, Daryl. You were the one to calm her down when she was river dancing on my intestines. Just—try?” He sighed, his fingers slowly working open the buttons before stalling. “If you’re too uncomfortable with it, we’ll fix it, okay? I’ll take her and then you can put her on top of your shirt.”

The deep breath he took trembled but he continued until he could part his shirt enough for his chest to be visible. Even with only your eyes on him, he began to exhibit obvious anxiety. 

“It’s only me.” You whispered while maneuvering Thumper. He could actually hold her later, when there weren’t four of you cramped up in the back of an old van with stow-and-go seats. 

The man looked like he was two seconds from sliding out from beneath the blanket and bolting—until the moment the baby’s skin finally touched his own. His wide eyes drained of any trace of fear to make room for awe. 

“Holy fuck.” 

Watching him closely, those two words were meant to be part of the internal monologue he had going on inside his head. His calloused hands had never looked so gentle, laying across Thumper’s back. He immediately lifted one and placed the other there instead with the previous palm resting on her little diapered bottom.

“She s’posed to be this small?” His voice cracked. You turned onto your side, slowly and stiffly, while he silently let his gaze wander over to watch you move. Wiggling to find a comfortable position, you settled with your head on his shoulder and your fingertips brushing repeatedly over Thumper’s head.

“Hershel said she probably weighs around six pounds.” 

“S’that okay?” His thumb was swiping back and forth through the slightly darker blonde hair on the back of the baby’s head. 

“She’s perfect.” 

“Yeah.” He agreed, quietly. His head was tilted, angled to be able to see the little face of the human he helped create. “I, uh—thank you.” You lifted your head to stare him down, quiet yet questioning. “Y’know—for her.”

Your expression softened. Your hand lifted from Thumper to Daryl’s chin, guiding his head to turn. Stifling the grunt of discomfort that moving caused, you shimmied up just enough to press your lips to his. It was chaste but no less passionate. 

“None of that for at least six weeks. Minimum.” Hershel chided from the back of the van. 

Daryl huffed in annoyance, only slightly turning away to bark out “the hell’s ‘er mouth got to do with anythin’?” You laughed in spite of yourself, the action jarring and uncomfortable. 

Hershel even chuckled. “I mean no further, son. No intercourse. She needs to heal.” 

Damnit. You knew at that very moment, it would take you twelve weeks to coerce Daryl into actual sex. God, if your vagina wasn’t ruined after pushing out a whole human. Oh well, you’d be fine as long as he was still yours. You blinked, eyes glazed and thoughts wandering. He would still want you, right?

“Gotta make things weird, old man? Christ.”

Shaking your head, you pushed those worries aside for later. He was now warm and you had your personal space heater back. You molded yourself to his side and willed your body to relax. Daryl was there. Your little family was safe. Sleep laid its claim on you within moments. 

“Claire?” You suggested. Your hand alternated between rubbing and patting the back of the frustrated infant on your shoulder, coaxing out a burp that vibrated your collarbone. Don’t always need it, indeed. While Daryl sat across from you on the bed, rubbing the length of his left index finger across his lips, you adjusted Thumper to the opposite breast. Her little fists were flailing, her face scrunched up and red. The little squeaks and grunts were aplenty as she worked herself up to a squalling cry. “Ssh, here, Thumps.” The moment your nipple rubbed against her cheek, the baby rooted for it eagerly, latching on and suckling with gusto. 

“When she scrunches ‘er face like that, she looks like Merle.” Daryl snorted. His expression didn’t show it but his eyes held a distinct shimmer of sadness. 

“Wanna name her Merle? Merlene? Marleen?” You almost cackled at the look he pulled. “Okay, okay. I said Claire, grumpy gills.”

“Nah.” He sniffed and briefly glanced toward the window. You could hear the van and truck rolling in, hopefully with more supplies. “Makes me think’a that ear piercin’ place in all the malls.”

You thought about people that you had lost. Maybe you could honor them this way. “Andrea?” Daryl snorted. 

“She gonna shoot me when she gets older?” He took a deep breath and balanced his chin on his right palm, elbow pressed into his thigh. “Don’t really feel like she should be a Andrea.”

“Patricia?” You pressed on, stroking Thumper’s cheek with a fingertip. “We could call her Patty?”

“No.”

Your aunt maybe. “My aunt’s name was—actually, no. Nevermind.” This time, it was you that snorted. Daryl shook his head before he turned it back to the window. Thumper had released your nipple, even as her little mouth continued to try and suckle. “Can you burp her while I get all—” you gestured broadly toward your entire self. 

“Sure.” He slid off the mattress and leaned down to take his daughter, so carefully maneuvering her against the front of his shoulder. You kept your sights on him as he moved toward the window, offering the baby a little sunlight. 

You and Daryl slept in the van until the current safe house had been found. No one even woke the archer to help clear it. Probably because Thumps was still lying on his chest. Carol had been the one to wake the two of you, sending you into the bedroom while she heated as much water as she could for you to properly clean up and then to give the baby a warm bath.  Daryl held your daughter while you wiped her down. There was a fire burning in the living room and though you could feel the house slowly warming, neither of you wanted to take any risks. You removed the little knit hat from her head and took care in wiping away the remaining film over her skin. Patting her dry, you replaced the hat and moved on. Each area was bared, cleaned, and covered. You couldn’t help but smile when the archer looked away while you removed the diaper. You made it all the way to her feet before she woke up properly and started trying to suckle Daryl’s thumb.  “Barkin’ up the wrong tree, lil’ one. Gonna hafta talk to your mama if you’re hungry.”

And now here you were, tucking away your tits into a nursing bra while your partner rubbed the back of your perfect daughter by a sunlit window. Thumper was in a light blue sleeper onesie and wrapped in a pink blanket— littered with little birds—to make sure she stayed warm. 

You didn’t hear her burp but had no doubt that she did if he was taking her from his shoulder to the crook of his right arm. From your vantage point you couldn’t see much but you could tell Daryl was talking to her. 

While daddy and daughter were occupied, you laid back on the bed and stretched tired muscles. Your abdomen was still swollen but soft. It was your lady bits that were hot and sore. Forget taking a piss. You had nearly screeched when Daryl had accompanied you earlier, leaving Thumper with Carol. You were bleeding but thank god, Carol had warned you and handed you a couple of pads before you headed out the door. You hadn’t thought anything of it until you were standing over where you had urinated and it looked like a murder scene. 

“Jesus, it’s Nightmare on Elm St in my underwear.” You said as you rounded the tree. Daryl looked unamused.  “Ya gotta be so—graphic? Good lord.”

“Need to hunt soon.” Daryl spoke suddenly from the window. You sat back up with a wince just as he made his way back to you. 

“We have a lot of canned stuff. You don’t need to—”

“Doc said ya need protein to keep makin’ milk for her.” 

You didn’t want him to go anywhere. Logically, you knew it made sense. He was the only other hunter besides yourself. Canned veggies wouldn’t do much towards milk production and of course Daryl had asked about it already. Hershel had been pleased that Thumper was appearing satisfied with the colostrum you were producing, but she would need more even within just the next few days. 

“When?” You tracked him as he lowered to the edge of the mattress just in front of you. The baby’s little hand was curled around his middle finger and you weren’t sure he cared about anything else enough to divert his attention away from his newborn. “Daryl.” You chuckled. 

“Yeah?” He still wasn’t paying attention. 

“Purple because aliens don’t wear hats.” 

“Mhm.” Had he ever been this distracted? You called his name again amidst a laugh, each syllable bouncing. Finally, he looked up. Straight ahead first, as if forgetting where you were sitting. Then it was over to you. “You say somethin’?” 

“Welcome back.”

He mocked a laugh and then deadpanned. “Funny girl.”

Your smile remained steadfast. “When are you going out to hunt?” 

“Thought I’d leave in the mornin’. Y’know, stick ‘round to help ya tonight an’ make sure ya both’re all good ‘fore I go. Try to bring back all I can so that—” His mouth was still open, but the words stopped altogether. His brow drew inward. “Think this diaper’s toast.”

Oh god. 

The first diaper change.  

“Should I get Carol?” You asked in earnest. You had never changed a diaper before and Daryl had never indicated he had any experience either. Still, he shook his head. 

“Gotta learn sometime, right? Between the two’a us, how hard can it be?”

The answer: really fucking hard. 

“Daryl, you have to look!” 

“Don’t feel right to see ‘er—areas.”

“You’re her father and you’re trying to change her. It’s fine. You’re gonna get it all over your hands if you don’t look.”

“S’it s’posed to be that color?” 

“How the hell should I know? Can you hand me the wipes?” 

“What wipes?”

“You didn’t grab the wipes?”

“No?” 

“Was that a question?” 

“No?”

“Daryl.”

“Y/N.”

“Get the wipes.”

Twenty minutes later, Thumper was snoozing comfortably on the mattress, wrapped snugly in her blanket without a care in the world. You and Daryl, however, were staring at the small creature, appearing every bit as though you were trapped in the flashbacks of war. 

“I don’t think it’s supposed to take that long.” You finally commented. 

“Walker guts don’t even look like that.” Daryl’s voice was just as quiet and monotonous as your own. 

“It didn’t even smell. Shouldn’t it smell bad?”

“You’re complainin’?” 

“Touché.”

When Carol knocked, your heads moved in unison, two sets of wide, troubled eyes landing on the woman in the doorway. Her eyebrows shot upward, lowering slowly as she took in the scene: you and Daryl cross-legged on the mattress. Thumper just a few inches away. Wipes and a rolled up diaper on the floor below the foot of the bed. Her hand flew to her mouth, pressing against it to smother the chuckle that tried so hard to break free. 

“You two okay?” She finally asked, clearing her throat. 

“We look okay?” Daryl rasped. 

She struggled against laughter again. “You look like two first time parents discovering one of the joys of a newborn.” 

“We need help.” You were practically pleading, feeling horrible to ask it of the woman who had lost her only child. Daryl’s expression was just as desperate even if he would never grant it a voice. 

“Okay, let’s go over the basics.” Carol shook her head fondly and closed the door behind her. 

Several feedings and diaper changes later, Thumper was asleep between you and Daryl. Night had stolen the sun and a candle burned on the bedside table behind you. She was so far a quiet baby, only crying when she was hungry and would squeak and grunt when her diaper was soiled. 

“Expressing herself in grunts and other noncommittal sounds. She’s totally your kid.” You teased.  “Shuddup.”

Daryl’s hand was on the baby’s stomach, likely just as much for his benefit as hers. He was dozing, making a valiant effort to stay awake with little success. You were just as tired but you couldn’t seem to coerce your eyes away from your partner and daughter. Daryl had been so attentive and tender with you while you carried Thumper but seeing him physically interact with her was an entirely different experience. 

Once again, it was likely something he would internalize but he was absolutely in love. That little thing lying between the two of you had already stolen his whole heart. If you had any doubt of his desire and ability to be her dad,—which you didn’t—that would be long gone now. 

When you weren’t nursing her, she was with Daryl. He talked to her in hushed whispers like sharing secrets he’d never speak to another living soul. And she slept or stared at him while he stared right back. She had the bluest of eyes but Carol said they might not remain that way. 

You hoped they did. 

When she looked at you, you could feel her curiosity and adoration. You were her mother and she knew. She knew your voice, your touch. She knew Daryl. Carol said Thumper could only see in shapes and shades of gray, but you didn’t believe that. Not for a second. They way she would stare at Daryl, her little fingers squeezing the edge of her pink bird blanket. No, you didn’t believe that. 

“Think I gotta name for ‘er.” Daryl spoke suddenly, words rough off his tongue, laced with exhaustion. You smiled. 

“Oh yeah?” You wondered if he was even awake or aware of what he was saying. His eyelids were heavy, flickering open every few seconds. 

“Yeah. S’okay if ya don’t like it. Don’t really make no sense.”

You laughed within a breath, reaching to brush the hair off his forehead. When he didn’t speak for a moment, you found yourself too curious to let it go. “Are you gonna tell me?” 

He took a deep breath, eyes still closed, with an mhm during the exhale. His index finger was gently rubbing back and forth over Thumper’s little hand while she had it fisted into her blanket. 

You almost moved your hand to his shoulder to shake him awake, but refrained. He was—like you—exhausted, and within that state, he was emotionally vulnerable. You almost felt as if you were taking advantage of that, but there was a realization that you wanted him to name her. So, you would wait. Let him sleep or listen when he was ready to tell you. 

“Birdie.” He finally breathed. Without opening his eyes, he moved his finger to tap one of the birds on the blanket. “Birdie Jade.”

