#it speaks to something very universal i think

[delta-pavonis]

So I've seen these screencaps of Tom Sturridge talking about what he thinks about the Endless as a whole and it just SCREAMED at me that this is the kind of analysis Hob would make and put together when none of the Endless themselves have. So here's this half-baked snippet that comes somewhere in the early/middle of a fic where Dream and Hob have continued meeting and are close enough friends that Dream tells him about all the rest of his siblings, maybe even introduces Hob to a few of them.

(Rated T)

"Huh," Hob says as he sits back in his seat on the couch, staring into the fireplace for a minute and resting the tumbler of whisky in his left hand on his knee. The logs crackle and pop softly as Dream watches Hob watch the fire. He supposes that his friend might need some time to process all of what he has just learned. It vastly expands his understanding of the universe, no doubt.

"Well, that's a neatly wrapped bundle, innit? Makes so much sense."

Or... not.

Dream sits up straight on his side of the sofa and stares at Hob. "What?"

He turns in his seat to face Dream, curling one leg under him. "All you Endless. Separated you are all your functions, but together... You're love. It's rather poetic really." He finishes off his drink and puts the empty glass on the coffee table.

Confusion, true lack of understanding, has never been something that visits Dream often. "Excuse me?" He can feel how tightly his brows knit.

Hob's eyebrows, on the other hand, rise high up. "Love. All of you and your siblings, together, as a family, represent love." When Dream's jaw just falls open Hob continues. "There's nothing stronger than love. Love is a delight, certainly, but can also drive you well into delirium, drive you totally mad. And obviously heartbreak is its own special category of despair. Not to mention that, in my experience, it is the loss of a great love that brings someone the lowest, to the true pits of despair." He starts gesturing as he speaks, tilting forward excitedly, as emphatic and confident in his analysis as Dream is completely stunned by it. "Love, even when it is not romantic or sexual love, always includes desire for something: a person, a community, a feeling. And what destroys someone more thoroughly than love? What else other than love allows people to piece the world back together after destruction?"

As Hob approaches Dream's place in the sequence, the King of Nightmares feels his insides squirm and twist... only to be drawn out further.

"Love is often talked about like a destiny, a fated meeting of souls, two halves meant to be together. And death, well," Hob swallows and looks away from Dream for the first time since he started his little speech. "Love is made all the more precious by the knowledge that it, too, can die. Not to mention that, sometimes, the embrace of death is its own kind of expression of love. As for dreams..." When Hob meets Dream's gaze again he is very much blushing. But he doesn't look away. "Well, for those who have loved, isn't one of their nightmares always losing said love? And what thing or creature or person doesn't dream of experiencing at least some form of love? I can only imagine, if flowers dream?" He makes it a question and pauses.

"They do." Dream whispers.

The warm light flaring in Hob's eyes, his gentle smile at confirming that tidbit, like it is the most pleasant of discoveries, makes Dream feel almost... dizzy? Is that what this is? He lists forward with it, towards Hob.

If he notices the movement, he doesn't show it. But Hob's voice, when he speaks again, is softer and more lovely for it. "Splendid. They do. Yes, ah, I assume if flowers dream it is, at least sometimes, of the Sun?" Dream nods, speechless at how his friend is making these leaps. "To a flower, what is the warm embrace of sunlight, but a kind of love? And does it not dream of that love when it is gone? Yearn for it?"

Their knees touch and Dream's whole form ripples with the surprise. When had they gotten so close? But Hob doesn't look away, so neither does Dream.

"What is being in love if not a dream?" He can feel Hob's breath ghost across his face, but still the human doesn't stop speaking. "Being in love... isn't it a dream of the destined finding each other? A dream of the death of loneliness? A dream of being willingly and utterly destroyed by just a kind word or a sweet smile from your beloved?"

Hob's nose almost brushes Dream's, but he pulls back just a fraction at the last second. There is a fire in his eyes now, hotter than any that might burn in a fireplace, and Dream is nothing short of captivated. Further, Hob is no longer speaking in the hypothetical; Dream can feel how he now is speaking of his own dreams.

"A dream of being desired? A dream of being someone worthy of feeling despair over? What is being in love if not a dream that brings you to the most joyful, delirious extremes of delight?" His head tilts to the side, inviting Dream even closer. So close.

"Tell me, Dream of the Endless," and oh how Hob saying that name makes him burn, "how well do you know love? Does it live within you? Right now? As it does me?"

"Hob," slips out from Dream's throat as a moan before their lips brush. It is a temptation Dream has no will to resist.

They crash together, hands cradling necks and jaws and faces. Dream surges up into Hob's lap, suddenly ravenous for him, only to have Hob push back, toppling them over so that he has Dream on his back beneath him on the couch. The whole time their mouths never part.

Has this been here all along? Just waiting for Dream to notice? Has Hob been waiting for him all this time?

They kiss and writhe and grasp and their bodies fit too perfectly together for it to be a coincidence.

Or maybe it has been Dream waiting for this? Waiting to be craved like this? Waiting be seen like this?

Hob pulls away, panting, holding himself up on unsteady arms. "Dream. I need to know. Before I lose myself in this. Because I will, if you let me... You don't... Do you love me only because I dream you do?"

"You, Hob Gadling," he says with fondness, cupping his cheek, "are out-thinking yourself. Your dreams are only a billionth of a billionth of a fraction of all the dreams that make me."

"So I can't coerce you in some way? Intentional or not?" He leans into Dream's touch.

Ah. There is the crux of it: Hob doesn't know if what Dream feels for him is real.

"No, my sweet Hob." How he shivers above Dream at that pet name is delicious. "I am here purely by my own free will."

"And I'm not dreaming?" He smirks even as he says it.

"No," Dream chuckles. "You are most definitely not dreaming right now."

"Oh," Hob says, relief palpable. "Brilliant."

[dabaotogo]

Wretch

yan! jing yuan x reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yan! jy infantilizing tendencies, implied forced marriage, jy gets a little weird in a not so metaphorical mouth inspection paragraph, a little bit of predator/prey dynamic at the end, reader is implied to have done something morally questionable

age gap, but both jy and reader are long life species and it's treated as a no big deal in universe. i rewrote this so that this part was right at that start instead. it's never brought up again so you could click on 'read more' and start from underneath there

minors and ageless blogs do not interact with my post. i do check and i do block

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You share an age difference of only twenty nine years.

It's hardly a scandalous number to raise a fuss over, not when the two of you are part of the long-life species that make up the majority of the Xianzhou. Now, if he were older than you by over a hundred years and a bit; depending on when you first met, then that would rightfully garner him some comments or two regarding your relationship. People may even go so far and call him a cradle snatcher. But when you have lived for this long, you might as well have been born a year or two after him.

Yet with the way Jing Yuan often adopts such a fond tone when speaking to you, cooing and ah-ing as if all you'd ever been to him were a little scrappy stray. Pinching your cheek gently when you start to get a little nippy with him. You would have thought he was ahead of you by another three hundred years or so with the way he smothers your face with kisses, even with you resisting through pushes and shoves against his chest.

"Are we ready to come home now, my love?"

It's infantilizing; how he addresses the question.

For as long as you can remember, Jing Yuan has never once raised his voice. You think it's ironic that the man would rather end his own life than to ever behave such a brutish manner against you. You doubt there has ever been a time where he has truly lost his temper with dealing with your 'antics'.

He maybe disappointed at times; other times he may express the occasional hurt feeling. And at the very worst, he may voice his quiet disapproval beforehand, even while knowing his words will fall on deaf ears.

(He may let go of many things with a lazy smile: be it the murmur of cruel words intent on slicing deep into his heart, or the poisonous hate-filled stare you often send his way—

But — he will grab you by the scruff of your own neck should you decide to treat your own life so carelessly against his own soft warning.)

Yet even so, despite it all. Despite everything—

You think this is the furthest you've ever managed to get away from him.

This might be your best record so far.

(It might even be your last.)

You're not really sure yet.

You've been a little more difficult to chase down this time. A little harder to pinpoint. Opting to hide in the outskirts of the Fanghu Fleet. A barely populated village hardly anyone has heard of.

Perhaps it is because it has been quite some time since your last attempt that you have really given Jing Yuan a run for his money.

Honestly if anyone here is to blame, it's Jing Yuan. The fault lies with him: he should have known better that this begrudging truce — the fragile kind of peace — would not have lasted forever.

Still, you suppose you might have overreacted a little. When the whispers concerning the topic of his approaching retirement started to make their way around the Luofu.

The feeling had been unpleasant. As if a thousand insects were crawling up your spine. The noises of the chirping birds slowly fading to the background, only to be replaced by a terrible ringing noise.

You were never quite sure just how long you stood there. Facing the garden wall while the sun burned your back. Watering canister frozen in place, tilted downwards.

There had only been the cold sound of trickling water to fill the stillness.

Drowning the potted flower as the water overflowed, spilling over and onto your shoes.

The very thought of it alone. The few moments. Scraps of peace momentary. Where you could truly be alone when he was called away to meetings. To talks and paperwork he couldn't weasel his way out of tending to with his usual array of excuses.

To be easily taken away just like that.

(Just like everything else.)

"I've missed you quite dearly." Jing Yuan hums, then sighs. The usual tilt of his head, and another soft, smitten smile stuck permanently to his face once more.

"These long months really have been quite lonely without you by my side."

The man is fond of this habit. Pretending to be a harmless house cat; domesticated and of innocent intentions. When really, he was nothing but a hungry, starving lion. Intent on stalking his prey.

You see it in his eyes. The glint of his teeth catching the light. A lovesick fool he has always been even after five hundred years.

It was never a matter of whether if he would find you—

but more of a matter of when he would find you.

"Have you been well?" Jing Yuan continues, "I trust that you have been looking after yourself, hm?"

Jing Yuan never brings his men along as aide. He believes he alone is enough to coax (drag) you in coming back home with him, and he does not believe his men should have to spend their time in intervening in his own marriage strife's.

You would return home in a foul mood if he had. You don't exactly like seeing your former comrades. People who you once trained with. Fought alongside with. Giving him the silent treatment that would last a minimum of half a year — at best. It's a number that can easily be waved off by a long-life species.

But Jing Yuan is the sort of man who could not bear the wrath behind his spouse's silent treatment for even one second.

Even an incorrigible scoundrel who finds joy in pawing for reactions know when to tread carefully.

"One more game." Your words are calm. Levelled.

If you must pass the time in the gardens surrounded by his plants and the birds that adore his presence and be forced to entertain his games of star chess, then it is only fair that he indulges in your demands as well.

"One more." You insist, "And then we can go home."

The adoration in his eyes is clear for anyone to see; and in those golden eyes, constantly droopy with indolence; you can never do anything wrong in his eyes.

You could steal his card and spend his money away on extravagant shopping trips that would leave anyone to baulk at the mile long receipts of luxurious high-end clothing you'd buy and Jing Yuan would not bat an eye. After all, he has more money than he knows what to even do with it. He may be cheeky about it though, casting an faux-innocent suggestion to try your haul in front of him however.

You could destroy all his furniture to come home to, ripping the wallpaper to shreds. A debris of countless expensive antiques thrown against the wall and Jing Yuan would wave away the mess. The style of his interior was starting to become a little outdated anyways if you were to ask him, and he needed the excuse to replace the decoration. You do have an eye on these sort of things.

You could shout and scream at him. Cursing him with a foul mouth that would leave even the most hardened soldier cringe at your selection of words. Hurling insult after insult until your face went red from the exertion and your lungs burned, and your throat grew sore, until you grew quiet and weak, and Jing Yuan would swoop in then. Descending on you. Swaddling you. It feels better after letting it all out, doesn't it? Jing Yuan never likes it whenever you bottle up all your feelings. When you hide the truth from him. It doesn't do any good for your health.

You could even fake your death. Find a body. Have it be unrecognizable that it'd be impossible to identify correctly. Whether it was your doing or not, Jing Yuan would have covered it up already once he sees through the ruse. A single missing civilian and no one would raise a brow.

A missing General's spouse however? And people would be up in arms.

Regardless Jing Yuan will wait until the two of you are home before he is to gently pry the truth out of your mouth. He is a little hurt that you would do such an extreme thing to get away from him.

