#even though i know things won't go back as they used to | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

glossdebut · 1 day ago

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best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

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

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

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

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

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

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

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

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

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

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

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

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

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You do know.

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

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

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi.

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

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

“So you just… showed up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“So why did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “It was something.”

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

But you don’t move.

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

You lean in and kiss him.

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

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

You kiss him again. And again.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

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

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

You: i am. what’s up?

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

You: is this a booty call

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

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

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

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

You: yeah

You: come over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like you,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

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

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

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bury your face in his neck.

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

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

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

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

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sobers you a little.

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

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

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

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

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

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

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little.”

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

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

“Fuck—”

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

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

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

You hum around him. That does it.

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

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

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

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

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

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

Or try to.

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

What the fuck was that?

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

It’s what came after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

How can he be so sure?

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

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

You know he’s good with his hands.

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Maybe.

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

It scares the shit out of you.

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

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

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

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

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

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

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine.

✧

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

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

There’s a pattern now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

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

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

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

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

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

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

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

The opening credits roll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

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

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

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

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

You make out. A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

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

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Completely.

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast.

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

You don’t.

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

So he starts with his mouth.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

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

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

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

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

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

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

“Yes, please—”

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

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

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

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

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

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

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

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

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

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

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

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

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

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

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

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod against his shoulder.

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

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

He keeps going.

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

But something’s changed. Settled.

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

And you let him.

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

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

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

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

And so is he.

✧

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

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

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

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

He just watches for a second, quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

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

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

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

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

“You do,” you say, instantly.

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

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

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

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

But he’s not around as much.

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

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

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

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

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

And that makes you want to try, too.

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

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

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

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

You laugh. You keep writing.

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

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

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

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

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

And then you don’t tell anyone.

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

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

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

Fuck. There it is.

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

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

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time.

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

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

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

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

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

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

You stare at him, slackjawed.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he licks into you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus,” you breathe.

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

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

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

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

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

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

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

It springs him into action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

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

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

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you know he will.

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

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

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

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

You’re in.

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

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

You call Yoongi.

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

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

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

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meet me out back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

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

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

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

But he holds your hand through it.

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

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

I can do this. I can live this life.

Especially if he’s in it.

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kanmom51 · 2 days ago

Text

Those JM and JK being ‘subtle’ moments - Part 10

cr./to the owners of the media in this post.

Part 10 of maybe (?) more to come that is.

Or...

A page from JM and JK’s book of “How do we do the couple in the group without others noticing it (or so they thought)”.

Been a while eh? I guess I thought it was time for part 10.

At this point I'm not even sure if I'm repeating or not, but let's be honest here for a sec... who cares? Right?

Let's start with a couple of birthday posts. How about JK's for JM's in 2022? And again JK using that bro... yeah ok...

Then we have JM's post for JK's birthday 2023. Are they trying to outdo each other?

Just two bros hanging (keep telling yourselves that, lol).

As much as we've seen and heard since, back in September 2023 this was big, even more so in the context to follow end of 2023.

Not as big as this though:

Nothing as 'subtle' like a couple's gift (and joint congrats love message).

Moving on, or more so moving back, seeing this was back in July 2023.

JM can handle it.

tumblr

But then again, can he though?

our drool is showing JM...

Back to what JM can or can't handle... JK posting his back photo

Nothing suspicious about that though. Just a huge ass back and a necklace that JK apparently is not taking off even when working out. Funny how JK posted his bare back photo after JM was given a hard time by the regular haters for posting JK's bare back "without JK's permission" (the level of juvenile to even think that is a thing...).

So why, you may ask, is this finding it's way into this specific post?

Well, because of the post that directly followed JK's post.

Let's call it JM's spicy food post. The one JK so happily replied to as well.

And again, what's the big deal?

Well, there is no big deal, it's just a great intro into the next few Jikook not being so subtle moments.

Those two love it spicy...

And if we are already talking about this whole back and forth while JK was in NY, I guess I should also mention JM's favourite food: JK's Tteokbokki.

Not to mention JM letting us know his whereabouts the night before leaving for Jeju, JK returning from NY (second trip that month) only to cook for JM (Where he stayed the night and where we know JK didn't sleep all night)...

We wouldn't have known about it if JM hadn't told us. Let that sink in for a sec. All while thinking about all those other times they spent their days and/or nights together but didn't tell us about it (us hearing it months later).

Back to my old mantra just for a sec:

NOT SEEING THEM TOGETHER DOESN'T MEAN THEY AREN'T TOGETHER.

A mantra I feel like I won't have to repeat again in Chapter 3 post military service...

Yes, I sidetracked again. But then, what's new? You know me. At this point it's expect the expected, lol.

But...

If I already mentioned AYS, then it's only natural to continue with a few 'ever so 'subtle' moments we were blessed with in the show. Although, it's not the subtlety I'm really going for here...

Ok, I know what I said, but I am actually going to start with a moment that is on the subtle side. Subtle but so full of emotion. A moment that doesn't make you go 😮 but more so 🥹.

The whole train station and train ride is something special. Every single time I watch it I'm just sitting there with a huge ass smile on my face and that moment to culminate it all, when JK just sets his head on JM's shoulder is just such an AWW... moment.

When thinking about it, the entirety of Are you sure?! is one big Jikook being 'subtle' 'moment'. From start to end. Each trip had it's own special feel to it.

Connecticut was about a long needed time away together, all while trying to find a way to do their thing in a way that can be edited into a show, not to mention dealing with both JK and JM being sick.

Jeju being the second trip, the second time around, was easier for them to find that balance for the show, and having the unexpected guest emphasised even more just how different their interactions with each other were than either of them with Tae.

And Sapporo. Oh Sapporo. One last trip before enlistment. Following a private stay together in Tokyo. Same trip JK mentions at the end of episode 8. Sapporo is charged. It's happy and sweet and electric and melancholic and just everything. For all of us to see.

It's easier for me to link my AYS masterlist than trying to detail all the ahh and aww moments we got.

I just re-watched it all, again, and it's just really something else. To those who see them, so beautiful, so real, so raw. To those who haven't seen them yet, who haven't acknowledged what they mean to each other, what they are to each other, very revealing.

I came by this the other day:

youtube

What I would call regular army, anti shipper (has been very loud in the past, especially when it comes to TKK's behavior and delusions). And although she is super careful in not crossing that one line of stating "couple" and tends to go back to "friends" or "brothers" every single time she mentions something that is clearly MORE THAN... it's clear that she sees them. Their bond, their attachment, their love, their touches, their care, their safe space with each other. She is super careful not to say the words, but even so, at the very beginning while saying she's not interested in their romantic lives, and then she says: "all I want is for them to be happy and in whatever shape or form they decide to do that I will be supporting them". - A statement within itself!! Again, this tip toeing around what they truly are to each other (something that I can assure you would not be happening if the two were not 2 young men, but a heterosexual couple), continuously saying the words to describe exactly how special their relationship is, but then having to insert those safe words ("friends", "brothers") to play safe. What I can say is that army are seeing them!! What they tried to avoid for years and years was shoved in their faces, and they are seeing it, the brave ones even willing to admit it. What we saw for years, the way army clearly were ignoring JM and JK's bond (for many reason, first and utmost it being too obviously MORE than just two friends), is proving to be so much harder for them to do with AYS. And I think they are allowing themselves to be louder seeing that it's clear that JM and JK wanted us to see this, wanted to share this with us. Not that they haven't been for years, but it's much harder to avoid a full on 8 episode show showcasing their relationship.

Back to AYS.

As mentioned, there is just too much for me to share in one post. It is funny to me how hard they worked on making the show fit for PG.

But as PG as they tried to make it, there were definitely those moments that not only screamed "these two knock knees" - me trying to be demure today.

Nah, forget it...

They were just being outright GAY. No subtle to be found.

And why not mention some of them, you know, for the fun of it?

I still can't believe they left the bed scene from Connecticut in. As highly edited as it was.

We know they spent much more time in that bed, before JK ate and after JK ate. All either not filmed (JK switching camera on and off) or edited out. But what they left in, yeah, nothing subtle to be found there.

And what about JK telling JM to take his pants and underwear off at the restaurant?

Like what exactly for JK?

Would that be something you would say, even jokingly, to your mate? I don't think so.

JM's bf shot. Very "subtle" indeed.

Next couple of moments are just "what the actual fuck????" the most unsubtle that can be in the whole universe and beyond.

No, I really don't think I'm exaggerating.

I'll start with JK pulling JM's hair in the pool. Like, what the hell for? And in what world is that something friends joke about? Also, in what reality would a friend not only be cool about it, but also not flinch, not even a little, when his "friend" grabs him from the hair like that???? Even in the most playful mood that they might be in. You think Tae would be cool with it? Yeah-Nah!! 🤣🤣 Just visualising that...🤣🤣

I will tell you exactly when someone would be cool with it. When that "friend" is not only someone who you allow to pull your hair like that but also you are used to him pulling your hair like that. I will let you connect the dots from here on...

And what about this, eh?

Just sit there and picture the scene (which we obviously were not allowed to see in the show or the behinds... I wonder if there is footage of it hidden in a vault somewhere...). JM writing that on JK's chest. To be able to write that so clearly, unsmudged, straight lines, not runny...

So, here's the thing. It feels like that these two have taken subtle and chucked it out of the window.

I'm not sure where we are going exactly once they get out of the military, but it feels like we are striding in huge steps towards a new reality. One in which that little game they used to play with deniability, these boundaries they used to stretch and test the waters just how far they can move them and still have Army celebrating their heterosexuality, I feel like that game is over and done with. Idk, it's just a feeling that seems to be getting stronger with each step they have taken since they announced their joint enlistment.

Their joint enlistment, AYS, them showing up in each other's documentaries (however short of an appearance), the two shown together in the BTS documentary, their comments lately about each other, letting us know how close, how connected, how inseparable they are, even when they send congratulations to work associates. The hints. Like JK's eyes on that screen in JM's Who MV. The "Keep going" that is constantly associated with the two. The feeling is that there is something even bigger coming. And it's not only us Jikookers that are feeling it!!!

Idk about you guys, but I am super excited about what's waiting for us around the corner.

I think that part 10 of this series is a good place to end it. I know this one was more yap than anything else, but I guess that's what a final part of a series looks like, especially seeing that we are probably nearing a new reality with those two. An end of an era, so to speak. They are soon coming back to us and I'm feeling like we will have so much more to post about, speak about, subtle and very unsubtle moments. All of those are for a new series (hopefully).

29 days to go.

Less than a month guys!!!

#Jikook #kookmin #minkook #Jungji #Jimin #Jungkook #JK #JM #Jikook subtle moments #Youtube

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13tinysocks · 13 hours ago

Text

My Dead Girlfriend

Days pass. Patience grows thin. Deathbed talk begins. You pull the last straw and are taken somewhere new.

[Invincible Varients X Reader]

[Part one] [Ao3] [11]

12 * Two Inches? [9.2k]

"Nice, nice!

Are you a virgin?

Nice, nice!

What color are your panties?"

Nice Nice - Dazey and the Scouts

"We need to tell everybody." He couldn't look away from that massive white thing. Hard-shelled with soft, crabby flesh underneath. His mouth watered just looking at its twitching mandibles.

From behind him, "No."

Baldie turned, brows pressed together. "Why not?"

Phantom watched him, feet away, keeping eyes and ears out for approaching company. No one was coming.

"(Y/n) likes you." He says instead of answering directly. "If you ask her to come with you alone, she will."

Baldie's mouth fell open. Now he was starting to get it. "But... You just said all that stuff about not splitting up."

"Because I had to." Phantom said, modulator softly echoing off the cave walls, "To keep the peace until we could talk. This is the safest way to do it."

"We can't just keep this from every-"

"You saw what those two did to her." Phantom cut him off, surprising even himself, "How easily they took her from you. I had to get her out of that situation. We only survived because they decided they were done playing. Do you really want her to be around people like that?" His throat itched. Vocal cords thin and raw after ten seconds of jabbering.

"Then we tell everyone but them." Baldie reasoned, though the voice in the back of his mind agreed. To take the hoard that was you and run.

"If we're all together, they'll find us. It has to be just us." Phantom finishes, cards splayed across the table, hoping Baldie would fold.