You felt the wet tickle of a tear running across the bridge of your nose and wiped it away before it could sting your other eye. Sniffling, you ran your fingers through the hair above Daryl’s ear. His eyes finally opened, clear and sharp, watching, waiting for your reaction. 

You pulled back your hand and laid it on top of his, over the baby’s blanket. 

“Hi, Birdie.”

[zeropro]

since you've already shared your opinion on thundercracker, could you please tell us your thoughts about skywarp? 🙏🙏(btw absolutely love how you draw him❤❤)

haha, hm…I don’t really care much for canon skywarp! sorry! I fell in love with this character while reading starscream fan fiction, I had very little opinion on him at all prior. he wasnt in TFPrime, and Earthspark’s skywarp was completely forgettable. yeah, I think the most ive seen of him in canon is idw1, and haha, he sure is a guy who is in that comic sometimes. he sure does shoot thundercracker for not wanting to genocide a whole city. 

the fun thing with skywarp in fan fiction is his lack of any real canon characterisation means he can really be whatever you need him to be to round out your home brew seeker trine dynamic. most fics write him as the most emotionally open of the three, sorta acts like the glue that keeps starscream and thundercracker from breaking apart, sorta like their kid brother. i like a skywarp that is just a silly little guy who just wants to have a good time and actually cares about his trine and canon skywarp… decidedly is not that XD 

which i guess is fair, skywarp does spend a lot of time getting betrayed by the other seekers in most media. earthspark starscream left skywarp and nova storm behind when attempting to escape GHOST, idw skywarp calls both thundercracker and starscream traitors to their face, cyberverse starscream slorped all the seekers when he absorbed the allspark, and lets not even talk about what skybound starscream did to him while he begged for his life. there never seems to be much love between the seekers in any media, despite them referring to each other as brothers, which is a real shame in my opinion. I havent yet gotten to the part in idw where thundercracker writes a screenplay about starscream and casts skywarp to play starscream, but that does sound like somethjng hilarious to look forward to, as I’m kind of just really wanting to see my boys have a positive canon interaction for once lol. 

apparently skywarp features really prominently in dreamwave, even becoming leader of the decepticons at certain points?? but I don’t plan to read those comics. I did read the wiki tho, and like honestly? good for him uwu

the most consistent character traits for skywarp in pretty much all fanfiction is that he is 1) a prankster and 2) he’s stupid, or is at least thought to be.  turns out both these traits are canon to his character spanning way back to his toy description!

((also thank you im glad you like how i draw skywarp ngl I think a major factor in why I like skywarp so much is because I really like my design for him, like?? am I allowed to find my own drawrings cute??? he’s so cute omg just look at him! he’s my boy!!! he’s my aaaaaahhh!!!!!!))

[mysteryshoptls]

2024-2025 Player Birthday Login Message Lines

These are all the messages that you get from the boys when you log in on the birthday that you set in-game from 18 Mar 2024 to 17 Mar 2025! For those that want to hear them, you can find them in the Archive, under the tab その他　→　監督生バースデー④. (This will not be in your game archives until the birthday you set passes.)

You can find the 2021-2022 Birthday Login Message Lines here! You can find the 2022-2023 Birthday Login Message Lines here! You can find the 2023-2024 Birthday Login Message Lines here!

HEARTSLABYUL

Riddle

Happy Birthday, [Yuu]. Thanks for always looking out for those two dorm students of mine. Actually, we're planning on hosting a reception this weekend at our dorm. I would like to invite you, as part of your birthday celebration. Heh. My apologies. Looks like that has caused you a little anxiety. No worries, I'll be beside you teaching you the proper manners the whole time.

Ace

Yo, [Yuu]. Happy Birthday― Mmkay, so let's get started on the birthday party. I'm just gonna pop on over to this one restaurant in town and nab some tasty-lookin' stuff! Just chill and wait here at Ramshackle... Hey, c'mon, I ain't tryin' to pull anything over on ya. Sometimes I just want to have a normal celebration too, y'know!

Deuce

[Yuu], Happy Birthday! Let me take you to go buy a prese... Eh? You're saying that I've already given you a present because I fixed the broken lights in Ramshackle the other day...? No way, you don't gotta hold back like that! I want to go all out for my pal's special day. That's what makes me happy.

Cater

[Yuu]-chan, Happy Birthday―☆ Did ya post on Magicam that it's your birthday? Oh, not yet? Then, let Cay-kun here with all his power and wisdom write a post for you! We'll attach a cool photo and some slammin' hashtags... Whaddya think? A perfect gift from me, or what?

Trey

Happy Birthday. So, about your present... I do have one. It's just... I was asking around for what to gift you and in the end, I couldn't really figure out what I should get... So in the end, after being at a loss, I ended up getting you this shirt. I look at it now and wonder what possessed me to pick this pattern... Yeah, I know, it's just laughable.

SAVANACLAW

Leona

Yeah, yeah. Your birthday's come 'round again, hooray. ...What're you doing, setting up a chessboard on the floor like that? You practiced just to win a game against me? Oho, so you're challenging me, then. Look at the pluck on this herbivore. So, what're you willing to bet, then? No way you're gettin' away with just a simple game after throwin' down the gauntlet at me like this.

Jack

So, it's your birthday today. Have you set up any new goals yet? What, you're going to surpass me in our classes? Heh, that's a hilarious joke. You really think you can beat me? But I'll take you on. If you get a better score on our next test, I'll get you some kind of present.

Ruggie

Happy Birthday―! 'N that means, I got you somethin' that's fittin' comin' from an upperclassman like me. Ta-da! A homemade fishing rod～ ...Ah, you totally just thought it's a cheap gift, didn'tcha! But this totally works! I know what it's like to go hungry too, y'know～ You're probably always goin' through things, so if you're ever in a pinch, make sure you use this!

OCTAVINELLE

Azul

A very Happy Birthday to you. Have you thought of a gift you'd like to get for yourself? Please, allow me to procure it for you... ...Oho, you have a keen eye to request something of that caliber. It may be considerably difficult to just anyone to acquire. HOW-EV-ER! If I were to handle it, that is a different situation altogether. I shall definitely make sure to retrieve it for you. Please wait expectantly.

Jade

Happy tidings for your birthday. I do hope this year will be another fruitful year for you. By the way, [Yuu]-san. Have you eaten yet? Oh, not yet, how wonderful. As a matter of fact, I thought I would treat you to something in my own little way. I only offer this with the best of intentions, of course. Fufu.

Floyd

Oh hey, Shrimpy-chan. It's your birthday today, huh. Mmkay, then I'll give you some snacks. I got these strange tastin' gummies, these wicked hard cookies, and some squishy jerky. Awesome, right? I got a ton, but all of them expire today, so. These are my presents to you, so you better eat them all without wastin' any, 'kay?

SCARABIA

Kalim

[Yuu], Happy Birthday! Here's your present, from me to you. Ahaha, did that surprise you? I tried making a pop up birthday card just for you. I also tried making a ton of paper flowers that we use during celebrations back in the Scalding Sands. Don'tcha think they came out real pretty?

Jamil

Happy Birthday, [Yuu]. It isn't much, but here's your present. Ramshackle is a fairly old building. I'm sure there are bugs that will find their way in and try to settle down here. However, if you use this, you can rid yourself of all of them in an instant. I can vouch for its effectiveness. Use it as soon as you can.

POMEFIORE

Vil

Happy Birthday, [Yuu]. ...You wish for me to come to your party here, at Ramshackle? And to top it all off, you've prepared a healthy menu just for me... Heh, how considerate of you. Very well. I suppose I can make an appearance out of respect for your enthusiasm. I do hope you're honored that I'll be there to celebrate with you.

Epel

Happy Birthday! I put in a lot of thought picking out a present for you. Here ya go, fingerless gloves! Nice design, right? Makes using your phone a lot easier, too. It'll make you look super cool, and the more you use it, the more comfy it'll feel. I hope you use it tons!

Rook

I've been waiting, Trickster. Waiting, that is, to celebrate your birthday with you. A spectacular day requires a spectacular memory. That is why I've come up with a wonderful plan of my own. First, we watch two back-to-back theater performances, then attend a poetry reading, and finally, watch a movie in the evening. There will be no time to rest. Come, we must quickly fly towards the theater!

IGNIHYDE

Idia

Kk, time to pretend we all get along and celebrate a birthday again... Eep!? D-Did you hear that just now...? Uh, so... Happy B-day, I guess... Soz, I don't have a present for you. Didn't even know it was your birthday... What, you're seriously just happy hearing me wish you a happy b-day? [siiigh] Nah, I'll order something small online and have it shipped to Ramshackle sometime later.

Ortho

Happy Birthday! Here's your present. Go ahead and open it! Hehe, you see what I did? I used a laser to engrave a birthday message on a glass tumbler for you. It was a little difficult fine tuning the power adjustment for the more detailed parts, but it came out pretty good, don't you think? I really hope you like it!

DIASOMNIA

Malleus

Child of Man, I see today is your birthday. ...Hm? What's the matter? You look a tad glum. Ah, I see, you are struggling to carry all your presents. Well, allow me to deliver them to Ramshackle with magic in your stead. No need to protest, this is an effortless task for someone like me. You should enjoy your special day to the utmost.

Silver

Happy Birthday. You're curious about this braided cord? It is your present. Lilia-senpai explained it to me thusly... If a string wrapped around your wrist or ankle snaps off on its own, then your wish will be granted. I strung this cord together in hopes that you may have your wishes come true. It may be a tad ill-shaped, but if it pleases you, it is yours.

Sebek

As I recall, today is your birthday... Hm? You want me to come to your birthday party? What poor semblance of a joke. I don't have the spare time to waltz into some human gathering like... WHAT!? MY LIEGE HIMSELF WILL ALSO BE THERE!? THEN SAY THAT FIRST! For goodness' sake, humans like you are just... so thoroughly thoughtless. Hurry and provide me the location and commencement time!

Lilia

Ooh, nice. So today's your birthday. Just look at how big you're getting. ...Khee hee hee. Don't look so downtrodden. It's just me pretending to be a doting gramps. The other guys in my dorm don't ever let me joke with them like that. And so, I have a present for you. Here, a CD of my performances, specially made! Take this and enjoy my raging screamo music with your whole heart and body.

OTHERS

Crowley and Rollo do not have new lines. Theirs are repeated from last year's.

Grim

Today's your birthday, huh. Happy Birthday to you! ...Huh? Do I got a gift for ya? What're ya even saying? Shouldn't ya be happy enough that you're my number one favorite henchie? Fiiine. Guess I can use my paws to pad you a massage sometime. Wouldn't want to hafta sit in a hard and uncomfy lap, after all!

Crowley

Ta-daaa! What do you suppose this could be? That’s correct, it’s an exchange coupon for use at the Mystery Shop! You have been a consistent helping hand, so… This is a special gift for you. Happy Birthday. Incidentally, that is only worth 500 madol (5 Thaumarks). It cannot be exchanged for something pricier than that. Please don’t hold it against me.

Crewel

It seemed rather rowdy in here, but now I see it was just you, pup. Are you excited simply because its your birthday? I see, well, in that case, I have a special present just for you. As for what it is... It is a special alchemy homework assignment. You should be happy; you'll be able to improve your skills even further with this, don't you think? Haha, Happy Birthday.

Trein

I hear it is your birthday today. Do continue to put forth your best effort in your studies as a student of academia. Allow me to gift you with some words of wisdom instead of a present, as someone who has been on this mortal coil slightly longer than yourself. Merely aging another year does not a mature person make. However, time spent on fruitful endeavors will always be of benefit to your growth.

Rollo

Whatever is the matter, [Yuu]-kun? There is a strange glimmer in your eyes… ...Ah, I see. Today is your birthday. A present? Hmph. I hardly think that it should be something you request of others… But no matter. Indeed, birthdays should be treasured. However, what would be an acceptable gift…? I am afraid I’m rather unaccustomed to this. I would hope I do not disappoint you with a poor gift choice.

Fellow

Oh, my, hello there, my learned scholar! I've been searching, and finally, I've found you! I was fervently hoping to wish you well for your birthday. Here, your present. ...As fellows lacking in magical abilities, we should get along together, don'tcha think? Happy Birthday! Fwahaha!

Requested by Anonymous.

[annagaw]

the medical significance of Draco Malfoy Holding A Baby™: a micro-trope reading list

I am at a very particular point in my hormonal cycle and god damn it once again I have been asking the sub to rescue me in my time of need. It is at present biologically necessary for me to absorb content featuring Draco Malfoy Holding A Baby™.

In case anybody else suffers from the same health condition (called "having a uterus and dipping one toe into my 30s" - it is extremely serious and requires constant intervention), please allow me to share the fics that I have so far read and awarded this tag. I shall endeavour to update the list as I add to it.