Still he will force you to be seated in lap, as he feeds you extravagant treats in between the moments of his learning. You will answer every question he has for you no matter how long it will take, long fingers slipping inside the caverns of your mouth as he searches around the cavern. It would be best not to get unruly, his fingers may just accidentally slip deeper than intended, now what would he do if you were to choke, hm? If you behave, it will be over quickly. But he will still voice his disapproval with the click of his tongue either way. It is inevitable. After all, it is unsanitary to be exposed to a corpse for long periods of time. Who knows what sort of diseases you could have potentially caught?

Jing Yuan holds his chin in deep thought.

"I suppose there is time for one more game."

He tilts his head once more, "The usual game, dear?" He asks, despite knowing already.

"What else?" You say.

"Very well. Would thirty minutes suffice?"

"An hour."

"Thirty, dear."

"Forty Five."

He sighs. The sound hardly has any bite to it. "Alright, forty five it is—"

You've already taken off past him. A clumsy stumble midway. Scrambling to the thick of the trees. Hoping to lose him in the forest surrounding the village.

"You spoil me, Jing Yuan. You really do." You shout over your shoulder. Making the mistake to look into his eyes.

Steadfast. Calm. Confident.

"It is simply what you deserve, my love."

He hummed.

"But do make the most of your time." He then said, and suddenly there is the cold fear inside your veins, that you've made a mistake and scared little side of you no longer wants to play this game. You could get cold feet, forfeit now and drag your pathetic side back to him. All you have to do is sniffle a little, rub your eyes and tell him you're sorry for making him come all this way to take you home and he'll be all over you in an instant.

There are other games you could play.

"Because once I start searching, I don't plan on stopping until I find you again."

You run a little faster.

Even if you know you'll lose.

[humanitysstrongestsoldier1]

𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐃 | 𝐿. 𝐽𝐼𝐻𝑂𝑂𝑁 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Lee Jihoon (Woozi) x Reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Fluff, Smut