Baldie's mouth opened, closed, opened, closed. He knew he should do the right thing. Refuse. Tell everybody. Band together, kill Lensless and Scars with everybody else. Establish peace. Live with and eat bugs forever. Find friendship and understanding in the only person who could really understand what he went through- the other versions of himself.

But he just couldn't.

He'd waited four years in hell only to find your bones. Watched you be civil to the others, Viltrumite loyalists and enforcers and leaders. It made him sick, the idea of you with them. Any of them but him. Phantom must feel that way too.

He was no fool. Alternate motives were guaranteed in a situation as suspicious as this. "How long have you known about this place?" Was double-speak for, 'Did you find this before or after we ate a guy?'

"Not long." Phantom lies, "Three days."

Baldie nods shallow before spinning, neck cracking like a whip. "You're only telling me this now because, what? You think I'm stupid? You think I'm easy to kill?"

Phantom backed up, hands raised defensively. "No." He says, shaking his head, voice small, hunched over, feigning doe-ishness.

"What's stopping you from killing me when I bring her here?" Baldie's prowling closer now, fists clenching, "What's stopping you from just taking her yourself? Why are you telling me this?" Veins pop out on his scarred neck, pulse throbbing in his clenched fists. He's still angry about you letting Lensless and Scars go. He doesn't want, he needs to hit something hard as he can.

"Because you can make her happy." Phantom says, "And I can't." That makes Baldie pause. "I wish she liked me the way she likes you, but I know it won't happen. I'm okay with that. I just want her safe." It's a lie but a well-told one.

Baldie relaxes but not fully. "If you ever fucking try to touch her, I will kill you." He only says it because you're not here to hear him say it, because he couldn't say it to the ones that hurt you. Then and now. He had dreaded coming home from prison and you being scared of him, his appearance and the scars that festered underneath. But the you now wasn't scared, you were starting to cherish him. He was afraid now, of fucking it up a second time.

"Understood," Phantom said because this is exactly what he wanted.

"I-" Baldie took a breath, squared his shoulders, "I also need some time to figure this out. This," the bug queen, the cathedral, the never ending cache of food, "is a lot." But most of all, he needed to figure out how to tell you.

***

Your phone was gone. Off the rock you'd left it on to play music and die on. You'd asked around unhurriedly. Not like it'd be any help but the comfort of something not from this shithole was alluring. Something to hold and know you had existed before this and would hopefully exist after. But nobody knows where it went. Though Lensless (when you saw him next) claimed he took it and tried to get you to force him to tell the truth. You didn't even try.

Gray was dodgy, not about the phone, but about you. He couldn't seem to hold conversation with you for more than two seconds at a time before flying off somewhere with something better to do. He'd always been that way, but he'd been shorter with his words and was staring at you a whole lot more. Despite this, he wasn't a suspect. You doubted he'd want anything to do with your phone, even if it was working.

You were rotting and they all saw it. You couldn't explore long. The torches you'd been making out of soaked, then slightly dried wood and cloth never last longer than a half hour. You couldn't go to the surface, ceiling too high to even consider scaling out of. Not like any of them would let you anyway, not with Scars and Lensless roaming the wastes during the day. Hiding out somewhere hidden so those who wanted them dead couldn't even kill them in the daylight. Or maybe they were hiding, waiting to pick them off one by one. No one knew what they were planning.

Scars and Lensless always came at night because they'd yet to find another source of food. The peace was paper thin. They ate and didn't attack or kidnap you. Your horde of bodyguards let them stay in the shade for a few hours. We don't hurt you and we get to eat. Not exactly an even exchange.

Personal agendas were always thick in the air now. It was only a matter of days until the food was gone. They could go without awhile, but as soon as you began to starve, there'd be another death and another. Everyone was planning to be the last one standing, to die in the desert with you. The truce wouldn't last much longer but for tonight, nobody mentioned it.

Gray marked day twenty on the wall. He kept count for the sake of rationing. Meager scraps of what hadn't rotted remained. Only you would eat tonight, the small hard pieces of Emperor jerky that always got caught in your teeth a reminder.

Hopelessness isn't in the air, it's already sunken in, become a part of each of you. People were starting to think about dying or finding a way to make this all work long term. But without food? It would not.

The deathbed talk started lightly, a reprieve from their thoughts and the empty expanse around them.

"I could really go for mom's chicken parm." Maskless says, watching you nibble on small pieces of Emperor meat.

Tracksuit's mask fluttered when he laughed, "Your mom cooked?"

"Yours didn't?"

So began talk of Debbie Grayson. Another universal constant, but she was dynamic through the multiverse. Tracksuit talked about a distant figure he never liked much. Maskless implied kind acceptance, the love some of them yearned for. She stood up to Nolan and died for it. Mohawk laughed in his face. Bragged about how he came to your world partly to kill her himself again.

"Did you?" Omni asked, sounding suspiciously interested. Like he'd had a similar idea.

"Nah." Mohawk kicked at the ground. "Wasn't home. Any of you dicks find 'er?"

Nobody had.

Lensless claimed a weak, once loving mother who stepped aside when the Viltrum Empire came to Earth. Struck by grief at the death of her husband at her child's hand. They lived together through the change Viltrum brought to Earth. What was left of it after the slaughter Lensless brought down. She was a ghost. Wasting away as the world was rebuilt into a utopia. The last time he saw her, she was hanging in her closet. He said this lightly, with the same smile he always wore.

Scars grinned at the story, told them that Debbie Grayson's body would never be found in his world. Left it at that. No one wanted to know.

Gray was confused by all of this. The death. The alien versions of his, "Mother raised me on Viltrum." Turned heads. "She likes it there."

Baldie stirred, agitated by the idea. Mom was good, she was just. She was taken from Earth just like he was. Brought to Viltrum, not in a cell, but still imprisoned. Dad gave him updates in between beat-downs on his cell floor. She had stopped talking, stopped eating, had to be put on life support to stay alive. Nolan refused to pull the plug. He kept his wife unwillingly alive as a self-inflicted vegetable. Baldie wished he could've escaped another way. Seen mom one last time, taken her off that horrid life support and let her rest in peace.

But he kept his mouth shut. He felt if he opened his mouth at all, the cave secret would come spilling out. He hadn't figured out how to tell you. Where to tell you. When. How you'd react.

Phantom hadn't spoken at all since he'd talked with Baldie those days ago. Something about Mom and Viltrum made him spark, contempt thick in his voice. "As breeding stock?"

Gray turned to him, "That's not what I said."

"Dad said that's all humans were good for," Phantom said.

***

"Is she with child?" The Viltrumite doctor asked as they all stepped into the sterile room. White on white on white. Technically, only Mark needed to be in attendance for his physical. There had been plenty of appointments since he was the first human-Viltrumite hybrid and the Empire desperately wanted to know how he was developing. But his parents came, they always came because they cared. Humanity's customs had rubbed a dent into Nolan's character. The other Viltrumites didn't approve but he still conquered planets, if not more effectively than before- excited to return to his family.

"No." Debbie said firm. "We've already told you, we're not-"

"You brought the human woman to breed did you not?" The doctor looked square at Nolan. Debbie was beneath him.

"I feel it's better to focus on Mark until he develops his powers." Nolan said as Mark climbed onto the table for a full body scan. He was seven, small for a Viltrumite boy his age but Debbie was sure he'd hit a growth spurt soon.

The doctor watched numbers flash on a screen. Mark's vitals, muscle and bone density. Hardly different from a full blooded Viltrumite. "He will soon, Nolan. It would be prudent to begin procreation immediately."

"I said no." Debbie snapped.

The Viltrumite doesn't turn to address her. "You should consider your mission on Earth a great success, Nolan. We were unsure of human-Viltrumite compatibility before, but by the time he's developed his powers- he'll be strong as a full-blood. The Empire thanks you for this knowledge."

"Uh, yeah sure." Nolan internally wilted at his wife's hard stare. "But you don't need me to have more children do you? There's so many Viltrumites and humans to do that for me."

The doctor's hands balled to fists. "You know?"

It's a secret Mark isn't privy to. Debbie isn't privy to. Nolan knows. There are only fifty full-blooded Viltrumites left in the galaxy. Their bloodline thinning in other mixed races. The Empire is weak, desperate. Mark the greatest success yet.

"Yes," Nolan said.

"Then you know what you must do."

***

"There are other humans to do it for him." He says, the parallel is like a hammer to head. The population of Viltrum had thinned further since then, but there were still others to carry the mission. He could just... No. No, he couldn't defect like that, it wasn't like mother. The Empire wouldn't even allow you to be considered if you couldn't procreate. Even if he wanted to, he was stuck in the desert. No way of returning to his Empire. Still, he looks to you and finds a cringe he feels the need to reset. "The parents of our hybrid children are not forced into what they do. It is bad for the child's physical health if some human practices are not done during pregnancy and early development." Only in hybrids. Viltrumite babies weren't so needy. Remembering himself, a tiny, keening and a desperate thing, made him embarrassed to not be full blooded.

Your expression only worsens. You did not like that. He is confused, what he said was very humane. He left out the part that humans were selected by health and fertility, that many did not meet their qualifications. Some did not wish to serve the empire, so they would be killed until another was found. Rinse, repeat. After awhile, all participants are willing.

"Wait." Tracksuit's accent cut the tension. "You were on Viltrum from day one, yeah?"

"I was born there." Gray said, proud. It was like a badge among the lesser versions of him.

Tracksuit's fingers snapped. "That makes so much sense!" Gray doesn't ask, so Tracksuit continues, "You know, why you're taller than the rest of us!"

Looks were shared. "He's not-" Then. "Wait- Hey! Stop hovering for a second!"

Gray, who perpetually seemed to hover above the ground except for when he slept, did as requested. Gasps rang through the cave. Marks stood beside him. Hands going from the top of their heads to the middle of Gray's chin. All of them were the same height, except for Gray. Two, maybe three inches taller than the rest.

There was outrage from some. Gray did not care. Height did not matter on Viltrum, through he suspected his difference was due to a different level of gravity throughout his lifetime. Odd, yes, but he can only focus on you and your faraway expression. What were you thinking about? Were you not impressed with his height? Didn't Earth women like taller mates?

He is so focused on you he nearly doesn't catch Phantom's quiet words.

"She'd rather die than live on Viltrum." The whole time he'd been simmering, building up the strength in his throat.

Gray looked to him. Saw past his modulator and mask, and knew he was a hurt, aching, little boy on the inside. One he could've been, had he not been raised to be strong on Viltrum. Gray pities him, but feels no compassion. A bleeding heart was just that, a bleeding heart. Weak, soon to die.

"Your mother is dead, yes?" He says more than asks. It's a guess, an educated one. The human-raised among his ilk were too transparent with their feelings.

Phantom jerks as if struck, voice a growl like what he says will hurt him. "Dad killed her."

Weakness. "If she resisted, then it had to be done. She was not strong enough for The Empire or your father. My mother was, and she still serves The Empire." He says as if his mother didn't only have one child. As if he didn't cherish growing up surrounded by his parents love and attention. She had not done everything she should have for The Empire and he still loved her, his father loved her. He too was weak, but unlike Phantom, would not show it.

Phantom bristled under the mask. Tense. Ready to strike. But he looks at you. Remembers what's at stake. Forces himself to relax.

Mohawk's cackle hurts his ears, "Maaaaan! You can't be sayin' that shit to this dude!" His thumb jerked toward Phantom, "Dude looks like a school shooter!"

Phantom took the abuse on the chin. He'd take all he needed to because soon enough, he'd show them all.

***

Scars and Lensless touched down, made their gross, sexual commentary. Toed the line. Maskless built the fire, Gray marked day twenty-two.

You eat beside Tracksuit. Friendship an undercurrent you keep hidden at these fireside. The others would be weird, territorial. Scars and Lensless might fucking kill him. You hoped they didn't hear you pour your heart out to him about Mark. Knowing your luck? They probably had.

Another night of tension. Conversational scraps. No one had found anything in the caves or the desert. Until.

"Alright, I'm bored." Mohawk shot a pointed finger your way. "I gotta know, how was he in bed?"

You almost drop your jerky. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. How was fuckin' Daddy's little clone?"