For science, you understand.

NB: I have hidden fics for which baby content might be considered spoilers, but have not done so for fics in which the primary focus is pregnancy/childbirth. If you find the appearance of a baby at the end of your HEA pregnancy fic shocking, fair enough, but I refuse to hide the truth from you. Also there are a great many more wonderful fics that feature this trope than the ones on this list - this is merely a curated selection and not my definitive statement on which are Good.

-

Two Idiots and a Baby by ellemenno (M, 27k) - One could be forgiven for thinking that the sole motivation for writing this fic was to find an excuse to get Draco and that baby in the same room and let the magic happen - because my god does the magic happen! But ellemenno has the audacity to deliver it to us with as much style and humour as possible. The fact that this baby situation is occurring within a genuinely intriguing murder mystery and a hilarious idiots-in-denial, colleagues-in-love plot (reminiscent of Bad Omens and Scary Partner Privilege) is especially impressive. It contains another favourite micro-trope of mine: the Very Professional Business Sleepover.

Love and Other Historical Accidents by PacificRimbaud (M, 154k) - I know for a fact that this fic was the beginning of this particular fixation for me. It was one of the first fics I read when I discovered Dramione, and it lured me in by my need for regency romance, keeping me all distracted, before slapping me in the face with this perfect baby scene that I still think about constantly. Draco? Draco Malfoy? Having a one-sided conversation with a baby while staring out a window in a regency suit? Fetch the smelling salts, drag the bloody fainting couch over here, I am destined to swoon!

Cave, [Redacted] (E, 31k) / An Auror’s Guide to Horizontal Dueling (E, 16k) by Accio_Funky_Pants - Now, if Draco Malfoy merely holding a baby does funny things to your reproductive organs, let me tell you, you are not even ready for Draco Malfoy delivering a baby! (Hermione's baby, to be exact.) I used to struggle to read childbirth scenes, but the first fic is multiple chapters of...well, exactly that, and it is magnificent. Intimate, cathartic, warms every last cockle of your heart - truly not a cold cockle nor a dry eye left in the house (and no babies left in wombs either). The sequel fic is an extended epilogue in which, yes, you guessed it, Draco interacts yet again with a baby (and then gets laid after everyone demonstrates an extremely thorough understanding of consent). Good for him!

Witching Hour by neilistic (E, 12k) - This one is so overwhelmingly tender, I skimmed it a moment ago to make sure I remembered the plot and that alone nearly succeeded in wringing tears from me. Nice try, neilistic! (No, really, a masterful effort.) There's nothing like two people bonding over their trauma, their loneliness...but (gently) toss some tiny newborn babies into the mix? A dirty trick, designed to undo me, specifically. Ungentlemanly. (But neither half of Dramione have the energy here to be gentlemen. Oh, and did I mention? There's only one bed.)

The Phoenix Potion by FedonCiadale (T, 237k) - The whole cast of OC Granger-Malfoy offspring in this are completely charming. They're all distinct from each other, kind of weirdos in their own way, and I respect the hell out of it - they really do feel like the children of this particular iteration of Dramione. Hermione works a lot, Draco is a very hands-on father, and everything about their dynamic here feels so lived-in and safe, even when the rest of the world is not: their inside jokes and shorthand, their domestic routines, the way their kids make fun of them, all of it! And then there's just copious amounts of Draco handling babies. I rest my case.

epiphanies by HawthorneWhisperer (M, 31k) - single dad Draco gets a lot of page time in this fandom, and deservedly so. Yes, he is a father, but - more importantly - he is Daddy, and this fic wants you to know that it knows that. It is a perfect bite-sized distillation of everything enjoyable about this trope. Special shout-out to baby Scorpius' chubby little limbs, the real MVPs.

Mind the Bump by Soap1 (E, 84k) - There are an overwhelming amount of unplanned pregnancy fics out there - and believe me that could not be further from a complaint (for you see I need my delicious trope soups, their fertile broths sustain me) (I do hate that I typed that). This one has every ingredient necessary for a balanced diet - lots of lovely gentle caretaking and medically-enforced proximity, small bite-size pieces of drama to keep things a little spicy (please, soup metaphor, let me die). Oh! And...what's this? I won't name names, but did two people bring along all of their emotional baggage from their previous relationships with them? Well, I suppose we have room to store it all somewhere in the Manor.

Pros and Cons by ChaosAndCrumpets (E, 48k) - An unplanned pregnancy fic where everything happens in the run up to an election, a famously relaxing time, especially when you are the present M-oh-M! This fic gives you a political strategist Draco of such dazzling competence that it begs the question: is Draco holding a baby merely a matter of perspective? Perhaps anyone held by such a man is rendered a baby in comparison? But don't worry there's a literal baby too (eventually), and before that there's a disgusting slimy baby-man: Cormac McLaggen! (Though, unlike a baby, McLaggen is never held by anyone willingly, or Draco ever.)

The Pureblood Society of Stay-At-Home Dads by PurpleSugarQuills (E, 2k) - I feel like all the information you really need about this one can be contained in one exceptionally powerful sentence: it begins with Draco getting up to do the night feed with a sleepy little four month old. Hush, little one. Domesticated Draco has come to take care of you. Daddy's home. (Which makes sense because he works here.)

Wait And Hope (M, 95k) / Beginning and End (E, 242k) by mightbewriting - Although I do of course love Draco interacting with his own homemade organic babies, my actual favourite iteration of this trope is the moment that Hermione sees Draco with literally any generic brand baby for the first time, and is like, "oh. I see. I had not considered this. I did not know this would feel this way." And that is captured so very beautifully in both of these fics, at different moments, in different ways (and literally remarked upon by Ginny in the former).

Entries below the break contain mild to moderate plot spoilers for final chapters/epilogues

BLOODY, SLUTTY, AND PATHETIC by WhatMurdah (E, 195k) - You would think that the ceaseless emotional and literal carnage of this fic would prepare me for how unhinged Draco would be as a father and how much it would Affect Me Personally. Alas, apparently fucking not. Draco striding into the pub with his baby that nobody else is allowed to hold? Draco napping with his baby? Don't touch that baby! That baby is His Baby. (And that Draco is My Blorbo.)

I Love You Always Forever by EvergreenTuesdays (E, 13k) - This is a somewhat unhinged addition to the list, because yes, that is a baby Draco has in one arm, but in the other hand I'm pretty sure I'm clocking the remains of a dead dove. Distinctly un-chic. Yet undoubtedly compelling. This one has forced marriage, domestic abuse, murder, gore, a gorgeous (but graphic) illustration...and is also tagged "MILF Hermione". So something for everyone, really!

[spotofimagines]

Dating George Weasley as a Ravenclaw would include...

A/N: This is the longest Would Include I've done, so long there's a read more! But I'm in a Weasley mood lately so here you go!

George Weasley x Ravenclaw reader

He sits and watches you study in the library every now and then.

Sometimes he just wants the company but is too tired to do anything but he doesn't want to interrupt you so he sits slumped in his chair, watching you write or holding your ink for you.

Other times, he will be scribbling doodles for a new sweet Fred wants to sell, heaps of parchment mixing with yours.

He always helps you put your books back when you're finished, traipsing behind you with heavy feet, but helping nonetheless.

You're the first person he comes to for help with pranks. He and Fred come up with the ideas, but you know whether the potion ingredients will work, how to say the spell properly and whether the creature they want to release in the Slytherin common room will destroy the whole school. They really would have been expelled by now if not for you.

You also helped them branch out their business by selling stuff in the Ravenclaw common room since they aren't allowed in there.

You become very popular amongst first-year troublemakers, and the small group of older Ravenclaws set up a space in the corner of the common room to buy the concoctions that will give them more time to finish their essays.

George makes sure none of his antics blow back on you. You work far too hard to have your post-school career knocked because you got too many detentions and failed your exams and he knows it.

Although you are on Filch's bad side for distracting him whilst the twins get their confiscated items from his office. And George's response to that? "Who isn't on his bad side?"

He absolutely rubs it in your face when Gryffindor beats Ravenclaw in a quidditch match, whether you really care or not, that's what he'll be spending an hour doing after he's won.

You have a running deal; you buy him a butterbeer for each match he wins and he buys you dinner each time he loses to Ravenclaw. So far George has had countless drinks. You are yet to have one meal.

He always gives you his things to wear; jumpers, hats, scarves, anything really.

But he will never, absolutely never, wear your Ravenclaw scarf; lord help him you'd think the thing was made of fire by the way he avoids it.

You don't know Oliver Wood very well, but he gave you one of the biggest scoldings you have ever received when George couldn't play a quidditch match because you'd been chasing him in the courtyard with your scarf and he fell over his own feet, landing weirdly on his elbow and hip.

After the stern lecture from Oliver and spending two days in the hospital wing with George and occasionally Fred, who found the whole ordeal hilarious, you didn't tease him with your Ravenclaw items again for a long time. He still avoids that scarf like the plague.

You're the only friend of the twins that Percy can tolerate.

Probably because when you visited The Burrow during Christmas breaks, you talked to him about his work and being head boy without ridiculing him. (And you smack George's arm when he makes rude jokes which Percy quite enjoys seeing).

George sits and listens to you rant when you need it.

He watches as you pace back and forth, words never stopping until you've gotten everything out. Then he just pulls you into a long tight hug before he tries to distract you from your problem.

About half of George's herbology work is written by you, and half his transfiguration work and probably half his care for magical creatures work too if he didn't manage to weasel Charlie into unknowingly writing him an essay every month in his letters.

George 100% tries making a million invisibility products and polyjuice potions to try and sneak into your common room at night, but Hogwarts is much too equipped to let him find success at it.

So you had to find a secret spot in the castle for your late-night rendezvous without teachers or prefects finding out.

At first, it was the girls' lavatories but Myrtle's snooping and laughter made it less than perfect. The ghost whispering in his ear halfway through a makeout session made George far too irritated to go there for a third time.

He leaves you little love notes all over the place, some telling you to keep smiling, some telling you a weird joke, some telling you how smoking you look (and now you definitely have to make sure no one can see these notes except you!).

When you have exams or projects due his love notes get more frequent since he knows you'll be stressed and seeing him less.

He always attempts to eat every meal with you in the great hall. This way you can catch up on what you've both been up to and how your classes have been while he makes sure you remember to take breaks from studying to eat properly.

If things get in the way (*cough* detention *cough*) he will take you out to The Three Broomsticks on the weekend, just the two of you, and maybe Fred, but he swears he told Fred not to come this time!

He told you about the marauders' map a day after finding it because he was certain there was something special about the spare roll of parchment in Filch's office they found under Fred's nose-biting teacups.

It was you nonchalantly guessing there's a spell keeping its contents secret before carrying on reading your book that gave him the best tool he could have wished for.

That's why you're the only other person who knows about the map. You've spent many hours sitting tucked into his side, munching on chocolate frogs and watching people walk around on the paper.

That's how you found out Fred and Angelina were dating but George's excitement to tease them about it more mischievously outweighed your want to learn the details from your friend.

Despite all of George's silliness and trouble, he might just be one of the smartest people you know outside of Ravenclaw.

Not that anyone else believes you when you say it, as his pranks are known to be foolish, but you've seen the way he and Fred create their products and plan their business throughout the years. No one else has the mix of academic and streets smarts to be that successful, you're sure of it.

[cherryblessing]

📎— A DATE WITH SATORU?!

``some days, getting lost is the best way to find where you’re meant to be.``

The sun hung low, casting golden hues that spilled over the bustling streets, wrapping everything in a warm glow. Satoru tugged at your hand, his grin as bright as the day itself. His fingers interlaced with yours, the casual gesture somehow grounding despite his chaotic energy.

"So," he asked, tilting his head in that familiar playful way, "where shall we go?"

You shrugged, a laugh bubbling up as the scent of street food mingled with the crispness of the late afternoon. "You were the one dragging me out, remember?"

"True, true," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. His free hand gestured broadly, as if presenting the whole city to you. "But I thought it’d be more fun if we wing it. How about... ice cream first? Or wait, a movie? Nah, karaoke! I need to bless the world with my angelic voice."

"Angelically off-key, you mean," you shot back, grinning at his exaggerated gasp of betrayal.

He stopped mid-step, spinning around to face you with a mischievous gleam in his too-blue eyes. "You dare doubt my talents?" he asked, his tone mock-serious.

Without waiting for a reply, he slung an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. His hum—a hilariously offbeat rendition of the café tune drifting nearby—vibrated against you.

"Okay, okay!" you said through laughter, the sound bright and untethered. "Maybe karaoke later. For now, let’s grab a drink. Coffee?"