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

"Every time I look at you, I keep turning red." - WOOZI, Ruby

Dating Jihoon is beyond just physical affection. With two quiet souls like yours, words carry the weight of entire worlds. Every glance, every carefully chosen phrase means more than a thousand gestures. So when you ask him, half-teasing, if he’d still love you if you turned into a worm, you expect the usual: a soft scoff, a logical unraveling of your silly premise. What you don’t expect is the poetry that spills from his beautiful lips—the kind that leaves even Apollo yearning.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): kissing, making out, manhandling (kinda?), explicit language, oral (f.rec), fingering, unprotected piv sex. (I think that's it? lmk if u catch any) OH! woozi may have a tongue piercing in this drabble......hehehehehehehehehehehehe

~~~

𝐀/𝐍: so um... i'm supposed to be writing my Hongjoong drabble but i had a dream last night i was sleeping on the couch in Woozi's studio and then in the dream i woke up and helped him write some songs and we composed some beats together. So when i actually woke up irl, i knew i had to get on it. (its acc crazy how similar Woozi's studio and my room look, we got that same cyberpunk/space/led look)

The Universe Factory smelled faintly of sandalwood and mahogany teakwood, it was the scent of the candle you’d gifted Jihoon months ago, now a quiet fixture in his studio. The soft, red glow of the LED lights cast a gentle warmth over the room, dim enough so his eyes wouldn’t tire as he worked into the night.

You’d come straight from the research building, still in your loose white button-down—now untucked—and black slacks. Your black So Kate's kicked off to the side, laptop on your thighs, legs stretched out on his sofa. Tonight’s focus: your research on antiparticles, a world of unseen forces that fascinated you as much as Jihoon’s music fascinated him.

The steady click of your keyboard mingled with the gentle hum of his monitors, the quiet tick of the metronome, and the faint threads of melody that spilled from his speakers. These were your ideal Friday nights. Two introverts, side by side, sharing space in silence that felt anything but empty.

Jihoon cherished this quiet togetherness. No pressure to speak, no need to fill the room with words. Just the rhythm of your breaths, the comfort of knowing you were there. You smiled faintly as you glanced up, watching the way he leaned into his work, brow furrowed, lips parted in concentration. It still amazed you, how you’d found your way here, into his world, and he into yours.

It all began a year and a half ago, when Vernon first introduced you to each other. He’d come across you during one of your guest lectures at KAIST, where you spoke on Time and Its Correlation to Antiparticles. You remembered seeing him in the back row, head tilted thoughtfully, eyes sharp with curiosity. After the talk, he’d lingered, asking questions that led to an exchange of emails.

What followed were coffee meetups filled with science talks that somehow always stretched until the café closed. Phone numbers exchanged and memes traded at odd hours. Late-night rants about research and life. Vernon became a very close friend, a bridge between two worlds you hadn’t expected to meet.

And then came that small dinner with the SEVENTEEN members. It was a night you hadn’t thought much of at first. You sat beside Vernon, Jihoon on your other side. You were quiet, as usual, only speaking when you had something to say. But every time you did, Jihoon turned toward you, giving you his full attention. His questions were thoughtful, shy but genuine. And in the glow of that restaurant, something soft began to form between you.

It was Jihoon, who asked for your number. And it was Jihoon who, a few weeks later, after long walks at night and shared playlists and lingering glances, simply asked if you’d be his girlfriend. No grand gestures. No elaborate speeches. Just a simple question, as honest and steady as the boy who asked it.

And you couldn’t have been happier.

Now, as you sat together in his studio, you felt that same quiet joy. The kind that didn’t need to shout to be heard. Your gaze drifted to the small succulent on the coffee table—once again gifted by you—and you lifted it in your hands.

Jihoon’s back is to you, hunched over his keyboard, headphones askew. His fingers dance over the keys, pausing, replaying, layering harmonies.

You tilt your head, watching him; admiring the way the soft black of his hair catches the light, how his shoulders tense with concentration. A smile tugs at your lips, and a playful question plants itself in your thoughts.

“Tell me, Jihoon,” you call softly, voice threaded with mischief. You raise the little plant pot closer to your eyes like it’s some ancient artefact. “If I were to disappear into this soil... become a worm, perchance... would you still find me, would you still love me?”

The music stops.

He doesn’t turn right away. For a heartbeat, all you hear is the soft crackle of a paused track. Then, slowly, he swivels in his chair. His face is unreadable. His dark eyes are calm, but deep, like the sea before a storm. There’s a small crease between his brows and he pushes his glasses up, he is weighing in your question.

“Even if you became a grain of salt in the ocean,” he says quietly, the corners of his mouth tilting up just so, “I would find you.”

The weight of his promise settles over you like a blanket. You blink, heart stammering beneath the warmth of his gaze. You chuckle, trying to shake off the sudden tenderness filling the room.

“You always speak in riddles,” you say, setting the plant down gently on the coffee table. You meet his eyes again, searching. “Tell me, do you really see me? Beyond the scientist....beyond everything?”

Jihoon leans back in his chair, his dark eyes never leave yours. The hush of the room deepens, the Universe Factory itself is listening to its master speak to his beloved.

“I see you,” he murmurs, voice softer now, stripped of riddles. “In the silence between my breaths. In the blink that hides my tears. In the shimmer of Busan’s waves before they break. In the hush my clarinet leaves behind... and in the music my hands orchestrate.”

The words fall between you like a melody you hadn’t known you were longing to hear.

Warmth blooms in your cheeks. You have no words left to give him. Instead, you close the small distance between you, your steps slow, calculated, until you’re standing in front of his chair, between his spread legs. Jihoon gazes up at you, something tender, something mischevious dancing in his eyes.

And then he giggles; that soft, infectious sound that always makes your heart skip. He catches your hand, pulling you gently onto his lap. His arms circle your waist, snug..

“You have absolutely no idea,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours, “how cute you look when you blush for me.”

His soft, pillowy lips connect with yours and the gentle embrace of his warmth seeps deep into your bones, ridding your body of fatigue. The gentle graze of his tongue across your lips as he pulls back settles in your stomach making you turn even redder.

Jihoon's eyes glint, dark and playful beneath the soft haze of the red lights. You feel the heat creep higher, your pulse thrumming at the base of your throat, his words wrapping around you like silk.

Your breath stutters as his fingers trail slowly up your spine, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your blouse. His grip firms at your waist, keeping you close, and his lips brush your ear. It was a whisper of contact, but enough to send a shiver down your body.

“I wonder how red I can turn you tonight when we get home…” he murmurs, voice low, rough at the edges.

You let out a soft, nervous laugh, trying to steady yourself, but his mouth is already at your jaw, his breath hot against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The warmth of his tongue licking at your skin, lips wrapping, sucking and leaving behind dark marks did not help your situation. His ring adorned thumb grazes your lower lip, eyes locked on yours, and for a moment you forget where you are—forget everything but him.

“Jihoon…” you whisper, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He smirks, that dark, boyish glint still dancing in his gaze. “Mmm. I love when you say my name like that.”

Then his lips are on yours again, savouring, like he has all the time in the world. Jihoon’s hand drifts towards your neck, softly wrapping around it and pulling you in even closer. The chill of his rings give a kind, cold touch to the warmth of your skin.

When he pulls back, he grins, and pushes your glasses back up. His cat-like eyes crinkle at the corners, and he presses a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, his voice low, promising.

You barely remember how you both gather your things. The Universe Factory fades behind you, door locking with a soft click, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

The drive is quiet, but electric. Jihoon’s free right hand rests on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles that leave you squirming in your seat. His gaze stays on the road, but that smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you.

Fuckkk he looked so hot like this. With his glasses on, his adorned left hand wrapped around the steering wheel of his maroon Bugatti Chiron. You truly wished you were the steering wheel at that moment.

When you finally reach home, he barely gives you a chance to step inside before he’s got you against the door, his mouth finding yours again. Hungry. His kiss steals the air from your lungs, his hands greedy now, sliding beneath your shirt, warm palms mapping every inch of skin they can find. His touch isn’t rushed — it’s devoted.

His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His tongue flicks over your pulse point before his teeth graze lightly, drawing a soft gasp from you. Your fingers twist into his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

“Still blushing?” he teases, his voice a soft growl against your skin. "I can feel you soaking my thigh, you know?"

You grind against him at the mention. His name escapes in a breathless whisper that makes his eyes darken further.

“God, angel…” His voice is low, wrecked with want. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Before you can reply, he grips your waist and lifts you, pressing you against him, your legs wrapping around him instinctively. His hands slide up the back of your thighs, squeezing and kneading the plush of your ass, and the friction of his body against yours makes your head spin.

He carries you through the apartment like you weigh nothing, his mouth finding yours again. This kiss is deeper, messier, nothing like his previous ones. The world blurs outside the cocoon of heat and breath you share.

By the time he lays you down, the bedroom light soft and golden, his shirt is half unbuttoned, yours already discarded somewhere along the way. His and your glasses are thrown to the side of the bed without care. He licks his lips at the sight of your lacy burgundy bralette. His gaze rakes over you, slow and lingering, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re molten, full of heat and something deeper.

“I'm going to ruin you,” he murmurs, hand finally wrapped around your throat, lightly squeezing — never to hurt you. His smirk is wicked. “But only in the best ways.”

His mouth is back on yours before you can answer, his hands exploring boldly now. He's teasing, tasting, learning what makes you shiver, what makes you moan. His kisses are everywhere: your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your chest. His tongue flicks against your skin, his teeth scraping lightly as he works his way down, driving you mad with anticipation.

When he finally looks up at you, his breath ragged, his hair a mess from your fingers, there’s nothing but pure want in his gaze.

“Tonight,” he promises, voice low and dangerous as he pulls off your slacks, “I’m going to make you forget everything but me.”

Jihoon’s lips trace along your thighs, his teeth grazing, sucking marks into your skin like he wants to brand you as his.

The sounds you make, the soft, breathless whimpers, tears a low groan from his throat. His hands slide beneath the band of your matching panties, snapping them against your skin.

“Jihoon…” your voice breaks on his name, but it only fuels him further.

“Again,” he pants against your clothed cunt, kissing you lightly His pierced tongue licks, slow at first, a maddening tease, before swiping harder, deeper, drawing another gasp from you. You can feel the bell of his jewellery graze your clit and you jolt at the immense pleasure. “Let me hear you, baby.”

Your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his shirt, pulling at the fabric until it’s gone, tossed somewhere, your nails raking down his shoulder blades as his tongue keeps pleasing you but he denies you the release. He denies you the true feeling of his tongue on your warmth. His mouth finds your chest instead, he admires the sight of your decorated chest before ripping your bra off.

"Lee Jihoon! That was expensive!" You cry out.

"Didn't have to be, you have my card do you not? I'll get you a prettier one." He ignores your pleading. Mouth back on your bare tits.

“You’re mine,” he growls softly, pulling back and taking in the entirety of your flushed face. Voice dark and rough with need. “Stop being shy, angel. I want it all.”

His hand slips lower, fingers dipping beneath the last barrier between you, finding exactly where you need him most. He thrusts two of his fingers into you, again, the chill of his rings bringing you utmost satisfaction.

Jihoon’s lips are on yours again, swallowing your sounds, his tongue sliding against yours with the same rhythm as his fingers thrusting in you. His control is fraying. You can feel it in the tremor of his breath, in the way his hips roll against the bed, seeking more, needing more.

“Y/N,” he groans, voice wrecked, eyes dark and wild as he looks down at you, “I’m not stopping until you’re shaking for me.”

And with every kiss, every thrust of his hips later in the night, he keeps that promise. He gets drunk off of the music of your moans and his name on your lips, over and over, as he drives you over the edge, again and again. He’s even thinking of sampling your cute little songs for a personal project of his.

And with the final snap of his cock you bury your face in his shoulder, biting at his skin at the feeling of his cum painting your walls. Jihoon slowly, agonisingly pulls out. Smirking at your fucked out, blushing face, happy that he was able to turn you red.

You don’t know when the frenzy ebbed into something slower, softer it was probably after he had cleaned you up—but now Jihoon holds you like you’re something fragile and precious, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your damp skin. The room is filled with the quiet hum of your mingled breathing, the air heavy with the scent of sweat, sex and warmth and him.

His lips brush your forehead, lingering there as if he never wants to let go, and his heart beats beneath your cheek, fast at first, but slowly steadying. You can feel it, the way it matches your own, a secret rhythm only the two of you know.

Jihoon shifts, pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. His hand slides up your back, settling at the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking there absentmindedly, grounding you.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse from everything he’s given you tonight. His eyes, dark and soft now, search yours, drinking in the sight of you beneath him, with him.

You nod, unable to find words, so you answer him with a kiss, filled with everything your voice can’t say. He smiles against your lips, and the sight of that grin—the one that melts you every time—makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.

Jihoon presses his forehead to yours, noses brushing. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” His breath is warm, his laugh low and breathless.

You laugh too, the sound muffled by his skin as you bury your face in his neck, breathing him in, memorising this closeness, this peace. The night hums on around you, but here, in his arms, you’re untouchable, safe.

And as sleep threatens to pull you under, you feel him whisper:

“You’re everything. You always were. My precious ruby.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: chat. this was supposed to be only fluff but my freak got turned on accidentally so here we are.

hehe guess who is rewatching the entirety of Going SVT? ME HOE! + Nana Tour + Nana Bnb + SVT in the soop

(here's a lil gift)

[ao3commentoftheday]

I just saw your response to gifmaker anon (sending hugs to anon!). First, let me just say thank you for being such a safe space here on tumblr and providing emotionally intelligent advice! It always warms my heart to see your replies to asks.

I am not a gifmaker or videomaker or writer or anything really (although i am tempted to try, maybe soon) and i have also struggled with loneliness in fandom, especially here on tumblr on which i am new. I was wondering if you had any concrete advice on how to reach out in fandom spaces, especially on tumblr? When is it ok to DM someone, and about what? I guess i’m afraid of taking up ppl’s time and energy, and that they think I’m weird or not fun. I have sent asks, but it honestly makes me very anxious, mostly because i never know if the tone carries.

And also how to make others reach out to you — Is it only through creating things, like fics and art? I think i’m a bit scared that what i want to make is not something a lot of people will like, and so i will just have written something i care about and then bare my soul by posting it and then just stand there in silence because no one connects with how i think, or no one understands it.

Lots of love to you!

link to the ask anon mentions

Thank you for the love - and the lovely compliment! 💗

I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask about how to make friends on tumblr. I say that because my perspective on social media is quite different from a lot of folks. I grew up pre-internet in a rural area and so I didn't get online until I moved to a city for university. My first online interactions were using things like ICQ (think WhatsApp without the phone calls) and IRC (think Discord but text only) and mostly with people I knew personally, or friends of my in-person friends.

Because I was introduced to the habit of meeting online strangers through them being friends-of-friends, I kind of have that habit still in place? I don't see messaging someone as intimidating. Sending an ask or a DM isn't scary. It's just waving hi to someone at a party and seeing if they like the spinach dip.

(ironically, talking to someone I don't know at a party IS intimidating to me)

The biggest source of my success when it comes to making friends online has been going into interactions with the friendly force of the extrovert I'm pretending to be. You know how there are some people who just seem to create friendships out of thin air? I pretend I'm one of them. I'll wave hi in a new discord server and as soon as someone replies to me, I'm basically just

Generally speaking, I keep DMs to either conversations with someone I've spoken to before or questions that seem too private for an ask (that can be published publicly). That's just me, though. Other people might have different preferences.

If you want people to reach out to you, reblog ask memes. These are lists of questions that you're wililng to answer if folks drop one of the numbers/questions in your inbox. At least, that's the way they're supposed to work. Sometimes I see people reblog them by just answering all of the questions up front, but that removes the possibility of someone asking you.