You'd been avoiding the topic for days. Avoiding Omni for days. He had his own cot now, had for days, but he pushed it right up next to yours. Sleeping next to one another, ignoring his chatter, trying to get him to sleep on his cot and not roll onto yours in the night. All you cared about was if he would kill you or not. Since he wasn't trying, you didn't need to talk to him. Still, he tried. Over and over to catch you out alone and you continued to dodge. Using your powers to get someone else to be around. He was smart and knew the others shouldn't know. Liked keeping a secret between you both, until he didn't.

"I told you twelve times already, we didn't have sex." Your lies sting him. The first time you denied it, he didn't mind. It was survival. But now? You sounded grossed out by the idea of him inside you. As if your body hadn't been begging for more. As if he hasn't tasted you on his fingers.

"Sure you didn't." Mohawk snickers. "Yelling at him for that long?"

"Dude," Tracksuit swallows a wad of meat, "I'd tell you if she was fuckin' some guy. It's like, bro code man."

Mohawk snorted, "I'm just sayin', if we were alone for that long? You would not be yelling at me." His brows do a stupid jig on his forehead. You want to throw your jerky at him but you needed it. You'd used your reserves for the day on shutting Scars and Lensless up for an extended period. They seemed to come to the fireside just for your control. Work it out until your nose bled or you passed out, then leave into the night.

"If we were alone that long, I'd kill you." You say.

He bit his pierced lip in a grin. "I'd like to see you try."

"Say that stupid shit again and I will."

Omni had had enough. The secret was doing no good for your relationship. He said loud and clear for the whole desert to hear, "Is it so bad that I made love to my wife?"

Your jerky finally drops out your hand as you stood. "You-"

Mohawk slapped his knee. "Knew it! I knew it!"

"We didn't!" You glare at him, trying to stop him with your eyes.

Omni levels you with a too-serious glare. "We did and it was beautiful."

"No!" You hands go to your head. You do not have the energy to deal with this.

Mohawk clutched his chest, laughing so hard he may vomit. "Him! Him first?! Ain't no way!"

Your control on Lensless and Scars snapped. Lensless shot up, arm raised, "Me next! Me! Pick me!" While Scars watched you with a small, knowing smile. He'd already known. Guessed or heard somehow. You could never tell with this freak.

"Oh God." Tracksuit ran a hand under his mask.

"Wait." Mohawk stopped. "What about bro code? Were you in that pussy too!?"

"No." Omni said at the same time as you.

The unity made Mohawk stop laughing. Taking stock of the situation, the way you stood in front of him, trying to mask your anger in a way you wouldn't if he was lying. If he was lying you'd make him jump into the fire, but you just looked anxious now, barely contained.

"You actually fucked her." It's not a question. Omni didn't joke. "I should cut your dick off." Mohawk wanted to say little but considering they were the same person? Definitely not little.

"You will not." Omni says, smile cocky enough to make them all bristle, "But I didn't need it."

Mohawk's hands go to the shaved sides of his head. "Fucking-!" He'd done plenty of that in his day, especially since your death to fill the void. If anyone knew about meaningless sex it was him but you fucked him, another version of him, and not him him. It was a total betrayal, a slap in the face, a Coalition of Planets data pad under the mattress.

Nothing seemed more healing to him then being buried in your pussy. Negging you was flirting for him. He was just trying to get in your pants, then your heart. He'd thought the teasing would bring you closer together. He'd had a plan but now all he wanted to do was kick Omni's ass for existing.

He stood. Omni stayed seated. "Do you really plan to attack me, Little Man?" Mohawk doesn't see but feels his eyes flick up and down. It was obvious who the scrawniest was out of all of them, Mohawk himself. Nothing to sneeze at in terms of physique but compared to Omni's brick wall body? He stood no fucking chance.

But he knew his physique didn't matter, that he was more durable, better than all of them combined. And he wouldn't take such a insult in front of you.

"Yea-"

"Take a breather." You say. Mohawk shoots hard into the night. You hold control long as you can.

"I appreciate the assist, my love but l-"

You hold up a hand shutting him up. "I'm not your love or your wife. That was the whole fucking point of what we did." You turn to the rest, the official news hitting them all at once. "And if any of you assholes have a problem, I'll send you out until you can act like adults. Jesus Christ."

Gray felt strangely disappointed. You couldn't help the repopulation effort but you'd still had sex just to have sex. Why? He never understood why his parents did what they did. Never got to lay his version of you down himself. Baldie tells himself you're only human. Needed to let off steam, but he angsts anyway. Lensless and Scars look to each other. Seeming to physically brew up punishing ideas. Maskless didn't care. Tracksuit hoped Mohawk wouldn't come back and murder him over an assumption.

Phantom sat content. Upset, yes, but content knowing this information would push Baldie further to his side. All evidence of Omni's mark on you could be erased anyway- once Baldie was out of the picture. If everything went his way no one else would touch you ever again.

***

You sat on the ground in total quiet. Alone for the first time in forever in the central cave. You couldn't remember who was on babysitting duty or where they'd gone. You continued knitting garbage together on your bare arms. Everyone had a cot now, but you wanted a blanket that wasn't Omni's cape after that shit he pulled last night. You'd slept against a carved bench by the fire while he tried to call you to bed. You ignored him until the only sounds you could hear were the fire and your teeth chattering.

You were exhausted and your whole body ached, and every time you fucked up the technique, you swore. It'd been getting harder to keep your emotions in check. You were always partly starving, bored, afraid for your life. You were fraying at the edges and didn't know how much more you could take.

"Hi."

You nearly jumped out of your skin. Falling forward, scraping your elbows on the cave floor, garbage fabric falling to useless shreds on the ground. You twisted, ready to bark out a kill order.

Phantom stood. Hand poised like he was going to touch your shoulder but thought better of it.

"What?" You gathered your limbs under yourself, trying to look more composed.

He notices you're slow to do so. You were not as afraid of him as the others. Unsure, reasonably so, but not enraged by his closeness. This was a good sign.

He reached into his belt. You'd never seen him turn out his pockets, had no idea what was inside. Mind racing that he was going to pull out a weapon, superhero murder gas or something of the like. Instead, he holds a small flat disc. No larger than the center of his palm.

"For you." He held his hand out, palm open, waiting for you to take it.

You ogle the thing with a frown. "It's not going to cuff around my wrists right?" You remembered the thing he'd thrown at you in Sydney. What you guessed it was but it was never confirmed to be. Remember what Scars had brought with him to subdue you. You suppress a shiver.

"No." He says, smile soft in his voice. "I used this when I knew I didn't have the time to follow a suspect." His thumb pressed on the disc's center and out popped a suction cup. Another press and it was smooth once more. "I did a lot more work for the GDA than the others."

He assumes anyway. Those lazy, immoral rats didn't care about the planet most of them grew up on. Not like Phantom did. He did everything he could to protect it. He still remembers what Dad said to him that horrible day. A sneer as he said "his hobby was cute," right after leveling their family home, after killing you. Just remembering spiked his heart rate.

He forced himself to breathe. Be level, calm. He held his arm out a little further but didn't dare touch you. Careful not to set you off, the poor, scared little mouse that you were.

"Or," he started, nervous under your attention, "to keep covert operatives safe." He flipped the disc on its side, slid a hidden track down to reveal a slim red button. "Press this and I'll be alerted. I'll come right away." He slid the hidden compartment shut and waited.

He wanted to keep an eye on you. Keep you in the palm of his creepy hand. He wanted to...

You were always in the same place. Always under threat of Scars and Lensless suddenly swooping down and snatching you up. This wasn't about stalking, it was about protecting. After all, he had saved your life from them, and your own stupid mistake.

You took the thing, slow, like you were scared if you moved too quick his predator instinct would spring and he'd grab your arm. But he holds himself perfectly still. Feeling the euphoric thrill that is your fingers grazing over his palm through kevlar. When your touch leaves, the sensation lingers.

You turn the thing over and over in your palm. Testing the weight and muttering, "Where was this a few days ago?" Before sliding into the pocket of your soldier pants. Its weight is near imperceptible but you feel it tugging at your hip. A real, solid comfort. A promise.

You realize you're being an asshole.

"Thank you." You say. Hoping he doesn't take it and his promise of protection back. Machine Head was always so quick to take privileges like that away. You worried but a lightning speed pick-pocketing doesn't occur. You relax. "For this and the other day. Those guys are uhm..." You look up through the porthole as if they'd be there waiting. They aren't. You don't want to jinx it. "It's good to have someone like you on my side."

He nods. All talked out for the day. Chest ablaze with the praise.

"It's good to have someone like you on my side."

He picked up your trash and re-knit it before you could think about doing it.

"It's good to have someone like you on my side."

He brought Gray's cache of trash to weave closer. Sat by your side and passed you pieces as you went along. Quietly enjoying your company.

"It's good to have someone like you on my side."

***

Dinner tonight was a broth of Emperor's bones to be sipped out of cups of dry clay Gray baked in the sun. He only made bowls for those two because if he didn't, they'd have an excuse to drink from yours. It was not that he cared for your comfort, why should he if you couldn't help him complete his mission but... There was no mission in this wasteland. He tells himself he's trying to keep the peace, to do the most rational thing in a hopeless situation. You were needed for morale, the others and not his of course.

You tilted the bowl to your lips and let the poor excuse for hot soup slide down your throat. Scars watched your throat bob. Wanting nothing more than to drink the liquid out of your mouth after a long day of desert dwelling with Seven. He settles for drinking his own share.

Scars is watched himself. Nobody trusts him not to try and take you to the sky again. Maybe even take you away for good. He hadn't made his move yet, but it was expected soon. For tonight, he did the same thing he had for the last week.

"Stop avoiding the question, Dregs." Piss you off on purpose, asking personal questions and making assumptions about your previous life. You didn't understand why he did it. You always shut him up and he was too pussy to attack even with Lensless in a room full of your personal bodyguards. Sometimes you thought he was getting off on bothering you, on not letting you have any sense of peace. But he barely fought back, letting you shut him up and bite back.

"Be quiet." And he was. Thank God.

Your nose hadn't started to bleed yet. Your powers should be weaker from eating less and less these last few days but you were on a roll tonight.

"Why are you getting so defensive?" Lensless baited. "We've been plenty vulnerable with you about our lives. Why can't you do the same thing for us? Just tell us who came up with the name!"

"Leave."

The cave whooshes with a rush of air. The kindling scattered to the floor. Regathered by Omni before they can burn themselves out. You nod thanks. The cave was insulated from desert night chills but it was no camping trip, you needed the fire.

You feel your control on Scars start to slip. "Stay quiet." You close your eyes. Feeling power loosen on Lensless, even at a miles distance. By now, his mind is free but his body is not. You focus. Try to keep them both evenly controlled. You'd never had a workout quite like this. Regular human beings were so easy to control you were unused to challenge. Hadn't even had any resistance from non-psychics until that day on the roof. You wouldn't say it but the exercise was welcome but you almost started looking forward to making fools of them over the nightly bonfires- showing them all you had something they couldn't control. You.

While you were focused, Mohawk hits you where it hurts. "By all means, leave those dickheads in the dark but why not tell the rest of us? We're buddies by now, yeah babe?" He knows your hold would break if you added another Mark to the roster. You can shut those assholes up, but not him.

"None of your business." You grit out through ground teeth. Feeling Lensless's mind wriggle in your hold. You clamp the mental prongs down.

He really shouldn't agitate you but you'd been avoiding him for days now. He just needed you to look at him again after that moment of union in the caves. "I think it is," Omni says.

Mohawks brows shoot up in surprise but he takes the advantage, willing to work with anyone if it meant getting under your skin. "See, babe? Everyone wants to know, even this shithead."

You scowl at Omni, concentration waning. Scars mentally slashing at your power with steely claws.

"Shut up."

"Think of it like a campfire story, ya'know. You can even change the names around if ya want." You don't budge. Mohawk pouts, "Come oooonnn, I showed you mine, you show me yours isn't that how the sayin' goes?"

"I said," your eyes snap open, control gone from the others, "shut up."

It's Mohawk's turn to go quiet. Lensless returned to the fire in a snap that again, scatters the wood. The fire is restacked before you notice a change in light.

"Idiot." You tsk at a finally shut up Mohawk.

"Did I miss anything?" Lensless asked.

"Just our dear Dregs getting defensive over the tiniest of questions." Scars said.

"I'm not defensive." You say, defensively.

"Then tell us." Mohawk goaded. Your hold already gone with your concentration.