"Coffee?" he echoed, his brows shooting up as though you’d just suggested something profound.

"Yeah," you quipped, "so I can watch you drown yours in more sugar than should be legally allowed. Honestly, it’s impressive your teeth haven’t quit on you yet."

Satoru gasped again, one hand clutching his chest with Oscar-worthy theatrics. "Excuse me, I happen to have impeccable taste. My coffee is just—what’s the word?—enhanced."

"Sweetened beyond recognition, you mean."

"Details, details," he said with a dismissive wave, steering you toward the café.

Inside, the smell of roasted beans filled the air as the barista handed over two steaming cups. Satoru’s drink looked more like dessert, whipped cream piled high and drizzled with caramel. You raised a brow at him as he took a proud sip, the whipped cream smudging the tip of his nose.

"You’ve got—" you started, laughing softly as you reached to wipe it away with your thumb.

"Enhancements?" he finished smugly, leaning closer into your touch, his sunglasses slipping down just enough to reveal a teasing spark in his eyes.

"Sure, let’s call it that," you said, shaking your head with a fond smile on your face.

The two of you slipped back out onto the street, the day unfolding in spontaneous bursts. He led you into a cozy bookstore, immediately picking up the most ridiculous title he could find to perform a dramatic reading in his booming voice.

Later, you found yourselves caught in a light drizzle. Without missing a beat, Satoru popped open a rainbow-colored umbrella he’d "borrowed" from the lost-and-found at the café.

"You could’ve just used your technique," you teased, huddling closer under the small canopy.

"But where’s the romance in that?" he replied, grinning.

Every turn of the day felt like a discovery, filled with laughter, shared glances, and moments of quiet joy that seemed to stretch time.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft purples and oranges, Satoru turned to you. The golden light kissed his snowy hair, framing his face in a way that softened the usual sharpness of his grin. For once, his voice was quiet, almost tender.

"See? I told you. The best adventures aren’t planned."

You looked at him, his gaze holding a warmth that rivaled the fading sunlight. And in that moment, you couldn’t help but think: maybe he was right.

all writing, including poems are my own.

©cherryblessing.2024

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 11

˗ˏˋ car literature ˎˊ˗

"Halfway across the country to escape your parents' expectations, only to find their voices still echo in your head. Maybe freedom isn't about how far you run, but what you choose to hear when everything goes quiet."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7.5k

content: jungkook being late, y/n offering him a ride, coffee mainsplaining, new friendships, jimin being a book nerd, jin reserving tables, professor namjoon kim having dimples and giving you a helping hand on your assignement

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY HI LOSERS!!!! Chapter 11 is here, right on schedule like the little miracle worker I am. I actually have ch11, 12, and 13 all done and ready to go but I'm sticking to my posting schedule because SOMEONE (me) knows she'll burn out at some point so you better savor this while it lasts.

Anyway, about Y/N having a car: yes, she has one because I said so and Jungkook doesn't because he's a whole-ass LOSER LMAO. I did love weaving in the reason behind the car though and connecting it to her messy complicated relationship with her parents. God I love how human she is??? Like, she's so conflicted—grateful for what they've done but suffocated by their expectations. THE COMPLEXITY. I'm obsessed with my own creation, forgive me.

I'll give Jungkook some credit here (GASP) because while he has the self-awareness of a potato, he IS observant and perceptive when he wants to be. Boy's too busy coping with humor and deflecting for his own good though. You'll see what I mean… eventually.

Also can we talk about how much I'm LIVING for Y/N and Jimin's growing friendship?? I love how Y/N makes friends for such different reasons—Yeji is the one who makes her feel like she doesn't have to have her shit figured out, Irya is the emotionally intelligent one, and Jimin?? They bond over their shared love of literature and books and isn't that just chef's kiss beautiful?

And I refuse to apologize for the text messages. REFUSE. The texts are staying because I love writing them too much. Deal with it.

FINALLY THOUGH!!! NAMJOON MAKES HIS ENTRANCE!!! MY KING!!! I've actually had him planned since chapter 3 (don't get it twisted), there are hints if you paid attention. But now he's finally here in all his dimpled glory and we love him. Jin, I understand you completely, babes.

ANYWAY. Chapter below. Enjoy bobs bobes and bobas!!!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

The sound of Jungkook stubbing his toe for the third time this morning is, objectively speaking, fucking hilarious.

You hide your smirk behind your mug, pretending to be deeply invested in your FYP as another muffled "shit—motherfucking—” echoes from his room. The apartment has been a symphony of chaos for the past fifteen minutes: doors slamming, drawers banging, what sounds suspiciously like a guitar being knocked over (followed by more creative cursing).

And okay, maybe you're a little evil for enjoying this so much. But come on. Mr. "I Pretend To Have My Life Together" finally overslept, and you get to witness the glorious fallout while calmly sipping your morning coffee. The universe gives you so few gifts. You're allowed to savor this one.

His coffee sits next to yours, made exactly the way he likes it—because yes, you've noticed how particular he is about his precious coffee routine. Two shots of espresso, a splash of oat milk (regular milk upsets his stomach, not that he's ever admitted it), and just a hint of vanilla syrup. You absolutely refuse to acknowledge how or why you've memorized this.

Something crashes in the bathroom. Griffin, lounging on the windowsill, barely twitches an ear.

"Has he always been this much of a disaster?" you ask the cat. Griffin's slow blink feels judgmental. Fair enough.

More thundering footsteps. A drawer slams so hard you feel it in your teeth. You scroll past a video of someone's cute dog, not really seeing it, too focused on tracking the hurricane that is your roommate having a morning meltdown.

"Fuck—where is my—" His voice cuts off abruptly. 

You can practically hear him running his hands through his hair, tugging—that thing he does when he's stressed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Yeji.

𝐘𝐞𝐣𝐢🖤: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑?

You're typing back a quick 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 when Jungkook bursts into the kitchen like he's being chased. His hair is still wet from the shower, shirt only half-buttoned, and—oh. 

Oh no.

He's wearing The Jeans. 

The ones that make his thighs look like they were carved from marble. 

The ones you specifically remember clawing off him that first night, back when he was just Hot Stranger From the Bar. 

You take a very deliberate sip of coffee and absolutely do not think about that.

"Late for something?" you ask innocently, like you haven't been cataloging every crash and curse for the past quarter hour.

He whirls toward you, and for a split second, you catch him completely unguarded—flushed, disheveled, one hand still trying to button his shirt. Then his eyes narrow, landing on the coffee mug next to yours.

"Is that—"

"Just drink it, Rogue." You cut him off, rolling your eyes. "Unless you want to waste more time making your own."

The nickname slips out without permission. You blame it on the early hour, on not having enough caffeine yet. Not on how he looks with his hair still dripping, water darkening the collar of his shirt. Definitely not on how the morning light catches the silver ring on his hand when he reaches for the mug.

He takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up.

"This is—"

"If you say 'perfect,' I'm dumping the rest down the sink."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Actually, the extraction time on this is slightly—"

"I swear to god, if you start mansplaining coffee to me at—" you check your phone, "—eight forty-seven in the morning, I will personally ensure you never make it to wherever you're going."

"It's called sharing knowledge, Phoenix." He's already moving again, a blur of motion that somehow manages to look both graceful and completely chaotic. "And the optimal brewing temperature for espresso is—"

"Do you ever just hear yourself talk and think 'wow, I'm really like this'?"

"—between 195 and 205 degrees Fahrenheit, which you'd know if you actually paid attention when I—" He freezes mid-rant. "Wait, what time did you say it was?"

"Eight forty... eight now."

"Fuck. Fuck." He runs both hands through his hair, making it stick up even worse. "I can't be late to this one."

You can't help yourself. "Don't you skip Film Theory like, twice a week?"

"That's—that's different." He's practically vibrating now. "This is the one where we're presenting our—where the fuck is my phone?"

"The thing you set down right here when you grabbed your coffee?" You tap your fingernail against his phone, which has been sitting next to your elbow this whole time. "This phone?"

He lunges for it, and you definitely don't notice how he has to lean into your space to grab it, or how he still smells like his stupidly expensive shower gel. The screen lights up in his hand and—wait.

"Is that Griffin as your lockscreen?"

"What? No." He shoves the phone in his pocket too quickly. "It's—shut up."

"Oh my god, it totally is. Is it the one where he's sleeping in the—"

"I'm gonna be late," he cuts you off, already halfway to the bathroom. You hear him banging around, probably looking for his cologne. The one that makes him smell like rain and...

You glance at the time again. At this rate...

"Want me to take you?"

His head pokes around the bathroom door, hair falling in his eyes. There's a bit of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth that he hasn't noticed. 

"What?"

"My car?" You try to sound casual, like you're not offering to save his ass. "Unless you'd rather take the subway and definitely be late."

He stares at you like you've just started speaking in tongues. 

“You got a—" His brow furrows. "Wait, you got a car?"

"No, I'm offering you a ride on my imaginary unicorn." You roll your eyes. "Yes, I have a car. Had it for like, two weeks now. How have you not noticed?"

"I've been busy!" He disappears back into the bathroom, voice slightly muffled. "And since when do you—why would you even—who has a car in New York?"

"People who don't want to deal with the subway at 2 AM after work?" You raise your voice so he can hear you over what sounds like him knocking over every single bottle in the bathroom. "Also, time check: eight fifty-one."

"Shit." More crashing sounds. "Okay, yes, fine, please drive me, I'll never make fun of your tea collection again."

"That's a lie and we both know it."

You drop your mug gently in the sink, leaving washing for later in the day, next to his. Then grab your bag, your sunglasses too—from where they're perched on top of your head. Walk to the door and wait for Jungkook to finish spraying his perfume before he’s darting out of the tiny room and positioning himself next to you. 

Then you’re out, glasses sliding on as you lock the door. The movement is automatic, practiced—something you picked up during those long drives when the sun would hit just right and—

"Okay, Gossip Girl," he snorts, cutting into your thoughts.

"You haven't even watched Gossip Girl."

"Excuse you, I'm a man of culture." He's half-jogging to keep up with you, which is... something, considering his legs are approximately twice as long as yours. "Blair Waldorf is an icon and Chuck Bass is—wait, no, seriously." He catches up as you reach the elevator. "Why do you have a car? In New York? Who are you?"

The elevator doors slide open with their usual concerning screech. You step in, leaning against the back wall as he follows, hitting -1 with his thumb. The fluorescent lights make the shadows under his eyes more pronounced—definitely up too late gaming again.

"When I signed the lease," you say, watching the numbers tick down, "Miguel mentioned there was an unused garage spot included. It was actually one of my prerequisites."

"Prerequisites," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the word. When you glance over, he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. "You came here on your own?"

You shrug, suddenly very interested in a scuff mark on the elevator floor. 

"Yeah."

"Where from?"

The question hangs in the air between you. It's such a simple thing to ask, really. Basic getting-to-know-you stuff. But something about the way he says it, soft and curious, makes your throat tight.

"Small town," you say finally. "The kind where everyone knows everyone's business and the most exciting thing that happens is when someone paints their fence the wrong shade of beige."

He doesn't laugh like you expect. When you risk another look, he's still watching you, head tilted slightly.

"Must've been quite the change."

"That was kind of the point."

The elevator jolts, making you grab the rail. He doesn't move, somehow keeping his balance like he's got magnets in his shoes or something. Imbecile.

"So what, you just... packed up and drove to New York?" There's something in his voice—not quite disbelief, but close.

"I mean, I applied to NYU first. I'm not completely insane." You're aiming for light, casual, but it comes out a bit defensive. "But yeah, basically. Loaded up the car, picked a playlist, and..." You wave your hand vaguely.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He's quiet for a moment, and you can practically hear him piecing things together. The way you never talk about home. How you tense up when anyone mentions family. The fact that your room is filled with things you clearly bought after moving in, nothing old or sentimental except—

"The bear," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"The stuffed bear on your bed. The really old-looking one." He straightens up, like he's solved a puzzle. "That's why you got it. It's from before."

Something uncomfortable squirms in your chest. 

“Okay, Detective Kuko, maybe focus on not being late instead of psychoanalyzing my childhood toys?"

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal the garage. He pushes off the wall, but you catch his reflection in the mirrored doors—that little half-smile that he always pulls when he’s being particularly insufferable.

"You know," he says, following you out into the dimly lit space, "for someone who claims to hate nicknames, you sure throw around a lot of them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Rogue."

His laugh echoes off the concrete walls. "Whatever you say, Phoenix."

The car beeps when you press the button on the key fob, its sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. It’s a rundown 2010 Honda Civic, the kind of car that blends into the background of every suburban parking lot. 