One other thing - if you want to prove that you're willing to answer asks? You can always send one or two of those questions to yourself as an anon ask. Just like a busker might drop a few coins into the guitar case to encourage people to tip!

Don't worry too much about taking up space, anon. The internet is a vast expanse with plenty of room for all of us. And if someone doesn't reply? There's a 99.9% chance it's not about you at all. We're all dealing with a lot of stuff on any given day and sometimes answering an ask or a DM falls off the radar.

One last thing in this already long post - Do Not, Under Any Circumstances, Use Creativity As a Means of Getting Followers. I know that's a lot of capital letters, but I feel very strongly about that after years of running this blog. If your primary goal for writing fic or making art is to get followers or attention or make friends, then you'll feel really bad if that doesn't happen as a result.

Make the art because you want to make the art. Share the art because you want to share the art. When you make the creation about the response to it instead of the creation itself? That leads to crushing disappointment.

Best of luck anon! Much love back to you 💗

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

joonie gang put your hands to the sky 🙌 thank god and @joons-cinnamon-bun for this blessing 💗

You guys think is all fun and games to be friends with a author… yeah, it is but also ABSOLUTELY HELL WHEN THEY KEEP TEASING YOU WITH RANDOM IDEAS LIKE HEY LOOK AT THIS and then you’re like omg that’s amazing when you plan to post it? and this is them: 😐 “well… about that”

so yeah. absolutely nightmare but thank god this idea saw the light of day! i miss her writing so much because the humor 😭 i can’t! so let’s dive into the fic:

Im a astrology girl until the end i suppose so all this mystical vibe GOT ME. also the kdrama vibes, the umbrella, the bus, falling in love for a strange in a bus (very relatable) GRRRRR the elements i meannnnn

"I've been single for five years. My circle is a square." — GIRL… well yeah 😐

"Oh look, there's another fortune on the back," you say, picking up the crumpled paper, "Get back to work before you lose your fucking job." — her friendship with jimin 😭🤣

“And sure, he could intellectualize it. He was great at that. He could chalk it up to incompatible life stages, to ambitions, to the relentless grind of trying to build something meaningful out of art and chaos that outlasts him” - damn…., just stop 😭 like i loved the inclusion of his POV and seeing how his mind reacted to the whole situation, all the analysis he had of the things she said.

“Namjoon listens like it matters. Like he's not just waiting for his turn to speak, but like every word is worth holding onto. And when he does talk, it's with that same quiet charm and wit, a little self-deprecating, a little too sharp to be accidental, but still incredibly intelligent and cunning, (so much so that you assume his jokes fly over people's heads most of the time)” - reading about these type of men that only exist in a woman’s mind. But well, if one like this exists, I hope the universe sends it my way.

" also cry at movie trailers. And I keep handwritten cards from people I'm not even friends with anymore” You blink. That shuts you up for a second. Then: "Okay. That's not very Virgo of you." THATS A VERY VIRGO THING (I have Mercury in Virgo so I can give my opinion... or it could be the Moon in Scorpio)

"You say that now. Just wait until Mercury retrogrades and I forget to text back." — BLAME ME FOR FALLING FOR ASTROLOGY JOKES OKAY BLAME ME BLAME ME

“It's ridiculous how you can see yourself doing this while your kids play in the park” - ps: she’s a pisces 🤣🤣🤣

Also the respect, their chemistry together, the smut, the dialogues….. i promise i’m not biased here! she’s that talented 💅 see for yourself

⚠️‼️ Last but definitely not least THERES A GIANT FUCKING AMAZING HUGE PLOT TWIST HERE ⚠️‼️

BUT I WILL NOT give it to you MUAHAHAHAHAHA ~evil laugh 🤣😈

I was supposed to comment on it since I do reviews right? The point is basically to comment on it BUT I want you to feel what I felt and I want you to comment with me hihihihi I want to see your reaction 😈😈😈😈😈

that ALL being said (I hope I haven't lost my touch when writing a review), give your love to this long and very well written fanfic because if I see someone crying on TML saying that there is no fanfic with Namjoon I swear to God 😤

LOVE YOU ALL beijos bye 💋

A series of unfortunate Dates -2-

Summary: Fate has never been a determining factor in Namjoon’s life. Destiny, if it existed at all, seemed to have a sick sense of humor, and his horoscope barely got it right half the time. In fact, the only otherworldly forces Namjoon puts any stock in are his mother’s divine meddling…and his unlucky dating streak. So when she signs him up for what can only be described as a modern, barely legal, arranged marriage agency operating somewhere out of Seoul, he’s not even surprised. Resigned? Yes. Hopeful? Not in the slightest. But then he meets you. The girl from the bus, many months ago. The one who felt like a missing piece from his story, but slipping away through the fates' threads. And through what can only be described as a bizarre serries of coincidences (or, as your mother would say, divine intervention), you’re here. Wearing a pink dress. Wondering if maybe, just maybe…soulmates do exist. Namjoon doesn’t believe in fate. And maybe, just maybe—he could believe in you. word count: almost 12K Genre: Borderline rom-com with an arranged marriage kick. Matchmaking. Fluff. Smut. Warnings: Explicit smut scene. oral sex. fluffy sex. the author pokes a lil fun at mysticism masterlist

taglist: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya @lili-spots @themwordsblog @jub-jub @tryingtotwice @callmenoona25 @angellekookie

Namjoon’s lips drag into a slow smile. His heart ticks up when he catches your eyes drop to his lips, like you can’t help it. Like you’re thinking about it—about him—in that very same way he’s been thinking about you all night.

He normally isn't one to chuck up moments of his life to ‘destiny’ or ‘stars’ or even on his karmic balance. In fact he is a proven rationalist. But there’s something about this moment—about you—that makes him want to believe in all of it. In missed connections. In soulmates. In the unspoken glances on the bus. In ironing his shirt for a first date. In the way your fingers lingered a bit too long when he lead you to the table. In the way your laugh cracked open the night like a lighter held to wax.

In the way you step just slightly closer to him, and he doesn’t pull away.

“No,” he says finally, voice low, steady. “Not the last time I checked.”

You nod, once, and it’s all the invitation he needs to let his heart figure-four leg lock his brain into submission. No more pretending this is just a good match on paper, or just a lucky coincidence orchestrated by the universe and meddling parents.

“So…” you start, barely louder than the rustle of wind through the leaves. You’re standing at the corner you’re supposed to turn down to get home—but your feet don’t move. Neither do his. “I know this wasn’t exactly in the matchmaking procedure, but—”

He tilts his head, curious. Heart absolutely stupid in his chest.

“There’s this exhibit down the block.” You offer, pointing with your chin like he can see it. “They’re doing a late-night show. Local artists. A light installation from what I gathered, glow-in-the-dark stuff… All the makings of a very respectable second date.”

His smile grows, slow and bright and so full of genuine delight, it feels like it might light up the sidewalk.

“Lead the way,” he says, voice warm—tinged with that rare, boyish kind of joy that slips out when he’s caught off guard by something good. Really good.

And maybe that’s what this is. Not just a good night, or a good date. But something good.

A second chance to fix the unbalance that was left in the universe that day when you returned his umbrella on the bus; when he wasn’t certain if he should speak, or follow or do anything beyond watch you disappear into the crowd with a polite smile and his heart held loosely on his sleeve.

Back then, he’d told himself it was fine. That not everything unresolved needed resolution. That some people are meant to be passing moments, not permanent fixtures. But now—walking beside you as your hands swing just close enough to brush—he wonders if that logic was just fear, dressed up as pragmatism.

Because here you are. In front of him again, months and lifetimes later, offering him not closure, but possibility. Like destiny is adamant not to let him screw this up again.

You turn before he can see your blooming smile, and he falls in step besides you like he’s done it for years, slipping an arm around your shoulders with something his mother might deem too forward. But he can’t quite bring himself to care.

Not when you’re practically sharing his warmth as you set off on another quiet street.

The gallery is only a few blocks down, tucked between a bookstore and a café that smells like burnt espresso even when its closed. The light from the entrance spills onto the sidewalk in soft waves—cool blue and lavender, gently shifting like reflections on water.

The entrance is marked only by a low-lit sign and a hand-painted poster peeling slightly at the edges. But Namjoon looks at it like it’s the Louvre.

The door softly chimes when he pushes it open, and you step into darkness punctuated only by the gentle glow of the installations. A corridor to the side, one that leads to a room with suspended lanterns pulsing in shades of pinks and oranges; each one swaying ever so slightly, casting rippling shadows across your faces. Your shoes echo against the polished concrete.

“Woah.” You slip away from his arm to brush a finger against one lantern—warm paper, almost like it’s humming against your fingertips. “It’s like a daydream.”

Namjoon lingers behind for a beat, something catching in his chest. The light pools across your shoulders, catches in your hair, glints off your cheeks as you move. You’re looking up, eyes wide, lashes tipped in gold—and he forgets, briefly, about the gallery, the installations, the rest of the world.

The only thing on his mind is that ridiculous manuscript he read many years ago about the red sting that tied fated souls together. It was cheesy, ridiculously syrupy and chucked full with cliches.

But now, even for someone who doesn’t believe in destiny, he sure as hell can feel it pulling taut between you.

He’s always scoffed at the idea before—chalked it up to folklore and sentiment. But there’s something about this moment, about you illuminated in all this soft, shifting light, that makes the whole myth feel less like fantasy and more like gravity. Not a string, exactly. But a weight. A pull. A line drawn from some unseen center straight through the quiet place behind his ribs.

Something about the way you tilt your chin up to see more of the ceiling, the way your fingers linger in the air even after the lantern sways back into place. Like you belong among the blinding lights, because they too, are trying to memorize the shape of wonder.

He should say something about light. About the meaning of the patterns painted on the lanterns. He should keep things easy.

But instead, it slips out—quietly, helplessly honest.

“You are.”

You glance over. “What?”

He blinks, half-embarrassed to have said it out loud. “I meant the room,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting down. “The whole thing. You were right. It’s like a daydream.” He pauses without meaning to, perhaps digging his grave a little deeper. “That’s what I meant.”

You watch him for a beat. Narrow your eyes. But you let it slide, lips curving with something softer than amusement as you walk deeper into the space.

Namjoon doesn’t follow right away.

He stays still, breathing through the sudden, aching swell beneath his ribs.

He’s always known how to be careful. Always kept his hope on a leash. He’s familiar with his own limits, with the way his heart learned to flinch before it could reach. The detachment wasn’t indifference—it was armor. It was survival. He was never scared of love itself, just what it asked of him. What it took when it left.

And right now—watching the way your silhouette slips through glowing strands of light, how you don’t even realize the effect you have just by being here—he feels it again.

That timeworn want.

That quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this time he’ll be chosen back.

So now, with you…

He exhales, slow and steady, and lets his feet move. One step. Then another. He’s not sure where this goes, but he knows he wants to find out.

“Hey,” he says gently, catching up to you just as you part the curtain that leads into the next room—this one lit in a soft, underwater blue, where fiber optics ripple from the ceiling like kelp and stars and rain.

Fiber‐optic strands immediately brush around you like the a waterfall—thin, cool tendrils of light that tickle your cheeks and arms. You gasp, and he laughs softly, steadying you with one hand while he lightly brushes the sea of glowing fibers away from your faces with the other.

“They should really warn people.” You murmur, blinking through the light like you’ve just stepped into another universe.

“They kind of did,” Namjoon says, voice low and close. “There was a sign. You were too busy floating.”

You nudge him gently with your elbow, but you don’t step away. Neither does he.

This room is smaller, silence deeper—like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the hush of soft light. The strands pulse faintly, changing color every few seconds. Pale blue. Violets. Soft greens. It paints his skin in shifting hues, shadows brushing beneath his cheekbones, catching the warmth in his eyes.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head slightly toward him, “for someone who tried to backpedal out of a compliment five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly smooth when you’re not thinking about it.”

Namjoon smiles, but it’s the kind that flickers—bashful and unsure. “I think I just get clumsy when it matters.”

You study him for a beat. “This matters?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It does.”

And it’s stupid, maybe—it’s barely been a night, you’ve only just begun—but there’s something in the way he says it that lands like truth. No embellishment. No overthinking.

Just real.

Your breath slows.

You don’t say anything, not at first. You just reach out, fingers ghosting over his sleeve, the edge of his wrist, like you’re not sure what you’re doing until you’ve already done it.

Namjoon doesn’t move. But he looks at you like he might.

“I think…” you begin, voice quiet, almost shy, “...if you kissed me right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Namjoon exhales, the air knocked clean out of him. “Yeah?”

You nod. Just once.

He moves in, slow and careful, as if waiting for you to change your mind, letting the strands slowly fall back around you.

But you don’t pull away. Your chin just tips up, lips part just slightly, and his fingers lift, brushing a strand of glowing fiber from your cheek.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice low. Catching the strand between his fingertips, drawing it gently across your lips. You swallow around a pulse of heat.

His thumb brushes the filament against your lower lip. He holds it there, the delicate glow outlining his fingertip, and you nearly tremble under his touch. The whole universe sums up to hush and halo—to lights suspended between you, breath and body caught in the stretch of the undeniable certainty that feels almost too overwhelming for words.

You part your lips just slightly, and Namjoon stills. His eyes search yours, asking one last time. Offering you one last out.

But you don’t take it. You don’t want to.

So you close the gap—only a few centimeters, really—but it feels like a leap. Like a decision. And when your lips finally meet his, it’s soft, almost hesitant, like a step taken into the unknown.

Then he kisses you back.

Fuller. Warmer. His hand slipping to the curve of your jaw, anchoring you to him as the filament falls away, forgotten. His other arm wraps loosely around your waist, drawing you closer, and you feel it—his steadiness, his quiet restraint, the way he’s holding back just enough to be respectful, but not so much that you can’t feel how much he wants you.

The kiss deepens naturally with all it’s warmth and unhurried movements, the kind that tastes faintly of strawberry soju and a hundred things still unsaid. And when you melt into him, finger curling in his shirt, lips sweet and slow, he knows he can die happy.

The kind of kiss that steals the breath right from his lungs without asking.

When you finally pull back, it’s only by a breath. He doesn’t let go. His eyes open slowly, lashes low and heavy, and he searches your face with that same quiet attention he’s held all night—like you’re an answer he didn’t realize he had the question for.

“You good?” he asks, voice husky.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just…”

You kiss him again.

Because how else do you say thank you for the way he’s looked at you all evening? How else do you say please, don’t stop without giving him every single part of your heart right here and then?

This one is softer. Briefer. But somehow deeper—like a secret passed from mouth to mouth, like a promise sealed not with words but with the way your hand finds his again and stays there.

Namjoon exhales against your lips, like maybe he wasn’t sure you’d come back, like maybe this second kiss is the one that undoes him. His forehead rests against yours and you feel his smile before you see it.

“Okay,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your jaw.

You laugh, quiet and breathless, the sound curling between you like another thread tying future, circumstances and intention together.

Namjoon leans in, just slightly—enough for your noses to brush, for his smile to press against your cheek like a whisper. You feel it in your chest, that dizzy, buoyant thing rising, rising, rising. Hope, maybe? Or something even more dangerous.

“Okay,” he says again, like he’s trying to ground himself. Like maybe saying it out loud will help him believe this isn’t some flickering, impossible dream. “That was… definitely not in the matchmaking brochure.”

You smile, still so close your breath warms his lips. “No, but if it were, I’d sign up again.”

He lets out a laugh that melts into a sigh, and you feel him shift—his arm still around your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile but already his. His thumb strokes gently at your back beneath his jacket, like he needs to remind himself he’s not hallucinating.

The gallery hums around you, quiet and alive. Blue and violet and gold light shimmers on the walls, on your skin, on the edges of your shared silence. Somewhere deeper in the room, the soft whir of a projector starts, casting delicate patterns that ripple across the floor like light on water.

Neither of you rushes to move.

Eventually, he tilts his head, voice quieter now. “So... third date?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Confident, are we?”

“I kissed you twice,” he says, grinning now. “That has to earn me something.”

You lean back just enough to see his face, to read the smile tucked into the corners of his mouth and the warmth simmering in his eyes

“Do I still get points for tteokbokki?” He continues, and you snort.