"Yeah, I wanna know why you're so hot and evil and stuff." Lensless said.

You scowled. None of them were stopping this line of questioning. Why the hell was Mohawk working with Scars, who he tried to kill last week, to get information out of you? Why the hell weren't Phantom or Gray stopping this?

On the flip side, Phantom wanted to know. He knew you'd be upset if he asked. But the cool-headed image of him in your head wouldn't crack if he stayed quiet. When you stopped being angry you'd think it was survival move to stay quiet. Not speak against the majority.

Gray shouldn't let the tensions rise, he knew, but you were so vexing. All he needed to do was let the others crack your brain open for him.

Baldie tried to stop it, weakly. "She doesn't want to talk." Said as a mutter because he craved knowing all of you, but knew if he said nothing, you'd be pissed.

"Stop white-knighting, dude, she's not gonna fuck you." Mohawk said and that shut him up. Fighting all of them was a stupid idea. But leaving in a huff, leaving you alone, was a stupider idea. The best thing he could do was sit by your side as silent moral support. Back your play.

"I'm not fucking any of you." You say.

Mohawk scoffed. "You fucked Wonder Boy over there."

You lean forward, elbows to knees, "Yeah, and not you." That made his smirk crumple.

He forced it to bounce back. "Not yet."

"Mmm, no." You say, a lilt in your voice, "Thing is, I just don't think you're all that attractive." It's a lie but one you try to sell. Happy to bruise an ego. "I never thought the Mark in my timeline was either. With him," you jerk your head toward Omni, "I just needed stress relief and we were in the dark, so who really cares?"

Mohawk's lips purse like he'd sucked a lemon. "Funny you say that." He shifted, pulling something out of his back pocket.

Your phone. Caligula's belly flashing on the lock screen, fully charged.

"Give me that." You don't want to waste what power you have left, not yet. "How is that even working?"

"No shot." His shit-eating grin returns, "You could'a been explorin' the caves all this time, playing your stupid music-" Your eyes shift around, wondering who told. "We got crazy tech in these suits, babe. I had Art put a phone charger in mine cuz I kept missing your calls while I was workin' and you'd get pissed!" He slid the phone into a seam on his bicep, surly enough the charging sound dinged. He pulled it out. "-But you didn't think to ask cuz you're such a prissy bitch."

"You want to call me that again?" It's a dare.

One he doesn't take because he has the upper hand. "So I started goin' through ya phone." He flips it to himself and unlocks it with a swipe of the thumb. "Can't believe your passcode's the same." He laughs, tapping at the screen.

"Oh no, you beat my Tetris Lite high score." You say, because there's nothing incriminating on your phone. Aside from vague text chats with Machine Head and Isotope. "What's your point?"

"I'm so glad you asked." A few more taps and he where he wanted to be. An old photo album automatically downloaded to your phone from the cloud. You never looked at it, never cared to. Images carried over from your old phone before Machine Head issued you a new one, decked out with all sorts of encryption tech for secure messaging and calls. You didn't need pictures of your old work schedule or study notes from high school. But you never found the time or energy to delete them.

He flipped the phone over, stretched out his arm and panned the image around the circle. Letting everybody take in the truth. You, five years ago, kissing Mark's cheek, him grinning stupid at the screen. Your third or fourth date, the best so far. It had been your lock screen for months.

"Still think I'm unattractive?" Mohawk smirked.

Caught red handed. Your words catch in your throat. All of them processing what you had been to Mark. Even in the vaguest terms. Their hopeful puppy dog eyes. The memory of being happy and younger.

Mohawk started swiping through the pictures. One after another, in the short moments after the first. A cheek kiss to a lip kiss, the both of you blushing and smiling. "Doesn't this bring back memories, babe?"

Phantom feels his heart melt. He'd taken those same photos with you. Lensless had too, though with a lot more tongue. Baldie had too, but he'd been too shy to go in for a kiss on the lips. Omni was never one for selfies, thought they were a waste of time. But that didn't stop him from collecting photos, asking friends or strangers to snap some when you were out. He remembers you making fun of him for how serious he always took it. Mohawk had plenty pictures of you on his phone that he hadn't brought along. Mostly of your eyes looking up at him pleadingly, lips stretched over his cock, tears messy on red cheeks. He was deeply disappointed not to find anything similar on your phone. Scars didn't know you young, but liked where this was going. The look on your face, the rage, the humiliation- oh so sweet.

Gray did not have any photos of you. Photos for fun weren't a thing on Viltrum. Tracksuit had plenty of nudes on his phone, mostly of himself. Now, he was glad he hadn't brought his phone. A little glad he was witnessing true reality TV trash in real time but still, he felt bad for you but- come on, drama like this doesn't come around every day. Maskless watched on less enthused. Here we go, more het-slop drama. Fantastic.

"Give me that," you warn low, "give me that right now." You're saving your power now. Strategizing how to hurt him best in one big burst.

"Or what? You'll tell me to shut up?" He swipes through another photo. Mark's back to the camera, your head over his shoulder, locked in a hug. "Man," he whistles through his teeth, "you've got a lot of these. Wanna know the best part?" He asks the others, not you. "These are years old and she still has 'em-"

"I meant to delete them!" You can't help the outburst.

"And I went through 'em all, we stop showing up right around..." He stopped at your last photo of Mark. "Here. 'Bout five years ago," according to the photo app metadata. Mark sat across from the camera at a fancy dinner table. He was late to his own reservation, leaving you embarrassed and feeling like an inconsiderate dickhead. But when he came with roses in hand and you forgave him right away. You'd never been on a date like that again because not long after- you were through.

"Shit," Lensless took the phone, Mohawk let him have it, "We rock a suit, huh?"

Scars leaned over his shoulder. Frankly disgusted by how sweet his own face could look. "Rocked her right after this picture was taken I wager."

"No!" You should kill them all. Like, actually. You couldn't do them all at once though, you were deciding who to hurt.

"Why haven't you taken any pictures with him in that long, huh?" Mohawk went on. "Trouble in paradise, babe? You know, you'd never have any with me." Bullshit.

Omni took the phone out of Lensless's hand. Swiped through the photos himself. You looked so sweet, so happy, and alive. Nothing like you did now, with your dead-tired eyes and permanent scowl. He knew what happened to you in vague terms, the jail sentence and the subsequent assassin position. He jumped to the conclusion that this dimensions version of him was a stupid fuck up who didn't put a ring on it, and couldn't protect you from the world. He'd given up on you like a fool. But it was lucky for him, he supposed. He knew for sure now, despite your denials of his love, you could and would love him back. One day.

"We were friends." You lie back, "He was just affectionate-"

"Friends?" Mohawk cackles, "Yeah, cuz I tongue-fuck all my homies. Really, babe? I thought you'd come up with something better than that. What? Are you embarrassed?" Clearly, you were. "Cuz you kept alllll these pictures after he broke up with you?" It's a guess but dead on.

The quiet rage is confirmation enough.

There is a collective internal glow of pride in everyone. You were in love with him at some point. Some part of you kept the evidence. You could love him back, the collective thought. Save for Tracksuit and Maskless, who were both thinking this was a little much. Who both felt bad for you. Who both knew they'd rip Mohawk's skin off if they were in your shoes, but make no move to do so.

Mohawk didn't know when to stop, slinking forward to get in your face. "Aww, baby... Are you still in love with him? That's so stupid and sad."

"Punch yourself in the balls. Hard as you can."

You feel a rush of air and he's on the floor, writhing, clutching his family jewels, tears pricking the edges of his eyes before you can process your nose starting to bleed. You wobble on your feet, avoiding Baldie's balancing touch. You turn to Omni with Gray hovering behind him. Feeling things he couldn't truly explain.

You say, "Crush it." Before you consider that you'd need the flashlight.

Glass and metal splinter to the ground. Omni opened his hand, impressed you controlled him like that, but he doesn't think it'll happen again. Blood is coming out your nose in thick drops now. You wipe them away with the back of your hand. Head starting to throb as you walk slow, purposeful back to Mohawk. Still groaning.

You kneel. Everyone falling away but the two of you. Him in sweet, glorious pain, and you high off his agony. "You wanna know who gave me that name so bad?" His face is to the ground, trying to hide how much it hurts like the tough guy he is. You grab his hair in your fist, pulling his head up easily because despite everything, he'd always melt in to your touch. "You did."

They want answers so bad- they'll get 'em.

"My boss Machine Head, that robo-dick I murdered- he took it and ran with it because it upset me. You said I was the dregs of society- something stupid like that- and left me to rot. He thought it was so funny Dregs, his de facto murder-torture guy, isn't that nice? I was his favorite, you know? Machine Head always had these fucked up requests and I'd do it because I didn't care. I knew he wouldn't check, not because he trusted me, but because he knew I had nothing else. One guy, I made him skin himself alive with a potato peeler. Got pretty far before his body shut down. Another, I made him choose who to shoot first, his wife or his mistress- they both died, yeah, but man, him turning on his wife like that? Crazy." You didn't mean to ramble but you were. You were just so pent-up and angry, that a reminder of your Mark, the life you could've had, had you unwinding yard by yard. It was easy letting their flawed logic win for once, and it felt damn good. They had hurt you.

"I could've been something. When I met Cecil, he wanted me to work for him. Mark could've made that happen, but he let me fuck around New York murdering people for some drug-running robot dickhead." Mohawk's eyes began to clear of pain. Were rapt on you and your anger and how transparently awful you were. "I loved him so much, and now-" He's looking at you like he loves you and you hate it; say the nastiest thing you can think of, "If I ever get back, I'm killing his family, starting with that dumb bitch Eve. So no, you stupid motherfucker, I'm never going to love you and I'm never letting you fuck me."

You stand, emboldened by the silence. "Any more questions?" You only look at Mohawk. Curled, clutching his balls, but slowly, purposefully smiling at you.

"I think that about covers it." He says, voice weedy.

"Can you do me next?" Lensless asked.

You were sapped of power. Couldn't if you wanted to. You also shouldn't, he'd cum but still, he'd hurt and you wanted them all to hurt. You say nothing, gather up a premade torch. Held it out to Tracksuit to light with friction- much quicker than the fire that didn't much like damp-ish cloth. He does, no questions asked. He'd also want to take a hike after all that.

You picked a cave and started. Not before saying, "Fuck you all."

Then you were off. You don't let yourself stop and cry until you were triple sure you were out of hearing range. Even then, you go further, further, until your torch burnt down to the quick and singed your hand. You drop it, clasping the skin, crumbling to the ground as the first angry tears sprang forth.

You hated them. You wanted them to die but you needed them to survive. Why couldn't they just be normal? Couldn't they understand you were a different person? And now they knew your dirty secret. Sure to hold it over your neck like a guillotine.

You'd scream but they'd hear. Come running. Come mocking. So you sob as quietly as you can into your hands.

"I'm sorry he did that to you." He says.

You jump. Grab the smoldering remains of the torch off the ground and throw it at the voice, despite how it burns your hand. "Go away!"

The torch bounced off Baldie's chest, fell to the ground, all light dead on impact.

"I know you're upset but..." He knows Phantom is near. Lurking. Can hear his mostly disguised breathing. He'd left after you when the bickering fizzled and Lensless and Scars left out of boredom. Phantom followed because he knew- Baldie had made up his mind.

"Upset? I'm not upset!" You forcefully rub at your cheeks. "This is nothing."

He frowns, though you can't see it. "I have something to show you."

"I don't care." You say. "I don't want to see anything that isn't Mark's dead body. Okay? Just-" You take a wobbly breath, "Fuck off. I can't do this anymore."

The admission almost pulls a sob out of you, and you have to fight to hold it in.

"I know," it's soft, "I know, that's why I need to show you. You don't have to see any of them."

You're fighting to hold in sobs, barely processing what he says, "Please. Just go."

"(Y/n) I-"

"Die." You splutter without power, "Just drop dead or go away. I'm done." Soon as the words come out your hands go to your head. You almost did it again. You didn't want him to die, not really.

The sobs come harder. You're hysterical. Soon to crack and scream and then he wouldn't be alone with you anymore.

He scoops you up in his arms. Apologizing, keeping his grip gentle as possible as he flew deeper into the caves. Back to the hidden entrance he'd visited and re-visited since Phantom told him of its existence. You beat your fists against his chest, his neck, his face, but he couldn't be angry at you. He was angry at them for making you feel so low.