The kind your father refused to buy you when you were eighteen and wanted to transfer to a college campus just a bit further away. 

Funny how that worked out for him. You ended up buying this one yourself, and now you’re in New York City—a hell of a lot further away than that first suggestion.

But your chest tightens at the thought, like it always does when you let your mind wander back there. 

What were you even aiming for? 

Retribution? 

Vengeance? 

For what? Daddy not wanting to get you a car? When they’ve paid for your tuition all this time, made dinner for you when you stayed up late studying, and even sat through all of the Avengers movies with you despite hating superhero flicks. Your mom would always cut up fruit for you during finals season, leaving little notes on the kitchen counter that said things like You’ve got this! or Proud of you! in her neat handwriting. 

A mix of guilt and frustration gnaws at you. Because what kind of ungrateful asshole feels bitter about something so small when their parents have done so much?

And yet, here you are. Feeling it anyway. 

It’s not like they were bad parents—strict, sure, but not bad. They just wanted what was best for you, didn’t they? 

So why does it still sting when you think about how they dismissed your creative writing journal as a “waste of time” or how they steered every conversation toward practicality and success? Why does it feel like every decision they made for you came with strings attached? Like love was something earned through achievements instead of something freely given?

You grip the keys tighter as if that’ll stop the spiral forming in your head. Because it’s not fair to them, is it? They did their best. They didn’t know how suffocating it felt to have every move scrutinized, every choice second-guessed. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re blowing it all out of proportion. Maybe they weren’t controlling; maybe you were just too sensitive. Maybe this whole mess is on 

you.

But then again... wasn’t it their fear that kept you tethered to that small town for so long? Their insistence on safety and stability that made leaving feel like rebellion instead of growth? 

You shake your head, trying to shove those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter now. You’re here. You made it out. You’re independent and capable and—

“Wow,” Jungkook’s voice cuts through your inner monologue like a knife, dragging you back to reality with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “This car sucks.”

Your head snaps toward him as he stands there, one eyebrow raised in judgmental amusement. He’s leaning against the passenger door like he’s too good to even touch it properly.

Without thinking, you slam the driver’s door closed with more force than necessary. “Changed my mind,” you snap, glaring at him over the roof of the car. “Go walk.”

He laughs, already folding his stupidly long legs into the passenger seat. "Aw, come on, Phoenix. I'm sure it has... character."

"Get out of my car."

"The duct tape on the mirror really adds something, you know?"

"I will leave you here."

"Is that a Fast and Furious sticker? Did you actually—"

"One more word about my car and you're taking the subway."

He holds his hands up in surrender, but he's still grinning. 

"Wouldn't dream of insulting your..." His eyes dart to the dashboard where the check engine light has been on since you bought it. "Unique vehicle."

"I hate you so much right now."

"No you don't." He starts fiddling with the radio, because apparently personal boundaries mean nothing to him. "Oh my god, is this a cassette player?"

You swat his hand away. "Touch my radio and die."

"But—"

"My car, my rules."

"What are you gonna do, make me listen to your sad girl hours playlist?"

You turn the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with its usual concerning cough. "Bold of you to assume I'd share my playlists with someone who butchers Mayer's solos every night."

"I do not—" He sits up straighter, actually offended. "That was one time, and the strings were new, and—"

"Slow Dancing in a Burning Room doesn't need your creative reinterpretation, Rogue."

And fuck. Why did you have to bring up that specific song? The one he was playing two nights ago, like it was just for you and him in the quiet of the night. 

"Didn't know you were such a Mayer purist, Phoenix." 

You check your mirrors, definitely not watching how he slouches in the seat, all long limbs and morning-messy hair. 

"Seatbelt, Kuko."

"Is that your favorite Mayer song?" 

God, why is he doing this? Making small talk about music like he didn't just watch you have a whole crisis about your car? 

"I guess." You mutter, exiting the garage once and for all.

You merge into traffic, grateful for the excuse to focus on something other than how he's angled his body toward you in the passenger seat. 

But then, because he can’t leave things alone…

"You know any others?"

You lick your lips. Two beats of silence. 

“Some ring a bell." You finally say. Swallow. Change lanes. Don't think about summer evenings and vinyl records and— "It's just that one... brings memories."

Silence, again.

You can feel him watching you, that way he does sometimes when he thinks you're not paying attention. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle but keeps finding new pieces.

Then he sighs, a soft chuckle that does absolutely nothing to your stomach. Nothing at all. 

“Guess I'll have to play some more for you." His voice drops slightly, just shy of teasing. "You know, expand your musical taste."

And what the fuck are you supposed to do with that? With the way he says it—like a challenge, like a promise? With how the morning sun catches his ring when he drums his fingers against his thigh, keeping time to whatever song is playing in his head?

"Bold of you to assume I want to hear more of your mediocre guitar skills."

It's weak and you both know it. 

But he lets you have it, just huffs out another laugh and turns to look out the window. 

And you absolutely do not notice how the sunlight catches the edge of his jaw, or the way his shirt is still slightly wrinkled from his rush this morning.

No. No, you don’t. 

"Wait, you're telling me you've never read Donna Tartt?"

Jimin's scandalized whisper makes you grin as you both push through the library's heavy doors. There's something endearing about how genuinely offended he is by this gap in your literary education.

"In my defense," you whisper back, following him up the stairs to the second floor, "I was a bit busy reading whatever my parents deemed 'appropriate' until, oh, about six months ago?"

He glances back at you, something knowing in his eyes. It should make you uncomfortable—usually does, when people look at you like they understand. But with Jimin, it feels... okay. Maybe because he was there that night at your apartment, quietly positioning himself next to you like a gentle buffer against the chaos.

"Okay, but now you have to read The Secret History." He leads you to what's clearly his usual spot—a corner table partially hidden behind the Classical Literature stacks. "It's like... Dark Academia meets murder mystery meets Greek tragedy."

"You had me at murder mystery, honestly."

He pulls out a chair, dropping his bag with practiced ease. "I actually have my copy here somewhere. The spine's basically destroyed because I've read it so many times, but—"

"Let me guess—you're one of those people who annotates their books?"

His cheeks flush slightly. "Maybe?"

"Oh my god, you totally are." You slide into the chair across from him, already feeling more relaxed than you have all day. "Do you use different colored pens? Have a whole system?"

"...you're making fun of me."

"I would never." You scoff. "I'm simply appreciating your dedication to the literary arts."

He tries to maintain his pout, but you can see the smile fighting through. 

"You know what? For that, I'm not telling you where the secret coffee spot is."

"The what now?"

"Oh, nothing." He starts unpacking his bag with exaggerated nonchalance. "Just a hidden corner where they don't enforce the 'no drinks' policy. But since you're so judgmental about my annotation habits..."

"Park Jimin." You lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Are you telling me there's a way I can read and caffeinate without having to dodge the library police?"

"I don't know..." He draws it out, eyes twinkling. "Can you be trusted with such powerful knowledge?"

"I will literally annotate a book right now. Any book. Pick one."

His laugh is barely more than a breath, but it's warm, genuine. 

“Okay, okay. But first—what's your stance on dog-earing pages?"

You gasp. "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

"Just checking." He grins, finally pulling out his battered copy of The Secret History. "Here. But I want detailed feedback on all my margin notes."

You accept the book carefully, noting the well-worn spine, the sticky notes peeking out from between pages. "Did you... color-code your tabs?"

"That's it." He starts gathering his things. "I'm leaving."

"No, wait!" You grab his arm, laughing as quietly as you can. "I actually love it. Really. Show me your system?"

He settles back down, mock-glaring but clearly pleased. "Fine. But only because you actually seem to care about books, unlike some people."

"Let me guess—Yeji ditched the second you mentioned the library?"

"'Sorry, babe,'" he mimics Yeji's voice with surprising accuracy, "'but I only enter buildings with books if they also serve alcohol.'"

You snort. "That tracks."

"Speaking of tracking..." He pulls out his phone. "Want to see my reading spreadsheet?"

"Your what now?"

"It's color-coded by genre, with separate tabs for—"

"Jimin?"

"Yeah?"

"I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

His smile could power the whole library. "Just wait until I show you my TBR organization system."

And you find yourself smiling back, real and easy, as he launches into an explanation involving multiple apps and something called "reverse timeline sorting." Because yeah, okay—maybe making new friends isn't the worst thing in the world.

Even if they are terrifyingly organized book nerds who probably alphabetize their bookmarks.

Also, the thing about being an English major at NYU is that you end up sharing a lot of classes with the Comparative Literature kids. 

It's not really surprising when you think about it—you're both basically studying books, just from different angles. 

While you're deep diving into English and American literature (thanks to your very traditional parents who would have probably had an aneurysm if you'd picked anything more "experimental"), Jimin's out here analyzing texts from all over the world, looking at how different cultures approach storytelling.

Which is how you end up in at least three classes together this semester. 

Modern Literature with Professor Sullivan on Mondays and Wednesdays (where Jimin always has the most interesting takes on international influences), Contemporary Poetry Analysis (where he somehow manages to connect Emily Dickinson to some obscure Korean poet you can't pronounce), and that one Friday afternoon workshop that everyone dreads but somehow becomes bearable when Jimin starts drawing parallels between Western and Eastern literary traditions.

It's actually kind of perfect. Your English major foundation gives you the deep knowledge of Western canon that his program requires, while his Comparative Literature perspective opens up whole new ways of looking at texts you thought you knew inside out. 

Like right now, as he's explaining how Japanese magical realism evolved differently from its Latin American counterpart, you're seeing 100 Years of Solitude in a completely new light.

Plus, it's nice having someone who actually gives a shit about books. 

Yeji, bless her chaotic heart, thinks anything written before 2010 is "prehistoric," and your other friend from Modern Lit only reads SparkNotes. 

But Jimin? Jimin color-codes his annotations and has strong opinions about Oxford commas. 

Which is probably why, when he suggested studying together, you didn't even hesitate. Because yes, okay, maybe you've been a bit... selective about making friends since moving to New York. 

But someone who understands why you got emotional about Woolf's use of semicolons? That's the kind of friend worth having.

"Okay, but consider this," Jimin whispers, sliding his Contemporary Literature notes across the table. "What if we compared Murakami's use of magical realism with García Márquez? Because I swear there's a connection between Kafka on the Shore and 100 Years of Solitude that no one talks about."

You lean forward, scanning his impossibly neat handwriting. Of course his notes are color-coded. "For the Modern Lit essay?"

"Yeah, Professor Sullivan mentioned wanting unique perspectives, right?" His eyes light up the way they only do when discussing books. "And since you're taking Modern Literature and I've got Comparative Lit Theory this semester..."

"A cross-course analysis?" You tap your pen against your notebook, mind already racing. "That's... actually brilliant?"

"Really?" He perks up, then immediately remembers to lower his voice when someone at the next table glares. "Because I was thinking, with your focus on contemporary Western literature and my background in Eastern literary traditions—"

"We could explore how different cultural interpretations of magical realism intersect!" You're probably too excited about this for a library setting, but whatever. "Jimin, you're literally a genius."

He ducks his head, but you catch his pleased smile. "I mean, you're the one who brought up the cyclical narrative patterns in class last week. I just thought maybe we could..."

"Collaborate?" You're already flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. "Please tell me you're not working with anyone else for the final paper."

"Was kind of waiting for the right partner." He gives you a pointed look. "Someone who wouldn't just make me do all the work."

"Unlike some people we know?"

"I'm not naming names, but..." He glances around conspiratorially. "Let's just say I've already witnessed Yeji's approach to required reading in our shared Literature and Gender class last week."

"Do tell."

"She showed up to discuss Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own and asked, completely seriously, if it was about interior design." He shudders dramatically. "Then tried to argue that her TikTok research should count as academic sources."

You have to stuff your fist against your mouth to muffle your laugh. 

"She did not."

"Direct quote: 'But professor, this BookToker made some really good points about, like, the feminist undertones and stuff.'" He pulls out his laptop, already opening a fresh document. "So, partner? I mean, we're only two weeks into the semester, but I can already tell you actually read the material. Plus, I've got access to some really interesting papers on Japanese magical realism through the Comparative Lit database."

"Only if you let me buy you coffee at Jin's after this." You pause. "Wait, is that weird? Am I being weird?"

His smile is soft, understanding. "Not weird at all. But only if you let me show you my favorite translation of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. The annotations are chef's kiss."

"God, you really are a book nerd, aren't you?"

"Says the person who got excited about cyclical narrative patterns."

"...touché."

He starts typing, fingers flying over the keys. "So, structure-wise, I was thinking we could start with a brief overview of traditional magical realism in Latin American literature, then transition into..."