Your smile stretches helplessly, warmth rushing in from somewhere deep in your chest. “You get a lot of points for tteokbokki,” you murmur, letting your fingers play lightly with the lapel of his jacket still hanging on your shoulders. “And the soju. And the walk. And, well… everything else.”

Namjoon leans in just a bit closer, voice dipping. “So that’s a yes?”

You press your lips together, pretending to think. “Hmm. I don’t know…”

His brows rise, exaggerated mock offense already painting his features. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

You shrug, stepping back through the curtain of light. “Better keep up, then.”

And Namjoon follows—because of course he does—his fingers finding yours like it’s second nature now, like you were meant to be holding hands all along. The lights ripple over your skin as you walk deeper into the exhibit, casting moving constellations across your joined palms.

By the next room, Namjoon’s brain finally reconnects to the server—sparking back to life with enough clarity to remember that he’s supposed to be intelligent, and articulate, someone who can string a sentence together without being entirely distracted by the feeling of your lips on his.

He clears his throat softly, as if that might reset the system.

The next few displays are quieter, dimmer. The lights are cooler—crystalline, and almost sharp. Glass orbs suspended from the ceiling spinning, catching slivers of light and scattering them in fractured bursts across the floor. A projector room that had animations interacting with the walls themselves.

The final corridor is lit by candlelight—flames flickering in unison, guiding you back toward the real world. Outside, the night is deeper than before, colder, and the sky stirs quietly overhead.

Namjoon lifts his eyes towards the black night, bracing against the sudden gust of wind that blows out the few candles outside the exit.

“Was there a rain warning today?”

“Not that I remember of…” But just as the words leave your lips, the clouds open with a loud thunder. Rain comes down suddenly, soft at first, a gentle patter against the gallery’s doorway—but quickly growing in urgency, as if the sky itself can’t hold back any longer. You both freeze in the doorway, caught between the warm cocoon of the exhibit and the cool, unexpected downpour outside.

“Guess the night’s not done surprising us.” He sighs before shifting his gaze over at you. “No chance of you having an umbrella stuffed in that little bag of yours, huh?”

You laugh, breathless and a little wild. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, fingers brushing back a strand of your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you an Uber.”

You peer up at the night, cheeks flushed. “Isn’t your place close by?”

Namjoon pauses, rain splashing at his shoes. His gaze drifts to the street, then back to you—umbrella-less and close to being drenched.

“My place?” He echoes, voice soft, quickly picking up on the implications. “It’s not far. Maybe five minutes if we run.”

“I—” You stop, “If it’s okay. I don’t want to overstep.” You glance back at the rain slowly puddling the street. “Just to borrow an umbrella…”

He blinks, then smiles—slow and warm. “Borrow an umbrella? I was thinking more along the lines of borrowing your evening.”

You frown, half-smile tugging at your lips. “That sounds… generous.”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling with that same undeniable allure, before he pulls you close, lifting his jacket off your shoulders carefully and sheltering you beneath it. “Come on,” he says, tipping it your way. “Let’s run.”

His jacket settles over your shoulders, the fabric cold against your skin. You slip an arm into a sleeve, the other one around his waist, the collar brushing your neck. He drops his own shoulders under the rest of the fabric, creating a makeshift canopy against the downpour.

“Ready?”

You nod, heart fluttering. “Ready.”

And you dash down the street—feet splashing through fresh puddles, laughter tangled between ragged breaths. The rain pelts the makeshift covering, a thunderous applause that only draws you closer.

Five minutes later, you skid to a stop in front of a tall building, breaths visible in the misty air. He lifts the jacket just enough for you to slip inside first, then follows, shielding you both as he closes the building door against the storm.

The hallway light flickers to light when you move, soft and golden. He peels the wet outer layer from your shoulders with gentle fingers, revealing the pink dress damp at the hem. “Come on,” he murmurs, leading you toward the elevator, completely unbothered by the water he’s trailing behind on the tiled floor.

The elevator dings open, its doors sliding apart with a soft hum. You step inside first, the warmth of the building pressing against your chilled skin. Namjoon follows, pressing the button for the last floor.

“You live in the penthouse?” you ask, brows raised.

He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Technically, yes. But it sounds more impressive than it is.” He says, scratching the back of his neck like it’s a little embarrassing. “Just means I don’t have anyone stomping around above me.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “So modest.”

He laughs under his breath. “I mean, it’s no castle.

You huff a laugh. “Still sounds like you’re trying to charm me.”

He leans a little closer, voice low. “Is it working?”

You don’t answer—just smile and look forward again, heart doing its own reckless thing inside your chest. And beside you, Namjoon tries not to grin too obviously, as if you haven’t both already completely given yourselves away.

The elevator hums upward, slow and steady, carrying you somewhere high above Seoul. The lights overhead casting a warm glow across his face—his wet hair slightly mussed, his shirt clinging just a little at the collar. You catch yourself staring and look away too late, heat blooming in your cheeks.

He notices, of course. But he doesn’t say anything. Just slides his hand gently back into yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

When the doors open, the hallway is quiet, carpeted, softly lit. He leads you a few steps down, then unlocks a wide modern looking wooden door.

Inside, his apartment opens up into warm tones and wide windows—a soft, inviting space that smells faintly of cedar wood and something like bergamot. Books line tall shelves, and for some reason they frame his couch too, where a few shirts are strewn across the back of it. A turntable sits quietly in the corner, covered in plants, and a half-used mug of something forgotten rests on the kitchen counter.

The walls decorated in paintings that range from minimalism to neoclassicism.

Namjoon toes off his shoes by the door, gently guiding yours next to them before stepping further in. He moves through the space like someone used to solitude—quiet, unhurried, but there’s a steadiness in the way he turns on a few low lamps, casting the room in amber glow. It’s not the sterile kind of clean. It’s thoughtful. Lived-in in a way that feels intentional, not lonely.

“I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

“Thank you.”

You stand still for a moment, taking it all in.

Books by the armrest, manuscripts marked with reds and blues, a blanket draped over the side like it’s been used recently. Records leaning against the console—Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bon Iver, something obscure in Japanese. There’s another sweater thrown over the back of a chair, and a framed photo tucked beside the speaker: Namjoon with someone older, maybe his father, both of them mid-laugh.

Namjoon reappears with a soft, oversized sweatshirt slung over one arm and a pair of black joggers folded neatly in his hand. “They might be big, but they’re warm.” He says, holding them out to you.

You take them, fingers grazing his. “I don’t mind big.”

His smile tugs a little wider, but he doesn’t comment—just tips his head toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. First door on the right.”

You follow his direction, padding down the hall as your bare feet sink lightly into the carpet. The bathroom is like the rest of the place; stone-toned, curated and clean, with eucalyptus hanging from the shower head. A candle, nearly burned to the end, flickers faintly beside the sink.

You change quickly, slipping into his clothes. The sweatshirt hangs loosely on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands and you have to double tie the joggers. They smell like clean laundry, rain and him.

When you return, Namjoon’s already in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring hot water into two mugs. He looks up when he hears you, and something in his face shifts—fond, quiet, maybe a little undone.

“You look comfortable,” he says, handing you a mug. It’s warm between your palms, chamomile and something faintly floral.

“I am.” You glance down at yourself. “I might not give this back.”

He chuckles. “I’ll allow it. As long as I get visitation rights.”

You settle onto the couch, tugging your knees up beneath you, the oversized fabric pooling around you. Namjoon joins you, a little closer than necessary, his own mug cradled between his palms. For a moment, there’s only the soft clink of ceramic, the patter of rain still against the windows, and the rustle of his breathing beside you.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone here in a long time,” he says, not quite looking at you.

You glance at him. “No?”

He shakes his head. “Not because I didn’t want to. Just…didn’t feel right.”

His voice is low, almost cautious, like he’s not sure if it’s too soon to say something like that—but says it anyway. And it hangs there, soft and honest, between the two of you.

You study him, the gentle slope of his shoulder where it meets the couch, the tension he’s clearly trying to mask in the line of his jaw.

“Why now?” you ask quietly.

Namjoon’s thumb runs slow circles along the edge of his mug. He exhales through his nose. “Because tonight felt… different.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “For some reason, it’s easy with you. You don’t ask for anything I wasn’t already offering. It just feels like you see me. Not the vision I sometimes hand out.”

You blink at that, unexpectedly moved. Because you know what he means. What it feels like to be seen and not simply looked at. That’s exactly what he does to you.

“I didn’t know I was waiting for that,” he adds, finally meeting your eyes. “But I think I was…ever since the umbrella scene.”

And you don’t know what kind of Fate or Moirai or Kismet is working in your favor. Or if its just two equally stubborn people, avoiding love, who finally decided to stop running.

Without quite meaning to, you reach out—resting your hand lightly over his, fingers curling around the edge of his mug. It’s a small touch, but it roots something between you.

His hand turns instinctively beneath yours, palm meeting palm, like it’s been waiting.

Namjoon doesn’t speak right away—just watches your fingers fit with his, the quiet press of skin to skin. There’s no urgency in the gesture, no need to rush past it. Just a kind of stillness. A shared breath.

Then he says, quietly, “I don’t really believe in fate.”

You nod, not pulling away. “Me neither.”

“But this feels like something,” he murmurs, glancing down where your hands rest between you. “Doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. You just hold his gaze. Let it say everything your words can’t yet touch.

And when you do speak, it’s not a confession. Not a grand declaration. Just simple, quiet truth.

“Yes.”

Namjoon exhales like that was what he’d been holding out for. Like your agreement unlocks something in him.

He shifts, not closer—but deeper, and you move with an impulse, free hand cradling the side of his face, palm meeting the warmth of his cheek, your thumb grazing just beneath his eye. The soft stubble along his jaw, the way he leans into your touch, like it means something—it’s all disarmingly intimate, like a kind of closeness that’s been patiently waiting in the quiet between your words.

Namjoon doesn’t rush it. He just closes his eyes for a beat, like he’s memorizing the weight of your hand, the safety of this moment.

When he opens them again, they’re softer. Clearer. Lit with something that looks a lot like wonder.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “If I kiss you again, I won’t want to stop.”

And your heart stumbles, caught near the fear and the ache of wanting the same.

“Kiss me.”

His breath stutters—just for a second—and then he’s closing the space between you. The kiss is slower this time, surer. Less searching, more knowing. Your mugs forgotten somewhere on the table. Your fingers slip into his hair, nails dragging gently across his scalp, and his hand finds your waist like its meant to rest there. To pull you closer.

There's no background music. No dramatics. No closeups. Just the rain.

Rain on the windows. The tick of the clock. The hush of two people finally arriving at the same place at the same time.

The kiss deepens slowly—like it’s unfolding, not erupting. Like it’s been waiting in the wings, rehearsed in glances and half-smiles and every soft pause between you.

Namjoon tilts his head, just slightly, adjusting the angle, the pressure, the pace. One of his hands slips from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. His other arm is a quiet weight around you, steady and sure.

You shift, instinctively, knees brushing his thigh, the fabric of his joggers warm against your skin. The couch creaks softly beneath you when you move to straddle his lap—slowly, carefully—like you're not quite sure if it's boldness or gravity pulling you there. Namjoon doesn't stop you. If anything, his hands guide you, one resting at the curve of your hip now, grounding you against him.

The kiss never breaks. It just changes, to fuller, to deeper, bracing at the edge of something molten that tugs at the space between wanting and having. The kind of heat that grows steady, reverently, with no call to rush.

Your fingers trail from his hair to the sides of his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, memorizing him with every soft drag. Namjoon’s breathing shakes slightly against your mouth, and you feel it when he exhales, his chest rising to meet yours.

When your lips part, it’s only to rest your forehead against his, breath shared in the quiet lull that follows.

He’s the first to speak, voice low, almost rasped. “Okay. Yeah. I definitely don’t want to stop.”

You smile, slow and flushed, heart tumbling in your chest. “Then don’t.”

His eyes flicker open—dark and shining and impossibly soft.

And he kisses you again.

A little hotter. A little bolder. Like he’s memorizing the way you taste and is desperate to have it all to himself. His hands find your hips fully, holding you in place, anchoring you with all the reverence of someone who doesn’t take intimacy lightly.

You shift in his lap, just a little, just enough to feel the way he tightens his grip, more certain than anyone has ever held you before. Like he’s been holding back long enough and now, finally, he’s been given both permission and freedom.

Your hands move again, dragging slowly down the back of his neck, thumbs brushing his pulse point, feeling the way it kicks up beneath your touch. He groans softly against your mouth, the sound low and almost surprised, like maybe he hadn’t expected the way you’d undo him so easily.

His lips trail down, brushing your jaw, the slope of your neck, each kiss a question he’s too careful to ask aloud. And you answer with the arch of your back, the way your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, tugging, pulling it out of his jeans.

The sweatshirt you’re wearing shifts slightly, slipping off one shoulder. Namjoon leans back just enough to see it—see you—and his breath hitches. His thumb ghosts over the exposed skin, reverent and slow, like he’s not sure how he got this lucky but he’s not going to waste a second of it.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, half into your shoulder.

You laugh, a breathless sound that doesn’t even try to hide how wrecked you already are. “You haven’t seen me yet.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that’s half amusement, half awe, and presses another lingering kiss to the curve of your neck. His fingers tighten just a bit on your waist, pulling you that much closer.

“I’m getting there,” he says, voice like honey, like a promise unfolding.

You feel it in your spine—in the low, slow drag of his hands along your sides, the tug at the hem of your shirt, the warm press of his mouth as it returns to your collarbone, kissing lower now. His breath fans against your skin, and your fingers thread into his hair again, gently tugging, urging.

“Joon,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning, or if it matters.

He hums against you like he heard both. When his hands slide beneath the hem of the sweatshirt, they pause at your waist—fingertips stroking over bare skin as if to ask, this much? And when you nod, he moves upward, deliberate and slow, slipping the fabric higher. It peels off over your head with a soft sound, and for a beat, he stops.

Your chest is bare before him, flushed like your cheeks and Namjoon doesn’t speak—doesn’t know how to anymore. He just stares.

Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of you, the way the light catches your skin, the rise and fall of your breath. One hand lifts slowly, and rests just beneath your breast, palm warm, fingers splayed wide. You stutter slightly, and his eyes flicker to yours.

He finds no fear in your gaze, just the same quiet, open awe that took refuge in his own heart.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, steady, thumb brushing lightly against your ribcage like he’s trying to soothe you even as you unravel.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… it’s you.”

His hands slide up, featherlight, thumb brushing just beneath you nipple and you tremble again.

“You’re unreal,” he says, like it’s something he’s trying to convince you of.

You don’t hide from it. You reach for him instead, fingers moving to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Touch me,”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss just above your heart—soft, almost shy—and then another, lower, slower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast like he’s learning the shape of your skin by his lips. His other hand slides up your side, calloused fingertips trailing over sensitive skin until they meet the curve of your back. When his mouth closes around your nipple, warm and wet, your back arches instinctively, his palm keeping you steady, a breathy sound escaping you that you’re too far gone to care about hiding.

Namjoon groans at that—deep and quiet, vibrating where his mouth presses against you. His teeth drag over your nipple and you moan again, wrecked, melting against him fully. Only when he deemed you wrecked enough he switches sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, his hands never fully leaving your skin.

You feel yourself pulsing already, thighs tightening around his waist where you still sit in his lap, hips rolling without quite meaning to. The friction is slow, but it’s enough to drag a sound from both of you—his head dropping slightly, teeth catching his bottom lip as he exhales hard through his nose.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice cracking on it, running cold over your wet chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You give him a weak laugh through the haze, eyes fluttering half-shut. “That’s not the plan.”

He grins, kissing above your heart again.

“Take this off,” you murmur back, undoing just the top few buttons before tugging the shirt fully out of his jeans.

He doesn't hesitate.