He doesn't speak as he moves the rock, floating inside, and sealing the tomb behind you both. He sees Phantom's silhouette as the rock slid flush to the wall. An agreement passed quietly between them.

You heard movement, unable to place the exact sound. Like Styrofoam peanuts squeaking past one another. But there was no way there'd be Styrofoam peanuts here. You blink, looking around but seeing nothing in the absolute dark. The air felt different here, wetter, smelling of sod and sulfur.

"One sec." He said, floating down to the ground with the least amount of creepy-crawlies. In the times he'd come back, he started the beginnings of a camp. Stole away supplies from Gray's material cache to make your own cots. Picked a spot a few feet up from the bug rivers where you could watch but be in no danger if you decided to hop down and explore.

He clacked two rocks together. Sparks rained as the fire pit he'd built lit. He blew, added more kindling from the pile he'd prepared, nurtured the fire in a matter of milliseconds. The light illuminated the cavern around you, but your eyes could barely process what you were seeing.

You were beside her, yards away. Sat in a high chair at her bug court. The massive white thing that was some mutated sand-mite-termite-whatever-the-fuck queen. She did not notice or care about the fire. Did not mind your sudden presence. Her mandibles twitched as her children flitted in and out of her mouth.

"What the fuck?"

Your brain doesn't even think of food. Water. Too stuck on the giant bug. But you know what it means, these are the first living creatures you'd seen since arriving over three weeks ago.

"We can stay here." He says soft behind you, sure to give plenty of space for you to process. "We have everything we need." You don't reply, jaw dropped open, taking in the sight. The bugs skittering in and out of their dens set into the walls. "You don't have to go back and deal with them ever again."

It's like a dream come true. Too good to be true.

You don't feel yourself speak. "They'll come looking."

"They haven't found this place yet and if we stay quiet, they won't. But I'll be honest, I didn't find this place myself. Someone else did."

You turn, eyes wide, "Who?" God, don't say Scars. Don't say Lensless.

"He wants to tell you himself." He knew it'd matter to you who it was, but Phantom asked him not to tell. He was cagey about why. "But he's helping us. I think tomorrow he'll stage your disappearance and join us. It's nobody bad, I promise."

"I-" You look back to the bugs, undulating below. None of them cared you existed. Minding their own buggy business, not begging you for sex or love or attention. If Baldie brought you here they were likely not venomous. They didn't attack or swarm or even run away. "We'll really be safe here?"

"I'll make sure of it." He said.

Something in you breaks. Resolve or dignity.

Because you lunge at Baldie, tears returning. Stuff your face to his chest, arms going tight around his forearms and middle. The hopelessness that'd become a part of your everyday slowing leaching out in his hold.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," it's muffled against his chest. His arms wriggle easily out of your hold and drape over your back. He pulls you closer, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin, and is at peace.

"It's alright, I've got you."

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rosenclaws · 12 hours ago

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How does Logan react when he thinks you're dead (either he sees your body, or thinks you're lost in an abyss, anything) but you awake or come back to him.

mm the angst yes please. I got a littleee carried away with each one but uhh its fine.

warnings: violence, injury, blood.

Origins Logan -

Logan is heartbroken. It's pretty much straight out of the movie where you're attacked by Sabertooth and Logan finds you bleeding out in the woods. He thinks your dead and there's a good reason to because of the blood on your clothes and he can't seem to find a pulse. He goes into a rage, he's angry and hurt and he hugs your body close to him and cries. He's dead set on revenge which is how they lure him into becoming part of the weapon x project. Turning his bones to metal in a very, very painful process. He does it for you thinking your dead but the whole time you're a pawn in Strykers game.

You don't knowingly spy on him like Kayla though (Ik she was being threatened but I wanna change things from the plot a little). You love Logan and you'd never do that to him. But they knew that hurting you was the best way to get to Logan so they did. Once Logan left your body they swooped in and experimented on you too to see if they could get anything out of you. You weren't a mutant like Logan and they wanted to see if they could insert the gene manually. When Logan escape it forces them to move you and ramp up their experiments. They try and wipe your memory just like Logan but it doesn't work. Somehow their stupid experiments don't kill you and you escape but now with powers you can't control born from Logan's DNA.

When you find each other again it's emotional. He thought you were dead and at first he thinks it's another trick but he sees you still have his dog tags and he knows you're real. He almost tackles you to the ground, holding you tight and burying his face in your neck. He asks a lot of questions and you don't have a lot of answers but when he sees you're now mutated he gets pissed. He wanted to kill Stryker for what they did to you. He knows the pain they put him through and he doesn't even want to think of how they hurt you. He keeps you by his side as you both try to explore this world now.

Trilogy Logan -

He's absolutely distraught. You're on a mission with the team and things are going fine. The two of you fight like hell and he still finds the time to make flirty quips as he digs his claws into another guy. It's standard. Until it isn't. Something goes wrong and you just don't know what to do. It was a trap, luring you in with mutant children just to kill you all. The building was literally going to collapse in on itself, burying you all alive. You use your powers to try and keep the building up but there are soldiers surrounding the building. it basically turns into a "Grab the kids and lets get the fuck out of here" plan. You keep the building up with every fiber of your strength and Logan is waiting for you. He's got like three kids and you know deep down that you can't go with him. If you break your concentration the building is gone and so are those kids. He refuses to leave you. He can hear scott yelling into his comm so he rips it out of his ear and throws it to the side. He's stubborn as hell but you won't let him put those kids in danger.

You can feel your grip slipping. The building shaking as your strength starts to dissipate. Bullets come flying through the concreate walls and you know that your time is up. So you tell Logan to go and come back. Lying to him that you have it handled and to focus on the mission. He makes you swear that you're okay and you do. You feel bad for lying but its what you have to do. The moment you know Logan is back on the jet you let go. Accepting that this was the end and that you saved those kids, saved your team, and saved Logan. Logan watches the building crumble, crushing anything around and in it. The roar he lets out is painful. They have to go and they know it. If they stay they risk giving up the sacrifice you had made. The jet doors close before Logan can get out. He's banging on them. Yelling and screaming to let him the fuck out. His claws sinking into the metal and it refuses to budge. The whole team is devastated and listening to Logan just makes it so much worse. Jean tries to calm him down but he tells her to fuck off. He's lashing out and everyone knows it.

He basically quits the X-Men for a while. He was a loner for a while and then he found you and this little family and he didn't mind fighting for something, for someone. But now you're gone. He tries to continue on but he just can't. I think he disappears for a while. Just to be on his own again because everything reminds him of you. He doesn't keep in contact with anyone. Just him and the Canadian Rockies. He doesn't know that you survived. That you crawled out of that rubble. Broken ribs and a lot of internal bleeding. That some nice old couple found you and let you stay until you were healed. You found your way back to the mansion months after they all thought you died. They couldn't believe it but the one thing on your mind was Logan and he wasn't there. After a tearful reunion with everyone else you hopped into one of Scotts cars and drove all day and all night until you found yourself at his cabin. He took you once and he promised to take you again.

He was outside chopping wood when he hears the car pull up. He just rolls his eyes and gets ready to tell them to leave him alone but then you step out. He must be dreaming he thinks. He drops the axe as you walk closer. Then his name falls from your lips and he takes off running. The first thing he does is kiss you. It's messy and desperate but holy fuck you're alive and you're here. Your crying and telling him you're sorry and he's just telling you it's okay. The two of you spend a lot of time in his cabin getting reacquainted. You tell him what happened and he listens. He watches you sleep in a not creepy way just because he wants to make sure you're really alive. he He's extra touchy and he's just happy that you're alive.

DOFP Logan -

I think losing you breaks him, I mean he gave up everything for a peaceful future. He went back in time to make sure his fellow mutants. His friends and family are safe. That you’re safe. Things were going well. Until the mansion was attacked. Logan was fighting off the attackers and you were evacuating the kids. It was utter chaos. Somehow an agent slipped past him and managed to fire a full round right into your stomach. The kids were okay, you protected them. But by the time Logan got to you, you were against the wall with blood everywhere. He was angry, pissed at himself and at whoever dared come and hurt them like this. He told you that everything was going to be okay. He wanted to stay with you, protect you. But there was still fighting and Logan had to put the kids first. With tears in your eyes you told him to go and it takes everything in him to leave you. By the time he came back your body was gone. Presumed dead.

The whole mansion could feel Logan's grief. While they all mourned you he was the worst of them all. The happiness had once again been ripped from his life. He thought things were supposed to be better in this new timeline but he just can't be happy apparently. He stopped teaching, hell bent on getting revenge on the group that attacked them. He wanted to avenge you, he was going to make them pay.

When they found them Logan went off by himself. The team could show up if they wanted to but fuck he was going to kill them all. No mercy. He slashed his way through but nothing seemed to heal his heart. No matter how many guards he took down. Until he found a room with lab equipment, attached to it was a small cell and that's where he found you. They had taken you from the mansion and were experimenting on you. But you were alive. Suddenly Logan wishes he spent more time on their deaths, regretting killing them so quickly. He bundles you up and carries you back to the jet where everyone is shocked to see you in his arms. He doesn't let go as they fly back to the mansion. You curl closer to him in your sleep and he promises to never let them take you again.

Old Man Logan -

He doesn't hesitate to kill them all. He just wants to be left in peace but these fuckers keep coming back. Mostly for Laura but the two of you have vowed to protect this little girl with everything you have. The ambushed you in public, shooting up a damn grocery store just to catch the two of you off guard. Logan was off working when he heard about it on the radio. He broke every traffic law in sight to get to you. Pushing past the people running away to get inside. That's when he saw you lying on the ground in a pool of blood and those bastards hands trying to drag Laura away.

All he saw was red. He barely even felt anything as he killed every single person in there. They killed you, tried to take Laura away. They didn't deserve his mercy. They deserved pain and pain is what he gave them. By the time they were all dead he still didn't feel satisfied. Until Laura called his name. She was next to you. Logan felt this horrible pain, knowing he was going to have to tell her you were gone. Then you moved. He rushed to your side and felt your pulse. You were breathing, alive. An ambulance came to take you away and Logan almost put his claws through some damn officers who tried to get him to stay. He told them they could ask him some fucking questions later because all he cared about was you. It was an agonizing amount of time before he was told that you were stable. You looked so frail when he walked into your hospital room. It took a couple days but you woke up and Logan was right there. He didn't tell you what happened after you went down, not about the blood he shed. He just told you Laura was okay and left it at that. He held your hand and listened to your heartbeat, just happy to see you alive.

Worst Logan -

He's fucking devastated. You were at the mansion when they attacked. When Logan was getting drunk at that bar. There was a lot of guilt festering in him but he couldn't find your body. He searched the whole mansion for you but he just couldn't find you. He couldn't even bury you. Like in the movie he turned to alcohol and rage. Killing because he hoped that maybe it would bring back any feeling but nothing could cure the hole in his heart.

When he got dragged to the void the last person he expected to see was you standing at Cassandras side. Your name left lips as he walked towards you only to be thrown into the ground by Cassandra. Are you a variant? You have to be. But as Cassandra probed his brain she made a comment that let him know it was really you. He tried to talk to you, ask you for help but you just stayed quiet. It really was him. You had conflicting feelings and Cassandra could sniff them out in an instant. You promised you were loyal but when Logan came back you couldn't bring yourself to hurt him. Even though he could heal you just couldn't. Cassandra sent you into a wall when she saw your weakness. Logan charged at her, telling her to get her fucking hands off of you. He won't fail you again. She lets you free as she turns her attention to Logan, digging deep into his brain to see all his memories. His failures, his guilt. Somehow his weird red friend managed to stop her. Logan's speech, he looked right as you as he spoke. How he wants to be a better man, to be the X-Man that you and Charles told him he could be. When she made the portal Logan didn't hesitate to grab you and take you with him. He wasn't leaving you again.

When the world was saved and everything was over you two spent some time together away from the crazy. He fell to his knees and apologized for being a coward. For leaving you. You told him how you got there, that the TVA had showed up and zapped you into the void. You joined Cassandra to survive but Logan didn't care about that. He understood. He was just happy to have you back and for once he felt like he could breathe.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett headcanon

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bie-tch · 2 days ago

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To celebrate my return from break (and to release my pent-up thoughts), I proudly present: Bie's ninja headcanons! 1 silly, 1 angsty LEZGO

Kai first!! (Because fucking duh have you seen my blog)

– Has a separate bathroom for all his skincare and haircare stuff. The team makes fun of him for it regularly, but whenever there's another time crunch mission or something extremely stressful in general, he always looks the best. Maybe some eyebags here and there, but other than that, he's glowing.