You settle in, watching him outline your shared project with the same methodical care he probably uses to organize his bookshelf. 

And maybe it's the quiet of the library, or the way afternoon sun filters through the stacks, but something in your chest feels lighter. 

Because this—this easy back-and-forth about books and ideas—this is what you came to New York for.

"Oh!" Jimin's whisper breaks into your thoughts. "We should definitely include the cat symbolism in both texts. Speaking of..." He glances up from his screen. "How's living with Griffin?"

"The cat or his stupid owner?"

The words slip out before you can stop them. Jimin's eyebrows shoot up, a knowing look crossing his face that makes you want to hide behind your textbook.

"Why? Wanna talk about his owner?”

"I meant—that's not—he is stupid!" You grab your water bottle just to have something to do with your hands. "Whatever. We should focus on the magical realism thing."

"Mhm." He's still giving you that look. "Whatever you say. But you know, if you ever want to talk about... cats..."

"I will literally throw this book at you."

"The annotated one? You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, Park."

His quiet laugh makes a few people look over, but you can't bring yourself to care. Because somehow, in the span of an afternoon, you've gained both a study partner and what feels like a real friend.

Even if said friend is now wiggling his eyebrows at you every time you try to redirect the conversation back to Murakami.

Your phone buzzes against the table, making Jimin glance up from his color-coded notes. 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛 𝚞 𝚛𝚗

You roll your eyes, typing back quickly.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Your screen lights up with his reply.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚛 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟷𝟻𝚖𝚒𝚗? 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝟺𝟶

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟺𝟶????

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟺𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘? 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚍 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚖? 🥺

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞

Your fingers hover over the keyboard because—what the fuck is he saying right now? What does he mean?

But then.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

Fucking bitch-ass motherfucker. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚊𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 🤢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜? 

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳

𝐘𝐨𝐮: "𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡”

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝟺𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 💅

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝟺𝟶

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜 𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 😏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝙼𝙾𝙹𝙸???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎

Read 4:47 PM

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨��: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙾𝚆

Read 4:48 PM

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑

Read 4:49 PM

You shove your phone in your bag. Whatever. You've got actual priorities here—like making real friends who appreciate literature and don't judge your drink choices (does he?).

"Actually," you say, straightening up and pulling out your Modern Lit syllabus, "let’s go to Jin’s right now. Because I could use a caramel frappuccino, and I'd love to hear more about your take on Murakami's symbolism."

Jimin's whole face lights up. "Really? Because I have thoughts about the significance of wells as transitional spaces in—"

"Lead the way, book nerd." You start packing up your stuff, already feeling more centered. "But fair warning—I will absolutely judge your coffee order if it's anything boring like plain black."

"You order everything with extra whipped cream, don’t you?”

"It's called having taste, Jimin. And yes, I want the little chocolate sprinkles too."

His laugh echoes through the stacks as you both head out, earning a few glares that you can't bring yourself to care about. Because this? This is exactly what you need. Good conversation, sugary drinks, and someone who gets genuinely excited about literary analysis.

Your phone stays silent in your bag. You don't even think about checking it.

After all, you've got more interesting things to focus on—like whether Jin will let you convince him to add extra caramel to your drink, or finally having someone who understands why you cried over that one Sylvia Plath poem.

Because honestly? There’s just something deliciously satisfying about choosing exactly how you want to spend your afternoon. 

And right now? That means ordering the sweetest drink on the menu and diving deep into a discussion about magical realism with someone who actually gets it.

Sometimes the best kind of freedom is just... doing whatever the fuck you want.

The thing about Jin is that he treats his coffee shop like it's a kingdom and he's the benevolent (but definitely judgy) ruler.

"Well, well." He quirks an eyebrow as you and Jimin push through the door, the familiar smell of coffee and old books wrapping around you like a hug. "Where's the demon child?"

"Yeji's allergic to studying." You lean against the counter, already eyeing the pastry display. "Breaks out in hives if she gets too close to academic pursuit."

Jin snorts, wiping his hands on his apron. "That tracks. Haven't seen you in a few days—were you actually at the library? Or is this some elaborate cover story?"

"Studying, actually." You gesture to Jimin, who's hovering politely beside you. "With actual books and everything. Jin, this is Jimin. Jimin, this is Jin, who makes the best coffee in the East Village but will definitely judge your order."

"I don't judge." Jin's mouth twitches. "I merely... evaluate life choices."

Jimin waves shyly. "Nice to meet you. Yeji's mentioned this place a lot."

"All lies, probably." Jin's already moving to the espresso machine, hands automatic in their movements. "What can I get you both? And Y/N, before you say it— no, I will not make you one of those abominations with eight pumps of syrup."

"Rude." You straighten up, pretending to study the menu like you don't order the same thing every time. "Fine. Latte with cold foam?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's fondness there. "Let me make you something better. Just got a new blend in—Ethiopian, hints of blueberry. You'll love it."

"Bold of you to assume I can taste anything beyond sugar."

"Trust me." He turns to Jimin. "And for you?"

"Just an americano, please."

You whirl around. "That's so sad."

"Shut up." Jimin shoves your shoulder lightly. "Not all of us need a sugar high to function."

"Your loss." You're already heading toward your usual spot—eyeing the different tables and settling for the corner one with the best lighting and a perfect view of both the street and the counter. "Come on, I'll show you where—"

"Ah ah." Jin's voice stops you. "Not that one."

You turn back, eyebrow raised. "What? It's empty."

"Someone sits there."

"I literally see no bag?" You gesture at the conspicuously empty table. "No books, no laptop, no nothing."

"Someone," Jin repeats, voice somehow both firmer and more amused, "sits there."

"But—"

"Y/N." He gives you that look, the one that somehow makes you feel like a kid being gently scolded. "Pick another table."

You glance at the mysterious empty table, then back at Jin, then at the table again. Because what the actual fuck? Since when does Jin reserve tables? And for who? 

But he's already turned back to the espresso machine, humming something under his breath, clearly considering the matter closed. 

"Come on." Jimin tugs your sleeve, pointing to another corner. "That one looks good too."

You let him lead you away, but not without throwing one last suspicious look over your shoulder. Jin pretends not to notice, but you catch the slight smile playing at his lips as he starts grinding coffee beans.

Weird. Very weird.

You sigh loudly, and woah okay you’re starting to sound like Yeji now. Her energy is definitely rubbing off on you. You take your stuff out along with Jimin and start chatting right away.

"All I'm saying is," you whisper-rant to Jimin, still bitter about this morning, "if someone makes you coffee, you say thank you. You don't launch into a TED talk about optimal brewing temperatures like some pretentious—"

The bell above the door chimes, and holy shit.

HOLY. SHIT.

The man who walks in is... 

Well, first of all, he's tall. Like, unfairly tall. 

And he's wearing these round glasses that should look dorky but somehow don't, perched on a face that belongs in one of those aesthetic academic Pinterest boards. His blonde hair is slicked back in a way that screams 'I definitely know about wine pairings', and his light blue dress shirt paired with navy pants is giving very much 'yes, I read Proust for fun.'

But it's the way he carries himself—confident but not cocky, with a laptop bag swinging gently by his thigh—that really catches your attention. 

That, and how Jin's whole demeanor shifts when he sees him.

"Joon!" Jin's voice is different—warmer, maybe? "The usual?"

The man—Joon, apparently—smiles, and oh. Oh. That's just unfair. Because he's got actual dimples. Like, dimples dimples. 

They chat for a moment, their conversation too low to hear from where you're sitting, but you catch Jin gesturing toward... wait. 

Toward the table. 

THE table. 

The one you were just exiled from.

Namjoon nods, that devastating smile still in place, and heads straight for what is apparently his designated spot in Jin's kingdom.

You narrow your eyes. Who exactly is this mysterious dimpled giant with table-reserving privileges? And why does Jin look slightly pink around the ears as he starts making what is presumably 'the usual'?

"Hey?" Jimin waves his hand in front of your face. "You good?"

"Sorry, just..." You tilt your head toward the table-stealer. "Trying to figure out who managed to get permanent dibs on prime real estate in here."

Jimin turns, trying (and absolutely failing) to be subtle about it. Then he makes a small choking sound.

"Oh god," he whispers, whipping back around. "That's Professor Kim."

You blink. "Professor who now?"

"Namjoon Kim? From the English department?" When you continue staring blankly, he adds, "He teaches Literary Criticism in my major? Published in like, every major literary journal? Youngest professor in the department?"

"That's a professor?" You peek over again, watching as he sets up his laptop with methodical precision. "Why does he look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." You gesture vaguely. "You know. Like that.”

"Please stop staring," Jimin hisses. "He's brilliant and terrifying and I have to present in his class next week."

"Terrifying?" You snort. "The man has dimples, Jimin. And his glasses are literally round. He looks like a very tall teddy bear who probably reads Keats for fun."

"He once made someone cry by asking them to explain their interpretation of a Emily Dickinson poem."

"Okay, but was their interpretation wrong?"

"Y/N."

"What? I'm just saying—"

Jin appears with your drinks, setting them down with more force than strictly necessary. "Stop gossiping about my customers."

"We're not gossiping," you protest. "We're... conducting academic observation."

"Mhm." He raises an eyebrow. "How's that new blend?"

You take a sip of whatever fancy coffee he made you, and... oh. Oh.

"This is..."

"Better than your sugar milk?" His smirk is unbearable. "You're welcome."

He walks away before you can argue, heading back to where Professor Dimples is apparently grading papers, judging by the red pen in his hand.

"Don't even think about it," Jimin warns.

"Think about what?"

"Whatever you're plotting. I can see it on your face."

"I'm not plotting anything!" You take another sip of your annoyingly perfect coffee. "I just think it's interesting that Jin never mentioned having a designated professor spot in his shop."

"No."

"What? I'm just being observant."

Jimin looks like he's regretting every life choice that led him to befriend you. "Can we please just focus on Murakami?"

"Fine." You pull out your notes, but you can't help stealing one more glance at the mysterious professor. "But just so you know, anyone who makes students cry over Emily Dickinson is definitely going on my list of people to investigate."

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jimjim."

20 minutes pass by. 20 minutes of Jimin humming as he searches articles on the web. 20 minutes of you two now doing your individual assignments for your different classes. 20 minutes of you nearly losing your mind over yours. 

"Who," you groan, slumping over your laptop, "decided that writing a comparative analysis of post-modern narrative structures was a good idea for week two? Week two, Jimin. I still haven't figured out where half my classes are."

Jimin chuckles, leaning over to point at something on your screen. "Look, if you connect these two themes here—"

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. "I will literally pay you to write this for me."

"No you won't."

"You're right, I'm broke. But I'll owe you my firstborn."

"Still no."

"My soul?"

"Bold of you to assume you still have one after declaring an English major."

You're about to argue that your soul is perfectly intact, thank you very much, when you feel it—the weight of someone's gaze. You glance up and oh fuck.

Professor Dimples is looking right at you, one eyebrow raised slightly above those round glasses. Because of course he heard your entire breakdown about his colleague's assignment. Of course he did. 

You drop your eyes back to your laptop so fast you probably give yourself whiplash. Maybe if you slouch low enough, you'll just... dissolve into the floor. That's possible, right? 

Jimin swats your arm. "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," you whisper-hiss. "I'm just saying, who assigns a five-thousand word analysis before we've even figured out the coffee situation on campus?"

"Having trouble with Professor Lee's class?"

You freeze. Because that voice—deep, warm, and definitely coming from right next to your table—belongs to exactly who you think it does.

Slowly, you look up. Professor Kim is standing there, coffee cup in hand, looking far too amused for someone who apparently makes students cry over poetry.

"I, uh—" Words. You know words. You're literally majoring in them. "No? I mean, yes? I mean—"

"She's struggling with the comparative analysis assignment," Jimin supplies helpfully, the traitor. "The one about narrative structures in post-modern literature."

"Ah." Professor Kim's dimples make an appearance. "Mind if I...?" He gestures to the empty chair at your table.

What are you supposed to say? No? To the professor who apparently has permanent dibs on the best table in Jin's? Who probably knows seventeen ways to destroy your GPA with a single red pen mark?

"Sure," you manage, shooting Jimin a panicked look that he completely ignores.

Professor Kim settles into the chair, setting his coffee down carefully. "The thing about post-modern narrative structures," he says, like he's sharing a secret, "is that everyone overthinks them."

You blink. "What?"

"It's actually quite simple." He gestures to your laptop. "May I?"

You turn the screen toward him, watching as he scans your document. His brow furrows slightly, and you resist the urge to slam the laptop shut and run away.