Namjoon lifts his arms, and you pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind you both. And suddenly there’s nothing between you anymore; just bare skin and rugged breath and the thrum of something heady and unstoppable threading through every second spent apart.

You take a second to look at him. Tracing the lines of his chest with your hands, the dip between his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders. His skin is warm beneath your palms, muscles shifting under your touch like he’s barely holding still. When you lean in to press a kiss to his sternum, you see the way his eyes flutter shut, and feel his heart jump beneath your lips.

The moment swells again when you rock against him, hips shifting just enough to draw a weak sound from his throat—low and guttural, his hands returning to your hips, gripping tighter now.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice strained.

“Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you, carefully, arms hooked around your thighs, slowly moving you down the hall. His kisses hungrier now—your jaw, your throat, the slope of your chest. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, drawing you closer with every step, every breath.

By the time he lays you down, the bed creaks under your weight, sheets cool against your back in stark contrast to the heat of his body above you. Namjoon hovers for a moment—like he needs that final second to catch up, to make sure this is real. That you’re here. That he’s allowed. And he kisses you, a little demanding now, impossibly tender, full of intent. Tongue sliding slow against yours, one hand braced by your head, the other trailing along your side, smoothing down the curve of your waist. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm cups your thigh, guiding it around his hip, anchoring you.

His body fits over yours like it was made to.

Your own hands roam, tracing the planes of his back, feeling the taut muscles flex under your touch, nails softly tracing confessions of love until he shivers beneath your fingertips.

He groans against your mouth, and you answer in the same breath. You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of your sweats, and Namjoon stills, just for a second, before helping you out of them. The fabric slides down your legs with your underwear, and joins the rest of your clothes somewhere forgotten. He kisses down your torso as he goes, mouth brushing each inch of newly exposed skin like a silent thank you.

When he settles between your thighs, his breath is already shaky.

“You sure?” he asks again, voice weak, reverent, gaze stolen by the wetness pooling between your legs.

You nod, and this time, you say it with your whole body—rising up on your elbows to brush away the strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. “Yes. I just—” your breath shakes. “I never do this.”

Namjoon stills at that—just for a moment—his hand still resting on your thigh, thumb sweeping gently over the apex of your thighs.

His expression softens, gaze flicking between your eyes. “We don’t have to,” he says, voice low, steady. Not pulling away, just… waiting. “I want you, but not more than I want you to feel safe.”

You exhale, “No. I want to,” you say, and your voice is steadier now, like his patience gave you permission to mean it. “I just don’t usually—” You trail off, words failing, head sinking in his pillow, but he seems to understand.

Namjoon leans in, brushing a kiss to your hip. Then your thigh. Then the inside of it. “Then we go slow.”

His breath is warm where his mouth lingers, kissing down the tender skin between your hip and knee, charting you, piece by piece, before hiking your knee over his shoulder. “Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “What feels good.”

You’re already trembling, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, not to guide, just to hold. “You.”

He smirks at that. You feel it against your thigh before the sudden rush when he sinks his teeth right there in the doughy skin.

You gasp, fingers tugging, but it’s enough to distract you from the way he lowers himself fully, settles between your legs like he belongs there, like he’s not just willing, but eager to worship and take his time at this altar. His arms curl around your thighs, grounding you with the weight of his palms as his mouth dips lower, his breath teasing against your folds.

And when he finally licks you, it’s slow. A single, unhurried stroke from your entrance all the way to your clit that makes your hips twist and your breath falter. He moans softly, like the taste of you confirms something he’s been hoping not to long for, the sound rolling against your sensitive clit.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re already so wet.”

You whimper, hips tilting toward him, and he takes the invitation gladly.

His mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking with soft, rhythmic pressure—exploratory at first, then purposeful. Like he’s learning what makes you gasp and then doing it again. And again. And again.

Your thighs begin to tense, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still anchored in his hair. You glance down and find him already watching you, eyes half-lidded and dark, utterly focused.

“Just like that,” you breathe, your voice so airy it hardly sounds like your own.

He moans into you—low, rough, vibrating straight through your core—and your whole body shudders.

When he shifts slightly, you feel the press of his tongue lower, dipping just inside, slow and deliberate. His hands adjust, one palm pressing against your lower belly, the other keeping you open for him as he moves back, mouth closing around your clit again—sucking just once, firmly—and your whole body arches.

You can’t stop the sounds you’re making now. You’re past that. Every flick of his tongue is unraveling you, making it harder to remember anything but his name, the way he tastes you like it’s Sacrament, like he’s been starving.

“Na-Joon,” you gasp, and he hums in response.

That’s all it takes. The rhythm. The hum. The patience in the way he doesn’t rush you, but feel you.

You come with a cry that splits the silence, fingers twisting in his hair, back arching, heels digging into the bed, his name catching in your throat like a prayer you weren’t prepared to say.

Namjoon doesn’t pull away—not right away. He lets you ride it out, only slowing when your body starts to tremble from oversensitivity. He presses one last kiss to your thigh, then rises over you, lips swollen and chin slick, eyes molten with something between adoration and hunger.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, mouth ghosting over yours.

You nod, barely able to form words, breath catching as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “Come here.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, less urgent but no less intense. You can taste yourself on his lips, but there’s no shame behind it—just fucking heat you’ve never felt before. A flicker of something raw and real between you. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like you’re still something he needs to hold carefully.

You kiss him back just as fully, fingers threading into his hair, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress in all the ways you didn’t know you needed. And when you shift beneath him—bare skin sliding against the fabric of his jeans—you both groan at the same time.

“Namjoon, baby, my love,” you murmur, voice low and frayed, so wild it doesn’t even register what you’re saying. “I want to feel you.”

His gaze darkens at that. His hand trails slowly down your side, over your hip, between your legs again—touching you softly, testing how sensitive you still are. You twitch under his fingers, and he smiles against your mouth.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispers.

“I want you” you breathe again. “I want all of you. Please.”

You can see how that undoes him. The way his eyes flutter , jaw tightening without him wanting it, like he’s holding something back—like he has been for too long. He groans low in his throat, kissing you again, slower this time, like he needs it to confirm the last piece of his puzzle, to bring himself back to earth, to feel you, the sound of your voice saying things he never thought he’d get to hear.

“Okay,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and full, pupils blown wide. “Okay, yeah.”

You nod, lips parting with the ache of it, and he leans in to kiss you again—this time quicker, just to indulge himself. His hand moves to your thigh, fingers curling around it, anchoring you open beneath him, and he reaches down without breaking the kiss—fumbling for the drawer beside the bed.

The soft rip of the wrapper breaks the hush between you, and you breathe in shakily when you feel him shift back, just enough to strip the last of his clothing away, enough to reach for the fly of his jeans, and for your gaze to follow him instinctively.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone undress in front of you—but it feels like the first time. Maybe it’s the low light, or the hush of rain still ticking against the windows. Maybe it’s the reverence with which he wrecks you—or maybe it’s just him. But as Namjoon pushes his jeans down, your breath catches all over again.

You take him in slowly, eyes tracing the lines of him, the quiet power of his frame. The solid line of his thighs. The long stretch of his torso, skin kissed with warmth, marked by the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his cock hangs heavy, already hard for you, fucking big and flushed at the tip. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your throat tighten.

He doesn’t shy from your gaze. If anything, his stance softens. His hands fall loosely at his sides when he’s done with the condom, waiting for your reaction—not cocky, not proud, just… there.

You swallow. “You’re…”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“God,” you breathe, sitting up more fully now. “You’re kind of ridiculous.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, breath catching as your fingers reach for him, grazing lightly along his hip before you look back up. “That’s a good thing, right?”

You nod, unable to keep the heat from your voice. “It’s a very good thing.”

Namjoon laughs—quiet and a little unsteady, like you’ve knocked the breath out of him again. His shoulders relax, his stance falters just enough to reveal the truth behind it: he’s just as wrecked as you are. Just as undone by your eyes, and your voice, and the way you’re sitting there with your legs parted and your fingers on his skin.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says softly, kneeling on the bed again, letting your hand guide him closer.

You hum, fingertips brushing along the V of his hips, watching the way his stomach flexes under your touch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoes, leaning in until his lips meet your shoulder, then your jaw and his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling. “You’re everything".”

You don’t reply, you just kiss him instead.

His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face again, thumb brushing the line of your cheek before sliding into your hair, as he exhales into your mouth.

Then you shift, pulling him down with you, and he follows without hesitation—settling between your thighs, the heat of his body a welcome weight, grounding and electric all at once, pushing you against the mattress. He lines himself up, careful, steady, eyes flicking to yours for that last silver of confirmation.

You nod.

And he pushes in slowly, and it steals the very breath from your lungs.

The stretch is otherworldly. Intimate. painful and pleasurable all at once. His hands brace your hips, guiding you through it, and the moment he’s fully seated inside you, you both freeze, overcome. Your hand clutches at his shoulder. His forehead presses to yours again.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely audible.

Namjoon lets out a sharp breath, grounding his weight on one forearm. “You feel—fuck” he whimpers. Fucking whimpers. “Fuck,” he repeats every syllable drawn out, trembling. “You feel—you feel—” doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans, his hips rolling once, testing the fit, the friction, and your body clenches around him on instinct.

“I know,” you gasp, blinking up at him, swallowing down the sound building in your throat. “I know.” But it still dissolves into a wrecked moan when he starts to move.

Slow at first, measured. The roll of his hips smooth and sure, dragging heat out of you one breath at a time. You’re impossibly hot around him, slick and gripping tight, and it pulls a curse from his lips that has you tightening again, and his slow rhythm almost stutters.

“Fuck. Don’t do that.” He breathes, voice cracking low in your ear, like he's trying not to unravel right then and there on top of you. “You’ll kill me woman.”

But you do it anyway—tighten around him, just to see the way he loses control again. The way his voice wavers, the way his hips jerk forward harder than he meant to, pulling a moan from your throat that you don’t have time to swallow down.

“Fuckin’” he doesn’t finish. Just buries his face in your neck like he’s overwhelmed. “God you’re…”

He doesn’t even know what. Evil? How can you when you feel like heaven. Perfect? He already knows that, and suspects you know it too with the way you arch into him, chasing every slow thrust, one leg wrapping tighter around his waist to draw him in even deeper.

The love of my life. Like what it means to want someone without fear.

His hand moves, cradles the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher around his waist, and the angle shifts—deeper, perfect, a little faster—and you keen again, clinging to him, nails scratching down his spine.

And he’s back at evil again. Because how else can you explain it when someone breaks you like that? So easily, so completely, just with the way you say his name.

“Jesus, baby,” he pants, the endearment slipping out raw, like it doesn’t need permission anymore. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile—wrecked, breathless, wild around the edges—because you want to. Because the power feels electric in your blood and you can’t stop rocking up to meet every thrust, trying to pull more of him, all of him, deeper. “You’re already ruined,” you manage to say, even though your voice barely holds.

Namjoon groans like you’ve struck something in him, something buried, something feral. He braces both hands now, caging you in beneath him as his rhythm falters—harder, deeper, no less reverent, but touched with desperation.

The bed cries in protest, headboard fully slamming against the wall now, the sound of skin and breath and everything unspoken crashing into the space around you like a storm too long held back.

You can’t think anymore. Just feel. Just take him—the way he fucks into you, every push, every sound he makes, the way his breath runs hot against your sweaty skin. The way his teeth sink into your neck. The way you let go so easily with him.

“Say it again,” he grits out, voice wrecked, ragged, like he’s chasing something he can’t name.

You blink up at him, barely able to hold his gaze, but you do. You do. You reach for him—both hands cupping his face, your thumb sweeping over the sweat at his temple. “You’re mine.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Namjoon shudders like he’s trying to hold himself together and failing gloriously. Like he’s not just inside you but completely undone by the fact that he gets to have you. All of you, without pretense or performance.

His lips crash into yours again, breath mixing, teeth grazing, and it’s not graceful anymore—it’s reduced to it’s essence. It's raw. Devastation in its honesty. His rhythm stutters, faster now, deeper, each thrust drawing a sound out of you you’ve never made for anyone else.

You feel yourself tightening around him again—close, so close—and your fingers tangle in his hair as you gasp, “I’m gonna—Joon, I—”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead against yours, his voice cracking on the edge of it. “Come with me. Come on, baby.”

And when it hits—when your body seizes around him, when the moan breaks from your throat so loud it almost scares you—it drags him down with you. His hips stutter once, twice more, then he’s pulsing inside you with a groan torn from somewhere deep, too deep to name.

He collapses onto you slowly, carefully, doing his best not to crush you.

But you don’t mind. Not really. Not when you’re both there. And in the silence that follows, with chests heaving, limbs tangled together, skin flushed and trembling, you feel it.

The weight of everything you just said without words.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

Slow. Soft, like gratitude.

“You okay?” He whispers a moment after, brushing your hair back.

You nod, eyes glassy, lips parted, still catching your breath. “I think you just rewrote my brain.”

“Good. I’ve been meaning to leave an impression.” Namjoon laughs, quiet and breathless. and you can’t help but laugh too.

Outside, the rain still hasn’t stopped. But it’s falling slower now, softer. Like even the sky got the message that it’s time to quiet down.

You're still wrapped around each other, his arm heavy cross your waist, your fingers drawing aimless shapes into his back. Neither of you speak for a long while. Not because there's nothing to say. But because there is no urgency to say it. Not now. Not when it feels like everything that needed to be known has already been shared somewhere in the in-between.

Eventually, Namjoon shifts, slowly easing out of you with care, kissing your cheek before sliding out of bed with reluctance. You’re too tired to watch him pad across the room, still you pick up on the soft rustle of tissues and the low thunk of the bathroom bin as he knocks into it. Then the faint splash of water, the crackle of a wet wipe package.

He comes back with both—water first, holding the glass steady while you sip, then the warm, damp wipe he uses gently, reverently, to clean between your thighs. His touch is so careful, you almost want to cry, because you’ve never been handled quite like this—so cherished, even in the quiet after.

You whisper his name, blinking through tired eyes, and he only smiles—soft, boyish, exhausted in the way that means he gave you everything.

 Namjoon tosses the wipe in the trash, then slides back into bed beside you. The sheets are cool, your skin still flushed from the heat between you, but he pulls the covers over both of you and wraps his arms around your waist like he’s never letting go.

You’re just beginning to drift—his heartbeat steady against your chest—when you hear him speak again, barely above a whisper. 

“You’re not going to disappear in the morning, are you?”

 You smile faintly, pressing your forehead to chest. “No. Are you?”

He laughs under his breath, the sound gently shaking you. “No. This is my house.”

You laugh then, quietly—tired and soft and maybe a little in love with the way he says it. Like it’s obvious. Like of course he’s not going anywhere.

“I guess that makes it harder to sneak out unnoticed,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over the line over his heart, lazy and affectionate.

Namjoon shifts, just enough to nudge his nose against the crown of your head. “Exactly. You’d have to climb out a window. And I’m not sure you’re up for that after—”

You cut him off with a light pinch to his side, and he huffs a laugh, catching your wrist gently and bringing your hand back to his chest.

“Okay,” he says, quieter again, thumb stroking once across your knuckles. “Then stay. Just… stay.”

You nod. No teasing now. No hesitation.

“I’m here.”

And you mean it. Not just tonight, not just in the warmth of his bed. You mean here, with him. Maybe forever.