– His coping mechanism is self blame. Team falls apart? His fault. Mission accident? His fault. Ninja captured? His fault. Innocents hurt? His fault. His friends in actual fatal danger? HIS FAULT. He used to lash out at others because of this mindset, but now he just sits with himself while anxiously waiting for someone to tell him what to do (in fear of messing up things even more) it's what drove him to the sidelines during planning and battle, he's afraid his "reckless" attitude will jeopardize everything. (He doesn't acknowledge that he's gotten better. He doesn't acknowledge that most of his hotheadedness is a farce. He won't acknowledge that his fears are irrational.)

Zane aww the baby the dude the little awww

– Has been betrothed to Pixal for YEARS already. Like, shortly after s10. He saw Jays proposal, saw Pixal have a physical body, and it just clicked in his head that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his other half. He was so touched that he spent hours sourcing the perfect yinyang pendant, planning everything to the tiniest, most insignificant detail, only for her to be the one to get down on one knee. He cried a little (a lot)

– Was so genuinely hurt and upset at the administration calling him "equipment." When he got back to the Monastery he instinctively tried to find his safe place (Pix), only for him to be absolutely crushed when he realized that she simply wasn't there. He drowned himself in analytics and background work simply because if he thought about it too much he'd have a breakdown. But he can't have that. He needs to find pixal, right?

Cole ceo of goober town

– Is an actual god at cooking now. Seriously, he can make anything taste Michelin quality with a handful of ingredients. He prefers baking, though, for obvious reasons.

– Was isolated from his peers while he was in school, solely because he fought a lot. Kids would run away from him, spread rumors, or try to avert his path on a daily basis. Faculty tried to contact his father whenever things would escalate, but he was too busy drowning in alcohol to pay attention to his sons education.

Nya!!!!

– Contrary to popular belief, Nya is absolutely a bigger hothead than Kai. On a bad day, you can sniffle, and she'd just go off on how unhygienic the monastery was and start spite-cleaning only for the others to offer to help out of pure fear. This is her way of getting out of chores. Kai is onto her but finds it so funny how everyone scrambles to keep her from exploding.

– Her first word was "Hungry." She knows this. When she asked Kai what her first word was out of curiosity, he lied and said it was "mom." She went to ignacia for a simple errand and that was when she found out. An old shopkeeper said he remembered a barely 4 year old girl with sunken cheeks point at his produce and babble "hnngry.. unggry." Now, when people ask what her first word was, she'll still say "Mom."

The Master of jig (Jay)

– LOVESSS his parents but hates to admit it. Not because he finds it embarrassing, but because his folks will not shut up about it even after months. He'll go, "Yknow I love you a lot, right ma, pa?" And they will throw a legitimate PARTY FOR IT. When the ninja found out about it, the teasing lasted for exactly 7 months.

– The only thing he remembers after the merge are calloused, wrinkly hands holding him like he's the most precious thing in the world. He doesn't know who, or why, but he's determined to find out.

Laloyd

– The softest, shiniest, bounciest hair you will ever feel. He has never touched a single hair product in his LIFE. It's been Kai's mission to ruffle that hair atleast twice a week ever since he did it back when they were younger.

– Has burned every single photo of him and his father together after the events of s10. Every time he's reminded of how much he aspired to be like him when he was younger he gets physically sick. He could never idolize someone like that. Who views lives like collateral damage. Never. Never again.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #kai smith #nya smith #lloyd garmadon #cole brookstone #jay walker #zane julien #headcanons #shutupbie #ninjago kai #ninjago nya #ninjago lloyd #ninjago cole #ninjago jay #ninjago zane #ninjago pixal

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hollowed-theory-hall · 2 days ago

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How do you think the magical world treats women?

I don't think sexism is much of an issue there. We know they had the first female Minister of Magic back in 1798, way before the Muggle world. We see women in all sorts of positions in their society, from Madam Bones as the Head of the DMLE, McGonagall as a Deputy Headmistress and later headmistress. We also know women can inherit:

“And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius’s living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

(HBP)

“Now,” said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, “I think you’ll like this, Tom. . . . Oh, if my family knew I was showing you. . . . They can’t wait to get their hands on this!” [...] “Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek. “Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years.

(HBP) - This implies Hepzibah inherited Hufflepuff's cup in her family line and not a male relative (who we know exists thanks to Zacharias Smith).

And that the children of female family members are still considered family enough for magic (enough to appear on the tapestry, though I believe their children's children would not count, if I had to guess):

I see Tonks isn’t on here. Maybe that’s why Kreacher won’t take orders from her — he’s supposed to do whatever anyone in the family asks him...” [...] he was too busy staring at the names to the right of Andromeda’s burn mark. A double line of gold embroidery linked Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy, and a single vertical gold line from their names led to the name Draco.

(OotP)

We also see witches in the Wizengamot in equal political standing to wizards:

Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts

(OotP)

But it'll be wrong to say there is no difference between how their society treats wizards and witches — because there is. The difference, though, isn't a legal one but more in the realms of cultural norms and traditions.

I mentioned it before, but the 1800s notion of pocket watches being for men and wristwatches being feminine is live and extent in the Wizarding World:

Fudge consulted the large gold pocket watch dangling from his waistcoat.

(PoA)

“Must be nearly time,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again.

(GoF)

“Look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, checking her wristwatch.

(GoF)

(Witches and younger boys use wristwatches, adult wizards use pocket watches)

In general, even though they all wear robes, their clothes are gendered:

“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress,” said Ron, handing it out to her. “Of course I haven’t,” said Mrs. Weasley. “That’s for you. Dress robes.”

(GoF)

There are different cuts/fabrics that are fashionable for women VS men. The things that gender fashion are just different from in the Muggle world:

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. “I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks.”

(GoF)

Additionally, the staircase to the girls' dorms doesn't let boys up, but the boys' dorms do let girls in. Which implies the social view that boys would abuse the ability, while girls won't.

We see many witches settle into the role of housewives. Molly and Narcissa, the two mothers we see most in canon, are both housewives. Men are expected to work and go into the Ministry, women can and do more often than not (Madam Bones and Umbridge aren't mothers, but they have high positions in the Ministry. Marietta Edgecombe's mother is a mother and works in the Ministry. Alice Longbottom was an Auror, Rita is a journalist, etc. Witches work more often than not), but they can also remain as housewives once they have children.

I wouldn't call it an "expectation" since it doesn't seem to be encouraged or discouraged, but I'd call it very acceptable for women to stay at home once they have kids. (It also says something about their economy, actually. Since, in a weaker economy where a family needs more than one salary to live, the mother will be working. The fact that Molly doesn't work means the cost of living is manageable with the average salary in their world, even for a whole family. Or at least Arthur's salary is, which is likely above average since they have 7 kids who live on it)

A Grand Tour after graduation also seems to have been a wizard thing, as we don't hear of any witches going on such tours (although they have fallen out of practice, so this could be biased by the limited information we have). But I will guess it wasn't common for witches to go on the grand tour; they were allowed to if they wished, and I'm sure there were witches who did. But it wasn't as common or expected of them as it was from wizards.

Quidditch, too, while being technically co-ed, we see more wizards than witches practising the sport professionally. The Bulgarian national team has 6 wizards and 1 witch; the Irish national team has 2 witches on it. The Slytherin team has only wizards in the books; the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams also seem to be male-dominated. The Gryffindor team has the highest percentage of girls with an almost equal 3 witches, 4 wizards lineup. Save for the Holyhead Harpies, which are a witch-exclusive team, Quidditch is a more male-leaning sport. Especially when you go to higher leagues.

Even Bellatrix being able to inherit is a "last resort" of inheritance laws. As, at least for the Black family, there is a preference for male progeny:

“Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of ‘Black. ’

(HBP)

So, there is a difference socially, traditionally, and in some inheritance laws that prefer wizards over witches. But in the eyes of magical law (apart from the aforementioned inheritance laws, and Hepzibah proves some families inheritence laws don't prefer male heirs over female ones, so...), wizards and witches are treated the same. They seem to hold the same positions in workplaces and the Ministry, and no one is making a big deal out of it.

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #asks #anonymous #hollowedtheory #harry potter meta #wizarding world #wizarding society

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transmutationisms · 2 days ago

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Hello! I have a question. My brother in law is studying to become a doctor (usamerican) and I recently had a conversation with him where we discussed drugs and addiction. I had read your antipsych faq a few days before, and though I admit that I am terribly under informed, I pushed back against some of the ideas he had, but some of the things he said I’m still working through and wondered if there any go to readings you’d recommend?

For example, when talking about drugs and addiction, I asked him if someone being an addict or being addicted was always a bad thing, because if someone wants to take drugs and are aware of the effects they should be allowed.

His response was that if a person is addicted to a drug then they don’t have that choice on the matter anymore then it is a bad thing. He also added that a lot of people aren’t actually informed of what a drug will do to them before they take it.

I didn’t have a good response to this and I’ve been thinking about it sense. I really appreciate your writings on antipsych; its definitely helped further my outlook on it. Thanks for your time!

-i have a drugs tag and an addiction tag (idr why i have both. sorry lol) you might want to check out in addition to my general psychiatry tag. for one thing Addiction is not a concept that even has a singular definition nor should we be reifying it

-this is precisely one thing that biopsychiatric diagnoses get perpetuated for lmfao, to remove patient autonomy by referring back to a biological entity that controls your brain and thus justifies the physician intervening oh so beneficently and in a manner that just so happens to always also line up with what their professional interests & thus the state and legal uses of their profession demand. does it matter these biological disease entities are heuristic assumptions that are circularly defined and always 'just around the corner' from being empirically confirmed for the last two and half centuries? no. does it matter this narrative does not 'reduce stigma' or contribute to patient 'recovery' but traps people in institutions to be traumatised? no. what matters is that your socially deviant behaviour is not actually just personally objectionable to me, the doctor, in fact it is actually prima facie evidence of your diseased brain (bc if you had a normal healthy brain then you naturally wouldn't be doing this pervert behaviour that i hate and that the state has economic interests in suppressing in order to make the lines on the graphs go up) so therefore it's clear you must lack self control and self possession and it's actually good for you if i forcibly intervene to correct you. in fact it would be irresponsible of me not to override your stated objections and impose my own judgment of what's best for you. i wrote a related essay about the rhetorical traps of these medical concepts of harm here

-if this person actually gave two shits about people being able to make informed decisions about drug use (i do) he could try oh i don't know. informing them about drugs (he won't bc he is a cop who believes only in scaring them straight and then punishing them sober)

-biopolitics tag also be upon ye

-typical doctor attitude to be quite fucking honest & exactly why i self censor intead of arguing with any of these demons irl. like godbless if you want to go back in but you won't win. sorry!

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roll-of-royces · 11 hours ago

Text

WinterSentry Headcanons

Bob has taken to listening to vintage music, he now plays oldies all the time despite the complaints of nearly everyone else. He likes to watch Bucky hum along to some of the lines, appreciating how he looks so much calmer when the record player is spinning.

When Bob has his bad days he likes to count all the pieces on Bucky's arm, taking it in his hands twisting it from side to side as he counts all the segments, tapping each one with a finger as he goes.

Bucky likes to sit with Bob, usually sharing the same space as the two of them do completely different things. They're happy to exist pressed up side to side on the couch reading two different books. They trade books all the time usually reading one right after the other so they can talk about it.

When Bob doesn't want to leave bed Bucky will carry him outside so they can sit in the sun because Steve always said sun will do you good.

Late at night sometimes Bucky tells Bob about Steve, soft whispers and regrets. Bob lies on his chest and lets him talk, never shames him for wanting to talk about it. He tries to bring up Steve sometimes to help keep him alive for Bucky even though they never met.

They both always know when the other is anxious or overwhelmed. The moment Bob starts clamming up Bucky is there to help, to take the focus off him or usher him away from the situation. And if Bucky is anxious Bob is there to take him hand, pressing close.