"See, here—" He points to a paragraph. "You're actually onto something interesting. The way you've connected the unreliable narrator to the fragmented timeline... that's good. You're just getting caught up in the academic language instead of trusting your instincts."

"My... instincts?"

"Mhm." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Tell me—without thinking about theory or criticism or any of that—why did this particular narrative choice catch your attention?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Because honestly? "It reminded me of those dreams where you're trying to remember something, but the memory keeps slipping away? Like, you know it's important, but every time you get close, it sort of... dissolves?"

His smile widens. "Write that."

"What, the dream thing?"

"Exactly that. In exactly those words." He leans back, looking pleased. "That's what post-modern literature is about—the messy, fragmented way our minds actually work. Not the polished academic analysis we think we're supposed to write."

From behind the counter, you hear Jin snort. "Are you corrupting my customers with your literary theories again?"

"Always," Professor Kim calls back, and something in the way they smile at each other makes you think of your earlier observations.

"Thank you," you say, already starting to rework your intro paragraph. "That actually helps a lot."

"Any time." He stands, gathering his coffee. "And Y/N?"

You look up, surprised he knows your name.

"Don't worry too much about Professor Lee's assignments. He likes to seem tough in the beginning, but..." He adjusts his glasses with a slight smile. "Let's just say I've heard his Emily Dickinson lectures. Man cries every time."

As he heads back to his table, you turn to Jimin with wide eyes.

"Did that just happen?"

"Yep."

"And did he just..."

"Give you permission to basically write your paper in normal human language? Yep."

"Huh." You look between your laptop and Professor Kim's table, where he's already absorbed back in his grading. "Maybe the dimples aren't so terrifying after all."

"Please stop talking about our professor's dimples."

"I'm just saying—"

"Whatever you're about to say, don't."

Fair enough. You turn back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. 

Maybe this assignment won't be so bad after all.

Even if you do kind of want to investigate why Jin keeps stealing glances at Professor Kim's table and thinking he’s being subtle about it. 

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[bigfan-fanfic]

Building Bridges (Male!Reader x Jason Grace)

Any domestic headcannons for Jason Grace? Just general cute and romantic stuff when deeper into a relationship with the guy.

Percy likes to joke that Jason's lucky there hasn't been a Pontifex since the times of ancient Rome, because he basically gets to assign himself his own duties and hours.

It's hard, having resigned the title of praetor and left behind the Legion. No one's really sure where Jason belongs, and after the rigidity of a legionnaire's life, it's unsettling, to say the least.

He ends up getting contacts a few years in after one too many times of losing his glasses on top of his head.

This relieves a lot of his stress, as repeatedly putting on and taking off his glasses tended to give him headaches.

He and Piper drift apart - mainly because they had chased the idea of being together so long that when it came to actually being together, they had no idea of what to do.

Besides, Piper still had to figure out how she felt about Hera's false memories of their relationship she still had, and trying to "get back there"

They remain friends and are in fact much better friends than they were partners. It was Piper that Jason came out to about his own bisexuality later on.

Jason takes his time with things, not rushing into dating because he feels like he has to or needs to fill a void. Instead he tries to learn who he is, establish a support system with Percy, Thalia, Frank, Annabeth, Hazel, and Nico.

He travels often for his duties as pontifex, seeking out gods and spirits to see how they would be honored.

In a lot of ways, he sort of gets to decide what the gods will become.

Since they depend so dearly on human perception of them, and will evolve accordingly, Jason can, by dictating their worship and temples, dictate the path they will follow.

So with a such a heavy and important duty as his main job, he really does like to clearly delineate between his life as pontifex and his time with family, friends, and loved ones.

Jason may not be particularly spontaneous or even exciting, but he is incredibly attentive and reliable.

Jason has worked so hard on his own mental health and well-being that he really does become a safe space for someone he loves.

He's a master at listening without judgment and allowing you to vent.

But he also has a mind like a steel trap, and he will remember things you like, things you want, and your habits.

Definitely the boyfriend who seems to read your mind, simply because he's so observant. He'll automatically have your preferred snacks and drinks in stock.

You'll also find little notes he writes to himself to remind himself of things, like "Pick up snax (for Y/N <3)

Or little lists of your favorite shows you've recommended he watch because otherwise he'll forget.

He lives in a small but really nice little house in New Rome, set up more like a large apartment than a house is.

Basically, it is ready for you to move into like, the moment you stay over the first time.

I think Jason becomes more fond of sturdy clothes as he gets older. Thicker jackets with long sleeves to hide his Legion brand, probably a cowboy hat or baseball cap to hold his longer hair out of his face.

I think he definitely gets hat hair a lot and finds it hilarious and cute when you notice it and ruffle it to get it out of that slicked back shape.

Jason might not always be good at it the first time, but he does like to plan dates and excursions. Organization and chores can be tough for him, but he also has some immense self-discipline.

And then he'll just have the most random moments where he'll act on an impulse without thinking and spend several moments visibly looking disappointed in himself.

Jason is highly physically affectionate, draping himself over you and often times nibbling at your neck or ear.

He also really likes to have you leaning against him or even in his lap, even if you two are doing different things.

It might be a reassurance thing, or a touch-starved thing.

As far as marriage goes, I don't think Jason would propose it but he'd absolutely say yes if proposed to. In New Rome, everyone already knows you two are a couple, and it's not like there are tax or legal benefits to worry about, so it's not something that crosses his mind.

He refers to you as his partner, or when feeling romantic, his "other half."

Jason is actually a really good cook, but he needs something to help him focus, or to keep him on track.

Jason is a snuggler, but ONLY when awake. When he sleeps, he seems to keep some space. Probably because he overheats quickly. Even under a blanket, this man always has a leg out or the blanket pushed down to his hips.

He likes to involve you in his day and thoughts but doesn't push you to do the same. Though he loves being included.

[writing-funsies]

OP characters as besties p.5

p.1 | p.2 | p.3 | p.4 | p.5

characters: Ace, Shanks, Mihawk

warnings: mentions of alcohol, light cussing

notes: all platonic hc's

Ace

will share his food with you

but won't let you take any off his plate

falls asleep on you all the time

uses you as his personal pillow

and will make fun of you if you freak out when riding with him on Striker

despite the fact that it's designed for only one person

but I digress

also uses you as a napkin if needed

sometimes shoots little flames at you to see your reaction

talks about Luffy nonstop

like that's the only thing he ever talks about

by the time you actually meet his little brother

you're ready to strangle both of them

not really

but you could spot the kid a mile away

before you ever actually got to know him

Ace and you working together to become more confident

always teasing each other

you having to fish him out of the ocean when he falls in

drinking contests

staring contests

fighting contests

eating contests

just competing over everything and anything possible

training together

he may be really strong and have a devil fruit power

but he won't hesitate to practice his hand-to-hand combat with you

especially if you need it

will tease you about it though

so you just push him overboard again

long talks about your lives

your pasts

your families

where you see yourselves in a year

five years

maybe even ten years

your goals

and aspirations

just talks about life

he tells you about his dad

and is relieved when you tell him that just because he was his father's son doesn't mean that'll be his legacy 

you two would die for each other

nothing will ever tear you apart

besties for the resties

9/10

super sweet and funny

but won't bathe no matter how much you beg

Shanks

party boy™

genuinely doesn't give a fuck

he's here to have fun

and protect his family

that's it

tells you the corniest jokes you've ever heard

also laughs at everything you say

like Luffy, laughs even when you're being serious

uses his missing arm as an excuse if you ever try to get him to do his duties as captain

sometimes struggles with phantom pains

but assures you they'll go away on their own

drinking contests

if he's got a drink in hand

then everyone's gonna have a good time

100% threw up on your shoes once before passing out

laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard when you told him

quickly stifles his laughter when he sees how mad you are

offers to let you throw up on his shoes to make it even

you just stare at his sandals for a moment before walking away

watching Luffy's progress through the news together

bragging about the kid as if he were your own

the antics you two get up to guarantee that Ben will have a constant headache

the rest of the crew finds your dynamic duo to be hilarious

the sheer power of this crew is near unimaginable

so if the two of you ever actually fight enemies

they don't stand a chance

if anyone ever targeted you

and hurt you

Shanks would have his crew capture your attacker

and then show them exactly why no one messes with the Red Hair Pirates

8/10

always provides a good time

but will laugh at you if you fall 

Mihawk

I ain't ever seen two pretty best friends

until now

you are probably a little more lively than this warlord

he just doesn't care for drama

which means it's up to you to keep him in the loop

yet somehow he has the truly juicy details you could only wish to find on your own

y'all have a small book club

it's just the two of you

you tried to invite Perona to join

but she thought that your reading selection was so not cute

you even tried to invite Shanks once

all that accomplished was you gaining a new drinking buddy

which Mihawk begrudgingly allowed to happen

basically, the book club is just you two sipping on wine while discussing every mistake that the author made while writing your current read

salty bitches™

you're one of the only people alive who can get Mihawk to laugh

which is your favorite party trick

except that he's never laughed at the parties you both went to

(ie visiting Shanks and getting roped into a night of drinking)

he airs out all of the other warlords' dirty laundry to you

will talk mad shit about them

well at least most of them

he finds that no matter how powerful they may be

they're all idiots in his eyes

they can't see the big picture

he trusts that you have enough common sense to use the information sparingly

and you do

for the most part

it's giving rich single wine aunt meets vodka mom (but without the kids)

9/10

knows how to relax in style

but will not let you play with his sword no matter how many times you ask

[sleepykye]

I love your writings so much! Could I please request a Tamaki x Reader fanfic where Tamaki sees you always clinging to Nejire and gets jealous?

Bridging the Distance

Tamaki x Reader

Of course, my dear. I accept every single request, so please don't be shy to ask ! 🫶🏼

U.A. High School was always a whirlwind of activity, with students buzzing around, training, and preparing for their future as pro heroes. Amidst the organized chaos, Tamaki Amajiki found solace in his close-knit group of friends, the Big Three: himself, Mirio Togata, and Nejire Hado. Tamaki was used to Nejire's cheerful and energetic presence, which often served as a comforting contrast to his own shy and reserved nature.

However, recently, Tamaki noticed a new addition to their little circle: you. You were a first-year student with an infectious smile and boundless energy that rivaled even Nejire’s. From the moment you met Nejire, you two had become inseparable, constantly chatting, laughing, and clinging to each other in the hallways.

Tamaki, usually content to observe from the sidelines, found himself feeling something unfamiliar—jealousy. He wasn't used to feeling this way, especially not about someone as kind and vibrant as you. But every time he saw you with Nejire, a pang of longing and envy twisted in his chest.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling training session, Tamaki walked into the common area to find you and Nejire sitting on the couch, your head resting on Nejire's shoulder as you both giggled over something on Nejire's phone. Mirio was nearby, grinning at the scene.

"Hey, Tamaki!" Mirio called out, waving him over. "Come join us!"

Tamaki hesitated, his eyes darting to you and Nejire. He gave a small nod and walked over, sitting down awkwardly on the edge of the couch.

"Hi, Tamaki!" you greeted him with your usual enthusiasm, your eyes bright. "Nejire was just showing me some hilarious memes."

"Y-yeah, I see," Tamaki replied, forcing a small smile. "Sounds fun."

Nejire, always perceptive, noticed the tension in Tamaki's posture. "Tamaki, are you okay? You seem a little off."

He shook his head quickly. "I'm fine, really."

But Nejire wasn't convinced. "You know, (Y/N) and I were just about to go get some snacks from the cafeteria. Want to join us?"

You jumped up, grabbing Tamaki's hand. "Yeah, come with us! It'll be fun!"

Tamaki's heart skipped a beat at your touch, but he nodded, allowing you to pull him to his feet. As the three of you made your way to the cafeteria, Nejire walked ahead, chatting animatedly. You stayed close to Tamaki, your hand brushing against his every now and then.

When you arrived at the cafeteria, Nejire excused herself to grab some drinks, leaving you and Tamaki alone. You turned to him, a concerned look on your face. "Tamaki, is something bothering you? You seem... distant."

He looked down, struggling to find the right words. "It's just... I feel like I'm losing Nejire. You two are so close, and I... I don't know."

You blinked in surprise, then your expression softened. "Oh, Tamaki, I'm sorry if it seemed like that. Nejire is amazing, but that doesn't mean there's no room for you. You're important to me too."

Tamaki glanced up, hope flickering in his eyes. "Really?"

You nodded, smiling gently. "Of course. I admire you a lot, Tamaki. You're kind, strong, and always there for your friends. I want to be closer to you too, if you'll let me."

Tamaki's heart swelled at your words, and he found himself smiling genuinely for the first time that day. "I'd like that."

Just then, Nejire returned, balancing a tray of drinks. "Here we go! I got your favorites. Everything okay?"