~~~

The light is soft when you wake—filtered through thin curtains and rain-slicked windows, casting a muted gold across the room. It takes a moment to remember where you are. The scattered clothes. The unfamiliar ceiling. The warmth at your back.

Namjoon’s arm is draped over your waist, his chest flush to your spine, breath slow and steady against your shoulder. His hold is loose, but sure. Like even in sleep, he’s still holding on.

You shift just enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s still asleep. His hair is a mess, smushed from the pillow, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful—unreasonably handsome in that soft, unguarded way people only look when they forget they’re being seen.

Then he stirs.

Nudges his nose into the crook of your neck like he’s chasing your warmth in his sleep. A beat later, voice low and scratchy from sleep, he mumbles, “Mornin’”

You turn to face him, smiling into the space between you. “Morning.”

“You’re warm,” he mutters.

You nuzzle into his chest, letting yourself settle there, your smile hidden in his skin. “You’re clingy in the morning.”

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do. You just don’t say it yet. Instead, you tease, “Do you always get this handsy before breakfast?”

His lips brush your temple, and you can feel the grin in his answer. “Only with you.”

You stay like that a while. Wrapped in the quiet. In each other. Long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the real world to knock softly at the edges of the room.

“Do you have a plan for today?” He murmurs.

You shake your head, cheek against his chest. “Not really. I just want a shower.”

Namjoon hums, his hand flattening gently against the small of your back. “Later.”

You laugh, quiet and warm, your legs tangling more deliberately with his under the covers. His fingertips trace idle patterns on your spine now, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush to be anywhere but here. And maybe you aren’t either.

“I should text my mother,” you murmur eventually, not moving.

“Mhm.” He still doesn’t let go.

“And Jimin.” You smile at the way his eyes flutter close, hands still moving. “He’s my friend. He’ll probably grill you even harder than my mother.”

Namjoon just hums.

“I should grab my shirt.”

“No need,” he mumbles into your hair.

You snort softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before slipping free—slowly, reluctantly. He makes a quiet noise of protest, half-heartedly reaching for your wrist but missing.

“We need to work on this morning person tendencies you have if we want this marriage to work.” He mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, his hair spiking up even more when he runs that same hand through it.

You grin, tugging the crumpled sheet with you as you stand up. “That’s fine. I’ll just marry you in the afternoon instead.”

Behind you, Namjoon groans into the mattress. “You can’t say stuff like that when I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“You started it,” you call back, voice light even despite the ache between your thighs.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he says around a yawn, already swinging his legs over the bed just as you leave the bedroom in search of your phone.

You pad into the living room and grab your sweatshirt too, swinging it over your shoulder, muscles still deliciously sore. Your phone is right where you left it—wedged in the couch cushions—and as you pick it up, it lights up immediately.

[12 notifications – Jimini 🐸]

You swipe.

12:30 PM: did he come? 12:30 PM: lol come. 🤣😂🫣😏 12:31 PM: no. joking. your mother arranged this—DISGUSTING✨💕 12:31 PM: maybe… send me a pic! a sneaky one. just make sure ur flash isnt on like last time.😂 4:13 PM: Are we still getting drinks with Tae or…? 4:17 PM: helloooooo?!?! 6:27 PM: babe. are you alive? 10:37 PM: I swear if you’re dead I’m gonna be so pissed 12:10 AM: do you know CPR? because I might need it when you finally tell me what happened with that tall korean man. 8:55 AM: okay it’s morning! say something. 9:00 AM: HELLLOOOOOOOOO 9:01 AM: fine. I hope he’s ugly.

You bite your lip, suppressing a grin.

From the hallway, you hear Namjoon’s voice, still hoarse, “Do you eat in the mornings?”

You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over Jimin’s latest message.

You: he’s not.

Then—just loud enough for him to hear, a grin already creeping up your face—you call back, “Eat what?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then: a choked sound, and Namjoon’s footsteps.

You don’t even bother turning around.

“…Food,” he deadpans, emerging around the corner, already dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, towel in his hand, the other combing through his wild, sleep-ruined hair. “I’m going to get us some coffee. Wanted to know your order too.”

You nod slowly, pretending to consider it, even though your smile is already betraying you. “Hmm. Something strong. Hot. Sweet, but not too sweet.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you like he knows exactly what you're doing when you grab the towel from his hands. “You want me or coffee?”

You grin, finally meeting his eyes. “I can have both.” You tease, walking towards the bathroom.

He exhales a short laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you pass by. “I’ll be back before you finish.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, already half down the hallway, towel slung loose over your arm. “Don’t rush on my account.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning his weight against the doorframe for a moment like he’s debating whether to follow you in after all. “Too late. I'm already thinking about round two.”

You snort. “Bold of you to assume I won’t lock the door.”

Namjoon grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Challenge accepted.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you walk into the bathroom, door completely open behind you, even when you step into the shower.

Namjoon chuckles, heart full and a little dumb, suddenly eager to actually keep his promise of being back before you finish. He slides on a pair of slides and heads down the hall. Waiting for the elevator, he pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling through yesterday’s notifications.

Work mails, with nothing urgent still, his sister wishing him luck on his date.

Then, five missed calls from his mother and a message that makes him pause.

Eomma 💮: I can’t believe you Kim Namjoon. You are completely something else! How could you even think about skipping on the date!? let alone leave that poor girl hanging??? Ajumeoni Bae said she’d considering lowering your profile!! LOWERING IT! I am deeply disappointed.

His thumb hovers over the screen, mind momentarily blank.

Skip the date?

Namjoon blinks, glancing at the timestamp. The message came in sometime last night—hours after he’d already been tangled up with you in his sheets, your mouth on his, your laugh caught in his chest. Definitely not skipping anything.

Unless—

He swipes back to his call log. All the missed calls from his mom came after dinner.

Well after he’s already met you…

His brow furrows.

“The fuck?”

The elevator dings, but he doesn’t step in right away. Instead, he rereads the message before stepping inside and calling his mother.

The phone rings twice before his mother picks up—no hello, no greeting, just straight to the point.

“Namjoon-ah, you better have a good explanation.”

He closes his eyes briefly, already bracing himself. “Hi, Eomma.”

“Don’t ‘hi Eomma’ me. Do you know how embarrassed I was when I got that call from Ajumeoni Bae? I practically begged her to keep your file active! I told her you’re a good boy—just shy, busy, thoughtful. But this? Skipping on a date without so much as a message?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t skip.”

“Oh really?” She huffs. “Because the girl you were supposed to meet complained you never showed!” She lets out something he can only describe as profound disappointment. “I can’t believe you did this—”

“No, I—” Namjoon blinks hard, staring at the elevator doors like they might provide answers. “I met with her, Eomma. At the Cafe next to the SeMa? A girl in a pink dress. Kang Y/N.”

That makes his mother stop mid rant, a long pause following. So long it makes him wonder if the elevator ate up all his phone signal.

“What?” she asks, suspicious.

“Yes. We ate lunch, ended up going for a walk and then dinner and a gallery too—” and he stops because that is enough information for her.

“Kang what?” His mother demands.

“Y/N.” Namjoon says, just as certain as before. “Pink dress. works as a paralegal at a firm in Seoul, at the café near the museum. You said—”

“I said your match would be wearing a pink dress, yes,” she cuts in, “but her name is Kang Mirae, Namjoon. Mirae!”

Namjoon blinks. “…Who?”

“Oh my dear God,” she breathes, and he can practically hear her pacing now. “ You mean to tell me you went on a date yesterday and didn’t even download her complete file? Did you just read the debrief?” She sounds borderline outraged.

“I thought—” He stops, then runs a hand through his hair. What did he think? “Listen, I saw a her by the window, she fit the description. I figured it was her.”

“And you just sat down?” The disbelief dripping from his mother’s voice is almost unbearable. He feels like a small kid again, getting scolded for coloring on the walls. “You didn’t even confirm she was sent by Ajumeoni Bae?!”

Namjoon grimaces. “No?”

There’s a pause. A sharp exhale. Then—

“Namjoon-ah. Aigoo.” The sound is somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement now. “How did you manage to pay to go on a date and still end up on the wrong one?”

He closes his eyes, forehead tapping against the cool elevator wall. “I thought she was her.”

“You thought? You thought? Did she even mention Ajumeoni Bae’s services?”

“No,” he admits, voice small. “But she looked… like she was waiting for someone too…”

“She wasn’t waiting for you!” his mom cries, fully amused now. “You just saw a girl in a pink dress and assumed?”

“Well technically she assumed too—she didn’t ask either!”

“Oh my God!” She was full-on giggling now. “Dear God,” she says. “You two really deserve each other. I accidentally raised a himbo.”