Bucky insists on teaching Bob how to fight, since he can't seem to remember how on most days. It results in a lot of accidental injuries for Bucky and flustered apologies from Bob. Bucky secretly kind of likes it.

Bob will steal all of Bucky's clothes, Bucky will happily let him.

They eat breakfast together every morning, because it's important to start the day right. Says Alexei who starts the day off with vodka.

If Bucky is outmatched you best bet your ass Sentry is going to be right there, tossed into the mix. Arrogant, defensive, pulling all the attention to him. And if Bucky doesn't get back up Void will have something to say about it, and the whole world will hear it.

Bob has told the others to kill him if anything happens to Bucky and Yelena because he knows he won't be able to come back from that.

Bucky and Bob fiercely defend the other. Always insisting that they deserve happiness and second chances, even if the other doesn't agree.

Bob is the only person on the team that knows how to disarm Bucky's arm.

They both have nightmares and when that happens they try and wake the other up. Then they'll stay up together, watch a movie, talk, listen to music until they pass out together in the early hours of the morning.

Sometimes they swap horrors, Bucky will tell Bod something about his past and Bob will do the same, sharing those things they've never dared to tell anyone else.

Bob makes Bucky a lot of gifts, little hand made things here and there or buys things at the store that make him think of him. They are a growing collection in their bedroom.

Bucky hates covers and Bob loves them so typically Bucky ends up sleeping with nothing while Bob leans into his side swaddled in three blankets.

Bucky likes to take Bob out on his bike, going out of the city so he can speed along back roads and hear him laugh in his ear.

Sometimes they walk around the places Bucky used to know, and he'll tell Bob all the things that have changed. That used to be a dance parlor called Janie's. Over there was a newspaper stand, Steve and I used to eat in this place, but it's a laundromat now.

Bucky calls Bob nicknames in private, things like doll, hun, sweetheart. Bob adores it.

#thunderbolts #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #bucky barnes #wintersentry #Bob Reynolds x Bucky Barnes #marvel headcanons #thunderbolts headcanons

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firstelevens · 1 day ago

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Sambucky Prompt Game 🐈 or 🌹

🐈 - Figaro and Alpine

Sam is reasonably certain that he's going to get away with this.

As long as he makes it back home before Bucky and gets everything set up in time, he's golden. They've been having this conversation for almost a year now, and life keeps getting in the way, and of the two of them, Sam's the one who kind of made a career out of taking death defying leaps for the greater good. Sometimes the universe drops something wonderful in your lap and you just have to take it.

"And you'll be extra cute when Bucky sees you, right?" he asks the cat that's currently curled up across his thighs. "We're a team here; he can't say no to both of us."

"And if he tries to, you can just tell him he'll have to return all the cat stuff you bought to Target," says Joaquín, from the pilot's seat. "You know how much he hates Target; he'll adopt him on principle just to avoid going."

Sam has a whole speech lined up about why he won't need to resort to that, because Figaro--so named because they found him in a crate outside the opera house when they were on a stakeout--is too adorable to resist, but he's cut off by his phone buzzing. He picks it up and almost drops it again when he sees that it's a video call from Bucky.

He taps to answer the call without turning on his own camera and greets Bucky distractedly, too busy trying to figure out where he can angle his arm so the half-asleep cat in his lap won't immediately be obvious.

Onscreen, a vaguely disheveled Bucky frowns at his phone. "I can just see myself, Sam. Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Buck," says Sam. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, there's just kind of a humming noise? Like a buzzing but lower, it's sort of going in and out."

Sam looks down at Figaro, who is doing his best impression of a chainsaw. "Just, uh- just a bad connection up on the jet. You know how it is."

"You're heading home, then?" asks Bucky. "Soon?"

"We should get in in a couple hours," Sam says. "You have that freshmen mixer tonight, don't you? Mr. Congressman-elect?"

From the way Bucky's eyes widen slightly in alarm, Sam is going to assume that Bucky both forgot the mixer and ignored the texts from his team reminding him about it. "Of course," he says, slightly choked. "The mixer."

"The invitation is on the fridge," says Sam, laughing a little as Bucky whirls around, clearly trying to hunt for it among takeout menus and AJ's latest piece of artwork. "They said the dress code was smart-casual, but it's happening at the Watergate so that's a lie. You'll need a jacket and a tie."

Bucky groans. "How important is it for me to show up to this thing?"

"What, you got through an entire congressional campaign, but sipping champagne and eating canapés is a rough evening for you?"

"It is when I'd rather be at home," says Bucky, all but pouting into the camera.

Then, offscreen, there's a loud crashing noise, and Sam sits up a little straighter, leaning in towards his phone. As he does, he realizes that Bucky oddly doesn't look surprised, just kind of exasperated.

"Buck, what was that?"

"Nothing," he says. "I just, uh- I stacked up some stuff that I shouldn't have. I should go make sure nothing broke."

Sam furrows his eyebrows. "Okay," he says slowly. "See you soon?"

"See you soon, sweetheart," says Bucky, and hurriedly ends the call.

Ordinarily, Sam would dwell on it, but then they hit a patch of turbulence, and he's far too distracted calming Figaro down to think about the weird end of the call. They touch down at an airfield just outside DC two hours later, and between the extra duffel of cat supplies and Figaro's carrier, Sam needs Joaquín's help to get everything into the car.

By the time he's pulling into his and Bucky's driveway, it's already dark outside, and though the lights are on in the house, Bucky's car is still gone.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief and leaves his own bag in the car for now, grabbing the cat carrier and Fig's luggage before he hurries up the front steps.

"Welcome home, Fig," he says, as he grabs his keys and unlocks the door. "You're gonna have so much space to run around and so many cozy spots to nap in and so many boxes of shredded paper to play with. Bucky takes destroying confidential documents very seriously."

Figaro only responds to this with a curious little mewl, which Sam takes as his sign to open the door of the carrier so he can explore a little. His first few steps are hesitant, but then he scurries around the corner into the family room, peeking his head back around the doorway just to make sure that Sam is where he left him.

There's some soft scampering noises as Fig undoubtedly cases the joint, and then a loud meow, followed almost immediately by a softer, strangely higher pitched one. It happens a few more times, almost like Fig is having a conversation with himself, and before Sam can head down the hallway, the front door opens again to reveal Bucky in a very crisp suit.

"Sam!" he says. "You're home! I thought you were going to be longer."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "You don't have to sound so disappointed."

"What? I'm not disappointed," Bucky says, slightly too quickly for Sam's taste. "I just thought I might beat you home, is all."

He narrows his eyes. "Any particular reason you wanted to do that?"

Bucky presses the door closed behind him and strides forward into Sam's space, crowding him up against a wall. "Maybe I wanted to give my man a proper welcome home, huh?"

It's a cheap strategy. Amateur hour, really. Given even thirty seconds, Sam's sure that he could come up with a dozen better ways to distract someone from their questions.

Unfortunately, he and Bucky have been apart for the past three weeks, and the press of Bucky's body against his is a welcome return to the familiar. Sam leans in for a kiss, fully intending to allow Bucky this one successful distraction, when there's another meow, loud and irritated and undeniably closer than it was a moment ago.

He winces, already moving on to Torres's Target plan when suddenly, there's another meow, equally loud but distinctly higher pitched, and coming from a different direction, too.

When Sam pulls back to look at Bucky, he's got his eyes shut, face scrunched up in regret. When he cranes his neck to look over Bucky's shoulder, he sees Figaro, tail curled around him, looking up at the two of them. He chirps a little meow when Sam appears. It's adorable.

About a foot away from Figaro, looking up at Bucky with starry eyes, is a second cat: fluffy, snow-white, and surprisingly elegant for such a tiny little thing.

"Sam," Bucky says, eyes still closed, "meet Alpine."

"Hi, Alpine," says Sam, laughing a little. He reaches up and takes Bucky's face in his hands. "You should open your eyes, baby."

"So you can give me your disappointed face for bringing a cat home without running it by you first?" asks Bucky, eyes still stubbornly shut.

"No," laughs Sam. "It's so you can meet the cat that I brought home without running it by you first."

Bucky's eyes fly open. "Wait, what?"

(For the record, Sam totally gets away with it.)

#sambucky #sambucky fanfiction #therulingqueen #zainab does ask meme things #my fic

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rei-ismyname · 3 days ago

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I meant to write this up earlier, got distracted.

I was meaning to ask you how you feel about the 05, if that you think they’re a compelling dynamic as a team post their original run(Post X Factor too even). One of the fascinating facts about X-men, to me, is how they nearly got the same fate as the inhumans circa the early 70s, relegated to a back forgotten corner of the universe had not claremont, cockrum and byrne stepped in.

It’s amazing to me how certainly the All New Cast replaces the 05 as the definitive X-men team in a pop culture consensus. We rarely see them all together anymore, even when X-men makes the conscious effort to go “back to basics,” like with the current X-men FTA runs.

I admit, I don’t get the same immediate understanding of the 05’s group dynamic when I read their original run, comparatively to other Lee Kirby creations of the era, with this feeling easing up by my reading of X-factor. They can feel less warm at times, and maybe that’s by design for that group specifically, I didn’t feel the same about the All New group during claremont’s run, regardless of how much bickering there was. Maybe it’s just writing of the time. Sorry if this is a ramble, I like picking your brain for x-men takes

Interesting question with a not so simple answer. Actually, that's not true. I could just say that the original run is 💩 and leave it at that, haha, but we both know I'm not going to. Generally though, I'm pretty confident in saying that if the 1963 run was the only X-Men that existed, I wouldn't care about it. It's likely I wouldn't even know about it. There's gold there (like Magneto), but you have to sift through a lot of chaff to get it. Even then, everything interesting about the book was refined by other hands or revisited.

Look at these bozos tucking Chuck in

I think one of the reasons they're so interesting is because that shared wacky, horribly traumatizing history is there. They're family, they're best friends, they're each other's ineffective support systems, they're ride or die soldiers and they've been through fucking EVERYTHING together. 62 years of hardcore paramilitary shit squeezed through a sliding timescale into only 15, growing every week with some new crisis. Dealing with only a life or death race war is a pretty good day for them on average - never mind aliens, Gods, time travelling killbots, possession, mind control, literally dying, torture, and every other thing including the kitchen sink. Who can they talk to that can actually understand? The Summers Protocols are written in their blood, protecting people who HATE them. How can these people not be intensely fucked up? So many words answering this question under the cut. 💯% rambling but it's definitely my thoughts on the O5 X-Men.

They can't, so they are. 15 year olds drafted into a forever war by a manipulative billionaire who's nearly as fucked up but pretends he's not. The school is up to code now (I mean it's a jail now but you know what I mean) and they teach real lessons, actual adults join willingly (you're 45% sure) and there's multiple telepaths around to keep Chuck in line. Newer X-Men get standardized training and are shadowed by experienced soldiers. You helped Scott formulate these protocols when you were both too traumatized to sleep one month. You're so glad that students' mental health is a priority but you worry they won't learn valuable repression skills. Bobby has the right idea, tell a joke. When people laugh it almost drowns out the particular soulless drone the Gen 1 sentinels made. Can anyone else hear that?

The Champions see like 1% of repressed X-Men trauma and wig out

These newer folks are family too but they weren't there man. It was the fucking wild west! You call home reflexively for the 250th time and your birth family is angry. 'We never had a son called Hank, stop calling us.' Why was that necessary again? Maybe the mindwipe will wear off one day. You'd ask The Professor about it but you don't want to risk demerits for disturbing his construction of death traps. Besides, you're studying Quantum Physics to maybe help survive fighting Magneto later. Why did you think about him? He's so terrifying, that look in his eye. Maybe you'll talk to Scott about it, but he's running the day's 400th simulation of your gruesome deaths. Bobby would just joke about it, but there's a sadness in his eyes that you recognise. This ... dream feels further away each day, your own dreams are much closer and they're always the same. Mutant/human relations just get worse and worse - you've wasted your life, and you're training a 10 year old with horns to follow you. You can't remember their name either. Was it Bong or Bing or? No they died the last time the school blew up. FUCK ! 😭

Yeeting bowling balls during free play was day 1 shit. 'Testing his reflexes.'