You and Tamaki exchanged a glance, then you both nodded. "Yeah, everything's great," you said, squeezing Tamaki's hand reassuringly.

As you all sat down to enjoy your snacks, Tamaki felt the jealousy melt away, replaced by a warm sense of belonging. He realized that there was no need to be envious. With you by his side, he knew he had found something special—something worth cherishing.

[durgeapologist]

I find it hilarious that people are turning a post that was originally about resisting the use of AI in creative spaces into some kind of hate fueled anti-bullying soap box campaign. They make multiple posts where they act like they're being vague and don't want to actually call anyone out but then they keep sharing screenshots with usernames in them and they're putting it all in the solavellan/solas critical tags. Meanwhile their posts have nothing to do with Dragon age at all. It's so transparent that they've got personal beef and they can't even see that they're in danger of becoming the kind of bully they claim they're "protecting" the fandom from.

i have been just sitting on the sidelines watching the convoluted tale they are weaving literally day after day after day, and not speaking on it bc everyone except for them wants to move on and, frankly, no one outside of their lil bubble they have cultivated believes a word they are saying, but i have to fully agree with this. bc why are you tagging a harry potter fic post with dragon age related tags? why are you tagging questions about the bg3 fandom with dragon age tags? why are you tagging nonsensical ramblings perpetuating the exact behavior you white knight against with completely unrelated tags?? you just look silly atp.

(if you are as tired of the drama as i am, feel free to literally scroll past. seriously, trust me, i get it. smooches)

to that point and the only other lie (somehow pulled out of thin air) that i will be addressing: i never told this person that if they proved they could simply write on their own that i would take the post down. literally never once said that. what i said (and what was clearly tagged on my callout post) is that if they tagged their fic as ai, then i would take the post down. bc they admitted to using an ai editing software built on genAI. but the five people rallying around this one person seemingly don't know how to read or do any research of their own, i fear.

now, if anyone else is reaching out to this person and saying the post will be taken down if they just prove they can in fact write in the same style and flow as the fic that was called out (not a harry potter fic from two years ago that was beta'd and has nothing to do with the current situation) then i ask that you all to maybe... start thinking critically. who has the authority over my posts? i do. i decide what is proper proof and i decide what constitutes as reason enough for the post to be taken down. i already stated what that would be: just tag your shit accordingly. bc then there would be no need for me to spread awareness about dishonest use of genAI in fandom creative spaces. which again, was the entire point of the post if you would have just taken the time to read it properly. they literally admitted to using the software. they also said they couldn't provide a writing history bc they write.... in grammarly. (google docs, microsoft word, ellipsus, scrivener [bc no one said google docs was the only word-processing program people are allowed to use, it's simply the one they said they export their story to] all have revision history available. i'm sure there are many more, too; these are just the ones i have used and know for a fact have this feature)

and yeah, anon, they plague us with bullying accusations, yet we have all stayed silent aside from continuing to be outspoken about the use of ai in fandom or other harmful stereotypes and untrue narratives they are trying to perpetuate (and my 3? comments from a burner account to defend myself on the reddit callout post of me in a sub they mod that they had previously banned me from in retaliation of speaking out against their dishonest use of ai). they cry witch hunt this and bullying that but... they are the one who won't shut up about me and mine. calling people out by name now?? bc i didn't give them the back and forth beef they wanted?? truly wild (and hilariously sad) to witness.

i've said it once (twice, thrice, whatever) before but i do truly mean it this time because i have been having a blast not focusing on the trainwreck of lie after lie after wacky fucking lie that they are building up, but this is the last thing i will say on the matter. truly (i promise guys). if you hear of anything else, i implore you to realize this person has perpetuated this behavior in two (three if you want to get nitty gritty with it) completely unrelated and separate dragon age fandom spaces. there is a pattern here. anyways!!!!!!!!! have a wonderful week and go smoosh ur rooks with solas and play barbies fr <3

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

While "the network wants an episodic kids show, the authors want an epic dark complicated narrative" would explain A LOT about ML's problems, I'd still like to note that there are kids' shows that can do both, going full range from "mostly episodic with a sprinkle of narrative" (Kim Possible, MLP), to "heavily narrative but with episodic breather/filler episodes" (Gravity Falls, WITCH, the Owl House), with many variants in-between.

Even the transition from "fully episodic" to "more narratively-connected" that ML attempted to do can be done successfully - the aforementioned Gravity Falls and WITCH were more episodic in season 1 and more narratively driven in season 2.

However, I'd say there are a few other key problems that can be inferred from what we have:

The show tries too many things at once - as you have pointed out repeatedly. Magical girl and rom-com, single-hero, duo and team stories, wacky comedy and serious trauma, even trying to give several characters a redemption and a damnation arc at the same time (and failing with either). Apparently, it's not just TF vs writers: it's writers severely disagreeing with each other (see Thomas and Vincent's opinions on Chloe), and also trying to one-up the fans. Also, simply thinking too much of the work, which leads us to...

ML's total lack of self-awareness. Another famous case of a show that was almost entirely episodic is Phineas and Ferb. They use the same formula (the brothers build, Candace busts, Doof makes an Inator and is thwarted by Perry) over and over for four seasons. And by mid-season 1, the authors have been making fun of the structure, lampshading it, spoofing and twisting it, playing with "What if" episodes and never taking itself too seriously. When ML tries to be self-aware, it becomes either insulting to the fans (Animaestro), horrifically dark (Chat Blanc) or plain cringe (Simpleman). This is exacerbated by Astruc's arrogance and inability to ignore critics.

Is it possible to make a highly complex, genre-busting, yet kid-friendly story and succeed? Yes. But it needs to be better thought-out - if not from the start, then at the moment the network allows one to deviate from the formula.

And if all else fails and the story becomes too complicated and too repetitive at the same time... Well, self-awareness and the ability to make fun of one's own work can turn a sad mess into a hilariously fun disaster.

P. S. Love your posts as always, you are the main reason I'm still in the fandom!

Thank you for the kind words! I'm so glad that you're enjoying my stuff and I agree with all the things you brought up.

A big part of the reason that Miraculous is so fascinating to me is that there ISN'T a single cause of the issues. There are so many valid ways to discuss the show's problems. It's a masterclass in bad writing and what not to do!

It's why I'm able to run this blog. If it was as simple as, "here's the single reason why it's bad and here's how you fix that" or if the show never had any potential, then there wouldn't be much to talk about. But it did have potential and there is no single reason why it's bad. The causes are multitudinous as are the potential fixes! It feels like investigating some complex wreckage or an elaborate murder mystery in order to understand what the hell happened, which is really fun if you like talking about writing.

I find it much harder to discuss writing in an informative way if you only have good examples to draw from because that path risks stifling creativity. Just because a popular story did a thing well doesn't mean that story showed us the only way to do the things or even the best way to do the thing, but that's often the lesson people seem to learn. They see a thing that they like or even just a thing that audiences liked and want to copy it without understanding the full nuance of why they liked it.

A great example of this is Zuko from Avatar the Last Airbender. He was such a well-written and popular character that all these properties started copying him even though the properties in question did NOT have a setup that worked for a Zuko. Praising Zuko won't really tell you all the ways that Zuko could have failed. Meanwhile, a case study of Chloe vs Zuko or even just a general discussion of Chloe lets you actually talk about the various styles of redemption arc and what you have to do to make them feel real. It's also far more interesting than talking how Zuko could have failed because Zuko didn't fail so why are we even talking about this? It's also far more interesting than talking about a bunch of properties that did redemption arcs well because that would require you to have seen all of those properties. But Chloe is from a single property and she did fail and people understandably have wildly different feelings about what the failure was because the writing was so bad, which means that digging into her writing is way more likely to hold your interest and teach you something.

This gif really does sum it up perfectly:

[Image description: scene from the movie Knives Out where the detective Benoit Blanc exclaims "It makes no damn sense! It compels me though" to explain his feelings on an ongoing murder mystery that he's trying to solve]

As does the old adage, "failure is the greatest teacher." Of course, no one ever said that it had to be your failure!

[charmwasjess]

for our good friend dooku, 16, 21&22, and 6 if you have more to say about it. 🙏🙇‍♂️

OH YOU JUST COME INTO MY ASK BOX AND MAKE MY DAY?!! :D Beloved anon, these are SUCH fun questions and I absolutely had a blast answering them. Thank you so much! Stop by anytime and I’ll make you a cup of coffee! (I have tea too, but my taste in tea is real gross.)

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

Ohh, this is a hard one! 

The thing is, while I have my favorites, I find Dooku soo very shippable with a vast number of characters - not because he has any healthy understanding of his own sexual and emotional needs anymore than he has a healthy relationship with food - but because especially in his Sith era, he’s a black hole of need and loneliness. Sex is like the one way Sith are allowed to access the intimacy that fifty years of Jedi communal life has trained him to want and need. 

The ship for him that I absolutely love-hate in that vein is Sidious/Dooku. I doubt it went much further than a few absolutely debased encounters because let’s be honest, Sidious can do much better and isn’t in the habit of letting his dog eat from his plate, but whoof, what a fun, fucked up ship with nasty power dynamics. “Oh nooo, oh no, awful….where’s the link?” energy.

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

I love giving Dooku big, often violent, over the top moments where his natural appetite for chaos comes out. 

Dooku gives you these amazing options as a fanfic writer. He’s so high drama. A huge part of his reserve and composure is that there’s an absolute volcano of feeling bubbling under the crust.

The things he says are absurd and beautiful, poetic and horrific, hilarious and awkward. You can push the character further than you expect, and he’ll go with you in surprising places in a piece of writing if you let him show off. This is a character who loves attention and has the natural talent and chaos to back up his own bullshit. If you can get his sound and feel right, there’s almost nothing you can’t do with him - because a core part of Dooku is the unreliable narrator: even he doesn’t always know what he’s about to do. 

I think the hardest part is his “voice” because Christopher Lee had such a distinctive cadence - it’s not just a British accent, it’s early 20th century British, who grew up bilingual and went on to speak like literally 7 different languages fluently, with a supremely deep voice, who wanted to sing opera but only got half-trained before WWII ruined that dream for him. It’s a very unique sound.

I like “my” Dooku voice in my fics and I’m proud of it; I work really hard on it and it’s why I use him as a POV character most often. But I still look at my own fics and have those record needle scratch moments where I know a line of his needs to get reworked. It’s a constant process.

The Christopher Lee accent also could not be MORE different than my own rural American one. There’s a hilarious-awful story in Lee’s autobiography, Lord of Misrule, about him getting stopped by a patrol of Americans in WWII who absolutely do not believe he’s English and they start trying to speak German to him. He goes, “you don’t have to speak German, you know, I’m fairly capable of understanding English, since that’s what I am.” 

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to this character? Something you don't like?

I love it when fics do a realistic job of letting Dooku be the walking contradiction he is. Two of my favorite Dooku fics right now are Pray My Mind Be Good to Me and Galaxies Far Far Away May Be Closer Than They Appear - both feature Dooku written in this way. He has done or is going to do horrific shit - shit that cannot be changed and has real consequences. In both fics, he’s also portrayed vividly, a "real person," full of genuine emotion, vulnerability, and deep investment in the other characters. Love is a part of his betrayal and betrayal is a part of his love. These two things exist in the character simultaneously in queasy, gorgeous combination. 

As far as what I don’t like, I don’t know, I think Dooku is a tremendously intimidating character to write and I’m impressed by anyone who takes a crack at writing him! I’d encourage anyone to give it a shot. 

I have one really small weird pet peeve, and that’s giving him too much stuffy, uptight rich guy cliche. Dude was a mud-grubbing mission Jedi for 50 years, himself raised by a swamp troll, who went on to train two of the most chaotic Jedi. He’s eaten more bugs than Anakin, and I'll die on that hill.

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

I went pretty broad on my other answer, so I’ll tell you two lil' things!

I’m tall (ironically I’m about Sifo-Dyas’s canon height, a character whose legit tallness is often overlooked cause he’s standing next to Dooku–) and I pull a ton of my own experiences into how I write the way he moves or his little gestures, especially how small he can fold up when he’s feeling vulnerable. There’s a unique tall person awkwardness that comes from experiencing the adolescent growth spurt right at the time when it’s the most emotionally unbearable to be physically conspicuous. 

I didn’t realize I shared his exercise-away-the-strong-emotion thing until I was chatting with @bolithesenate about some fic or something, and said something offhand like “too upset about Sifo-Dyas, gotta go for a run” and she was like “uh, Jess? are you QUOTING your own Dooku characterization here?” :O Don't call me out like that, bro!! Do not perceive me!