Okay hopefully I've made my point. They are beyond fucked up with terrible coping skills. Things you'd learn from family, friends or teachers, but your Messiah complex emotionally unavailable God King Chuck just recommended a codependent relationship. You can talk to the rest of the O5 (if they're alive and in control of their own minds) but they're just as fucked up. There's nobody else - they all want to kill you. And it. Never. Ever. Ends. Seriously. Fuck. Me. It just keeps getting worse. They've got so much history that every facet of their origins has multiple contradictory accounts. They're a beautiful mess found family that love each other so much but mostly don't know how to express it, let alone do healthy conflict resolution.

I didn't read the X-Men comics sequentially, so by the time I even knew what X-Men was the O5 had been mythologised in and out of universe. My baseline perception started there entwined with pop culture osmosis and as I read back through it all the context radically shifted around, especially the early stories or remixes of them. LBR, the 1963 run kinda sucks, lol. I love it, of course, but if you filed the X-Men's name off it I'd hate it. In a big way it's a historical artifact. The Rosetta Stone and Stonehenge except sixties camp. The time dilation just makes it ... wackier. I hate that word, not as much as zany, but I really don't like it. Let me explain.

Take the social and ethical values the 1963 characters have in their first run - they're not especially sympathetic or even heroic in many ways. Their politics is vapid, social awareness negligible, zero class consciousness. They mostly look better than the people they fight especially the alleged mutant liberationist who's a stylish yet run of the mill megalomaniac. A budget Doctor DOOM - though there's massive potential. I don't care what Stan Lee said retroactively - I don't buy an all-WASP pro-establishment group who beat up their fellow mutants as inspired by any progressive movement period, let alone civil rights. At best there's Red Scare aesthetic and vague iconography coming from the centre of both sidesism. That's on the page, that's the blueprint from which it all came.

The best and the worst. Magneto doing stuff and sex pests plus Drill Sergeant Chuck.

The characters are so popular and iconic that many books and flashbacks have been set in that time period. The Hidden Years, as Hickman so aptly put it in HoxPox. That alone (not to mention other media) makes it ripe for interpretation, speculation, and variations on the theme. Every time it's revisited there's a new angle, simply by virtue of time having passed. The X-Men were founded in 1963, but it's always fifteen years ago relative to the present. The O5's values (and technology level) are updated and/or deconstructed to reflect that, which in turn alters every dynamic. For example, instead of the X-Men being Mad Men-esque raging sex pests with eyes bulging out and tongue on the floor when Jean shows up, they're more realistic middle class teenagers to reflect that WOMEN ARE PEOPLE. Bobby's hypersexual performance is the most extreme but we know what he's repressing. Where 60s kids were gullible bootlicking fucks that bend to any authority (I assume - if you're a 60s child, no offence), no matter how unreasonable - X-Men: Season One showed Jean to be deeply suspicious of Xavier's motives, methods, and mission with the others not far behind her - the first instinct being to get far away from this bald lying maniac and his idiot plans. During the Magneto fight from issue #1 she's thinking 'we are NOT ready for this and someone is going to get hurt.' Chuck responds with 'duly noted.' She calls Chuck out about wiping minds and running a secret paramilitary group instead of a school and he has to try to present a coherent ideology. S1, and many other adaptations, stress that this is not normal, it's dangerous as fuck and there's massive question marks around whether these children are capable of consenting. Many such cases, etc. No, really, there's been so many remixes and additions to the HY and I love them. Even in the 60s and early 70s they'd break up or join other teams, show up in weird adventures with the rest of Marvel, retcon stuff from a few issues ago. First Class, Origins, Season One, and on and on.

Not really a school, you're in my army now.

Which interpretation is 'canon'? They're (mostly) deliberately incompatible so we have to decide for ourselves, piecing together a mosaic with drastically different tiles. We all have our own, likely influenced heavily by which corner/s of fandom we're in or the analysis we consume. I suspect we mostly choose what feels good for our faves, and I don't exclude myself from that. Adaptation theory holds that Siegel and Shuster defined the superhero genre with Superman and every work since that is an adaptation to some degree. Without being over literal in that I want to apply it to the X-Men separated by author/creator. Each adaptation of the X-teams is influenced by what came before, but the best are not beholden. Keep in mind that while Stan Lee's name was credited for a lot of stories in that era, it's unlikely he actually wrote them all, or by himself. The Hidden Years was built by many hands, they're just ... hidden.

Wein and Cockrum went big with Giant-Size, with Chuck recruiting globally to rescue the O5 under Cyclops' command then merged the two. Claremont came on board and adapted the Hidden Years formula into a sprawling epic with the Mutant Metaphor running through it. He'd open up the past with flashbacks but more importantly he retconned Magneto into a three dimensional antagonist. Moustache twirling VILLAIN!!! self identifying as evil becomes a deeply traumatized man struggling with the power to prevent another holocaust getting a little too committed to the bit. That retroactively makes us view the Hidden Years differently, if not entirely as the work of unreliable narrators. His years-long arc culminated in disavowing his actions and submitting to trial, then atoning through promising his loser husband he'd raise the new kids - The New Mutants. You can see the HY formula updated and tweaked into something far more interesting - an adaptation. The original run is adapted, but the characters from it stuck around too. On and on that went, decade after decade, until Bendis hit on yanking the O5 out of the HY and into the present. It kinda changed everything for me while exposing newer readers to the oldest X-Men.

Prepare for deconstruction. You'll hate it.

I truly laud Bendis and everyone else involved for revisiting their kitschy beginnings - bringing them to the eternal present away from Chuck and putting them in the audience surrogate position under the microscope. I'd argue that decision and execution reshaped the O5 , de- and re-constructing them in a modern environment. It had a lot of problems but it did wonders for the O5. The films had already done their own thing, but they didn't push the comics forward. They might have brought new eyes to see Patrick Stewart or Hugh Jackman in the art but the ideas flow one way 99.999% of the time - from comics to other media. House of M shook things up for everyone, but most of all it split the O5 again along militant lines. One thing led to another and the Phoenix upended their lives again with Scott killing Chuck in AvX. Scott was penitent but didn't slow down ideologically and the other living O5 had had enough - especially Hank. He time travelled and bought the young O5 forward to 'stop mutant genocide', then lost control of the situation. They weren't paragons from a better time who'd fix everything, they were just messed up kids and they had their own ideas.

A lot of fanfic tropes are used in the teen O5 conceit and I don't think that's a coincidence or a bad thing. Interestingly, instead of being a fix-it or alternate universe they're brought to us to suffer under the weight of expectations, their own legend/infamy, and saddled with the existential horror of predetermination. Predestination. Not just 'you will do these things' but 'the universe will blow up if you deviate even a little bit.' These legends walked among the present day X-Men, but as they were at the very beginning. Awkward teens. Here's the cliff notes on the 'truth' they learn and their reactions.

Beast - turns himself blue and furry, still has a crush on Jean, and becomes an irresponsible gonzo science MF. Can't believe it, freaks TF out, eventually learns magic.

Angel - can't get a straight answer for quite some time, eventually meets his amnesiac cloudcuckoolander shirtless self, cracks over the boatload of trauma waiting for him and tries to run.

Bobby - his two clown selves HATE each other despite being very similar, and spend most of the time on the back foot. Grows up a little then iis forcibly outed and does the same to his present self while knowing that he'll have to live the lie for decades.

Jean - super uncomfortable with the perfect dead Jean everyone has in their head and the legacy, learns she's got exactly one person in her romantic future and he killed Chuck. Everyone wants to either fuck her or kill her. Has multiple kids but also doesn't.

Scott - Learns he becomes the new Magneto and kills Chuck, flees in the face of Logan wanting to kill him/everyone treating him like he's adult Scott Summers. Has multiple kids who hate him and everything is upside down.

WTF Logan. Valid reaction, kids.

So these sixties ciphers (yeah I said it - Stan Lee wasn't a good character writer most of the time) come to the future under false pretence of saving it and they freak out. The social positions are flipped and the legendary progenitors of the X-Men institution just seem like loser teenagers. They have weak powers and everyone is disappointed with them one way or another - the original X-Men deconstructed and laid bare. It's decided they go back immediately and what do they do? They say 'fuck this shit, we came here to save the world and that's what we're going to do. Destiny can go fuck itself.' Their real superpowers of coping with endless mind bending horror and existential despair kick in.

Then we get years of reconstruction - breaking down exactly what makes them heroes and legends, but having them earn it as outsiders amongst outsiders. The pedestal is rejected because nobody deserves that shit. They're not perfect, they're relatable and yes, they are pretty fucking special. But they're still just kids and shouldn't really be here, doing paramilitary shit. They hold a mirror up to the absent Xavier and his dodgy fucking practices, to Logan and his Madonna/Whore delusions, to the school that inexplicably bears Jean's name. They do the same to adult Scott because they find it so hard to believe he's this mutant antichrist etc - and realise he's not that at all - they were lied to.

That bit is important because the X-Men assimilationist institution was in a post AvX reactionary phase united in hatred of Scott - who's ruining everything. It's a group delusion and the kids quickly see it doesn't match reality. They're shocked at how badly they failed their primary mission AND at how passive the X-Men are in the face of atrocities. They gradually learn about the details of their future and in doing so deconstruct the X-Men in general. Significantly, they grow wayyyy beyond the demerit-fearing yes men Chuck moulded them into and they actually get to be teenagers. Somewhat normal ones. They spend time on other teams, they kiss new people, they live outside the bubble of secrecy Xavier insisted on. Significantly, they're all treated as equally important characters and this undercurrent of sadness at the dead or no longer friends members weighs on them.

Xavier is viewed appropriately maybe for the first time as their initial shock at his underhandedness and secrecy blends with sympathising with his position. It IS easier to force people to do things. Way easier. It's heroic to choose not to, to be better, braver. They're very surprised about this but it doesn't take long for them to believe it. Characters in the present even make jokes about how shady he is. Compared to the eager beavers hanging off his every word in the 1963 run and beyond, it's night and day. So again, which is 'canon?' They can't both be, or can they?

They show the world why they are the O5. Not because of some regressive rose-tinted view of the past - because a bald billionaire chose them and they chose heroism over and over despite it ruining their lives. It was a position no children should have been put in, and that's really fucked up, but the struggle is real. They're special but you can be too. You're making history RN - they just did it first and oh boy have they suffered for it. That's why they should be revered - because they did it first. Their adult selves also show the mistakes made. Not one of them is happy or even stable and that shouldn't be surprising. They aren't perfect and neither is Charles Xavier. We should honour elders but be very suspicious when we can't question them. They aren't always right.

They don't buy into Logan's hype and bullshit either. They're appalled at his behaviour that everyone has come to accept, so much that he's instrumental in their deciding to stay in the present and then defect. This maniac is full of shit. Their Wolverine is Laura - a much better person and hero, who they spend time growing up with. Obviously that didn't stick but I kinda wish it did. When they were returned to the past by Cable they were mindwiped, but their older selves got their memories. Two sets of experiences, minimum. In a metatextual sense they had to choose their canon, lol.

Bruh, he's right there. 'Why don't you kill Scott?'

I'm speaking very personally here, but I suspect many fans can at least recognise the shape of their experiences in mine. Everyone's headcanon is going to be a little different, though, of course. I was already a fan of the O5 but ANXM recontextualised them for me. The ultimate adaptation in many ways because the original run just isn't that relatable. Important yes, but the characters were drastically improved by redoing their teen years through a contemporary, deconstructionist lens. The characters were improved and deepened by having to stare their origins/selves in the face and then living in the same world for years. I find it impossible to separate the multiple choice past so I don't bother, if that makes sense. There's value and entertainment for me in revisiting the earliest stuff but I view it through a modern lens where possible. Honestly, there's so damn much of it that it can all blend together at times.

I have more thoughts than that, tbh, but that's the core of what everything builds off. They're legends that were not just allowed to be imperfect, but forced to be. Destined to be, even. Each of them has been on wild journeys together and apart but that history is still there informing everything. To answer your question in a more direct way - with all that in mind I find the dynamic compelling in retrospect. Aside from Scott and Jean they drift in and out of each other's lives, kinda like IRL relationships. That dynamic hasn't existed since it first started being adapted IMO, but it still informs their modern interactions and relationships. They're fluid like that.

Thanks for the ask!

#x men #x comics #asks #cyclops #magneto #charles xavier #wolverine #iceman #marvel girl #angel #beast #o5 xmen #marvel #comics #All-New X-Men

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