Namjoon groans. “Eomma—”

“No, no, don’t you ‘Eomma’ me. This is so stupid it must be destiny. You went on a blind date with the wrong woman,” she cackles. “Is she pretty? You said paralegal? Lawyer was better but paralegal isn't bad. Wait—” She pauses mid tirade “Did she know she was supposed to marry you after this date?”

“Yes…She was supposed to meet a Kim,” Namjoon says, running a hand through his hair again, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “That’s what her mom told her. Just—‘a Kim.’”

There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end of the line.

Then: “Aigoo.” His mom’s voice turns reverent, like she’s just witnessed divine intervention. “That’s fate, Namjoon-ah! You stumbled into your match without even trying.”

Namjoon makes a low noise in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite denial.

“Does she like you?” His mom asks, immediately nosy again. “She must, if you’re still alive.”

“She stayed the night, didn’t she?”

“Kim Namjoon!”

“I didn’t mean it like—well, okay, maybe I did. But it wasn’t—” He pauses, mouth twitching. “I like her,” he admits quietly.

More silence.

“I really like her,” he adds, just as the elevator doors slide open.

And his mom, predictably, gasps like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “Then you better fix this before she finds out from someone else and thinks you’re some matchmaking scammer!”

Namjoon winces. “Why would she even think that?”

“I don’t know! I’m just being thorough. Now go! Make it right. And Namjoon?”

“…Yes?”

“You’re both idiots.”

“Thank you, eomma.” He deadpans.

His mother snorts. “Anytime sweetheart. Now go! I want to meet her soon!”

“You will.” He chuckles and hangs up with a sigh, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he steps out of the elevator and into the soft, overcast morning. The morning smells like rain and city steam, and his brain is buzzing, equal parts panic, disbelief and something stupidly light and warm.

He accidentally ghosted his match.

He accidentally met his better-half.

And yet—he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.

Not when you’re still upstairs in his shower. Not when he can still picture your sleepy smile and the curve of your neck and the sound of your laugh echoing off the bathroom tile. Not when his bedsheets still smell like you.

He ducks into the café on the corner, nods to the barista who already knows his usual, and adds a second coffee order. Strong, hot, sweet—but not too sweet.

Then he points to the pastry case, zeroing in on the flakiest, most obscenely overpriced croissant he can find. The kind of treat you’d mock and inhale in two bites.

He taps his card. He adjusts the pastry bag under his arm, balancing the coffees carefully as he starts back toward the building.

He’s going to tell you everything….

Just… maybe after caffeine.

Maybe after you’ve stopped smelling like his shampoo.

Maybe after round two.

Maybe.

~~~

Epilogue: The steam curls around you in the shower. Your hands are all over him.

Water runs down your spine in rivulets, hot and heavy, but he’s hotter still—his skin, his mouth, the way his fingers skate over your damp skin, mapping out the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass and he carefully presses you against the cold tiles.

His lips drag across your neck, up to your lips to catch them back in another heated kiss. He tastes like coffee now. Like maybe he stole a sip before he got in with you, and you can’t seem to get enough of it.

His palm finds your thigh and lifts it, slow and deliberate, anchoring your leg around his hip. The movement brings your bodies flush together, and the groan that leaves him—low, ragged, real—makes you clench around him.

You bite at his bottom lip and feel him shudder.

Then—

“Random question, have you ever heard of Ajumeoni Bae?”

You gasp around a moan, a little wrecked, a whole lot confused. “Who?”

[love-you-likeallfire]

Happy Birthday Haymitch.

A Sunshine and Roses universe fic.

Description: one year after her life changed forever, Ember learns very quickly why you do not wish Haymitch Abernathy a happy birthday on Reaping Day. But maybe Haymitch might change his mind in a year…or ten.

A/N: happy 4th July to all you Americans, Hope you’ll accept this Haymitch fic as an adequate apology from a native of Great Britain (that goes for any of the other countries my country colonised centuries before my birth and have nothing to do with the colonisation beyond being British) 😂

Anyway I couldn’t decide between two concepts for this so I combined the two of them together, I’m also saying that this is probably teen rated fic (I mean most of us I hope are at least over the age of 16), because it’s a bit borderline spicy but not actually spice because I physically can’t write smut so it’s implied. So I guess implied sexual content warning is in play. But anyway hope you enjoy the fic!

I balance the cake tin in one hand, my prosthetic tucked awkwardly at my side as I knock on Haymitch’s door with my elbow. The air is already warm, thick with the smell of coal dust and the too sweet scent of sun on damp pine. It’s early — early enough the world’s still quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like something bad is about to happen.

I shouldn’t be nervous, but I am. Not about the cake. That’s just something to do, a routine. Goat’s milk, butter, sugar, the good stuff from the Capitol allowance I never spend, all swirled together like I remember from before the Games, before everything.

It’s his birthday.

No one really talks about it, not even him, but I heard it from Ripper months ago in passing as I sold her cheese. "The miserable bastard came screaming into the world same day he practically got ripped outta it." She laughed when she said it. But there was a weight to it, too. I didn’t ask more.

So I baked. It felt… almost normal.

I knock again. Nothing.

The door creaks when I push it open. It’s dangerous that it’s not locked but what would be the point? Haymitch lives alone. No one ever comes here unless they have to.

I step inside. It smells like whiskey and rotten cabbage and unwashed clothes and damp and and dust. The furniture’s worn in and out at the same time, a mess that somehow suits him.

He’s asleep on the couch. Sprawled sideways, one hand curled beneath the edge of a threadbare pillow. His hair’s all over the place, and there’s a bottle on the floor, half-fallen from the table. The sun slants through the window across his face.

I should’ve left the cake in the kitchen.

But something about him like this — quiet, not yelling, not muttering — makes me hesitate. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe I’m over thinking the silence around his birthday, maybe it’s just the fact it’s a doubly horrible anniversary for my family what with Uncle Woodbine and my Reaping and everything. Maybe he just hates the 4th July as much as everyone else in the district. Maybe it’ll be nice to see a friendly face when he wakes up.

I approach the sofa and softly say the words everyone hears every year on their own special day:

“Happy birthday, Haymitch,”

….That’s when everything goes wrong.

In one breath, he’s up.

Not awake — not really. Just up like something inside him got yanked. I see the flash of something silver, I see the way his eyes don’t register me. They’re wild. Half-dreaming. Somewhere far away.

I open my mouth to speak, to say it’s me, it’s just Ember—

The glint I saw is a knife. A blunt kitchen knife.

The blade arcs before I can move, before he can stop. A white-hot line slices across my left side, just above the waist. I suck in a breath, stumble back, the cake crashing to the floor.

“Haymitch!” I cry out, clutching my side. “Haymitch—it’s me!”

The shout stops him cold.

He freezes, knife still half-raised, mouth slack. His eyes focus — slowly, painfully — like he’s dragging himself back into the room. Back to the land of awake.

“Ember?” he says, hoarse.

I’m on one knee, palm pressed against the fabric of my shirt, which is already blooming red.

He drops the knife.

“Shit.” His voice is different now. Horrified. Real. “Shit.”

He’s kneeling in front of me a second later. I can’t tell who’s shaking more.

“Let me see,” he says, urgently, hands hovering over mine. “Ember, let me—damn it—hold still.”

“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “You sleep with a knife.”

“Yeah, and now you do.” He pulls my hand away. Hisses. “Alright, Doesn’t look deep. You’re lucky I’m a drunk, or I’d have gone clean through.”

I try to laugh. It sounds like a cough.

“I was just… I didn’t know. I thought it’d be nice.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

He moves fast after that. Not smooth — not practiced, like Mrs Everdeen — but efficient. He disappears to the kitchen and comes back with a dented first-aid tin that smells like old wood and vinegar and a bottle of something clear. He’s got a half-used roll of gauze, a flask with a makeshift cork, and what I immediately recognize as rubbing alcohol.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, a little breathless.

“You don’t want to know” He kneels again. “Now, you’re gonna hate me in about ten seconds.”

I glance down, he’s already lifting the edge of my shirt, and I flinch instinctively.

“You’ll need to hold this up, unless you want me to rip it.” He commands, not looking at me. My hands shake, but I do it immediately. My skin is slick, raw around the wound, which is long and shallow but angry. I’ve definitely had worse, not from him, never from him, from the obvious. It’s going to scar though. Just another I’ll add to the list on my body.

“This’ll hurt,” he says, voice flat. “Scream if you need to. No one’ll care.”

“My ma will” I point out “Effie definitely—”

He pours the alcohol. I bite down a scream with my black metal arm in my mouth. He doesn’t flinch. It’s like fire and ice all at once, something I’ve actually experienced before, but still my leg kicks involuntarily, and eyes water at the sensation.

“Sorry,” he mutters, even though I know he’s not sorry for the pain — just for the reason it’s happening. “You’ll live.”

Then his fingers are already unrolling a length of gauze.

He works in silence. Gentle, surprisingly. Tight enough to hold, not tight enough to hurt.

When he’s done, he leans back on his heels. He’s still not meeting my eyes and I’m the one who breaks the silence between us. “You really don’t like your birthday, huh?”

His laugh is dry. Bitter, even. “Yeah. Maybe don’t do that again. Ever.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “I won’t.”

He leans back against the wall, rubbing a hand down his face. “You come here to say that every year and you’ll be leaking from somewhere new each time.”

There’s blood on the floor. On his hands. But he’s calmer now. Or something close to it. Now he knows I’m not hurt badly.

“It’s Reaping Day,” I say after a minute.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes closed. “Second gift of the day.”

“My first one as a mentor,” I add.

He opens one eye and looks at me sideways.

“I thought about letting you go at this alone,” he admits suddenly. “Like I’ve done for years.”

That surprises me a little, I expected him to say it’s my turn and wash his hands of the whole thing.

“Why didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s low. Meant more for himself than me.

“Didn’t sit right.”

That’s all.

But I hear the rest of it anyway. The unsaid. What happened in the Capitol last year, the past year. The way they’ve paraded me like a doll. Taken parts of me and never really gave anything back.

“Thanks for patching me up,” I say.

He shrugs. “You did me a favour, I’m awake.”

He finally looks at me. Really looks. “don’t sneak up on me again like that, Ember.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Then don’t wake me up at all.”

“I can’t not do that, we have a deal, I wake you up on Reaping day and you hold my hand through all the Victor crap.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I”

“Ember”

“Right. Okay got it.”

He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt. “Now go home. Clean up. We leave in what? two hours.”

I start to move. Stop. “Haymitch?”

He pauses, back turned to me.

“Is it always this hard? The Fourth of July?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then:

“You have no idea kid” he says as he heads up the stairs to get ready.

I stare at the ruined cake on the floor. Frosting smeared across old wood like a smear of snow. A cherry’s rolled near the bottle.

I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve.

Yeah, I think I do.

10 years later

When I wake up, I can’t tell where I end and Haymitch begins.

It’s still early. Summer light spills through the half-cracked curtains, gold and warm and gentle, soft as a memory. There’s birdsong, mockingjays probably, singing a melody long lost to the Capitol cruelty, one they have finally been able to reclaim.

I shift slightly and feel his arm tighten around my waist.

Haymitch breathes out slow, steady against the back of my neck, and I realise he’s already awake. His legs are tangled in mine, as if even in sleep he’s afraid I’ll drift off without him. The sheets are twisted around us, and his palm is warm and flat against the bare skin of my stomach.

It’s the perfect way to wake.

I turn, carefully, until I face him.

He’s watching me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, that we’re here. His eyes are soft — the kind of soft he doesn’t let anyone else see. The kind I never saw until the war ended.

Until we let each other love each the other in the quiet.

His hair’s all over the place, a little silvery now in places it used to be straw-colored but not noticeably unless you’re looking. There are lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, deeper than they were when I was sixteen. And still, he’s beautiful, the way a home is beautiful after it’s rebuilt. Solid. Worn. Real.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He hums, low in his throat. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

The nickname still makes my chest ache, but in a good way, not in the way that’s like a wound. In a way that makes me want to just love him more even though I know it’s impossible to love him more.

“You been awake long?”

“Long enough.”

I reach up and brush a bit of sleep from the corner of his eye, trail my fingers down the side of his face. He catches my hand with his, presses a kiss into my palm.

I don’t say it. Not yet. Not those words.

There’s no panic behind his eyes this morning, no knife under the pillow, no tension in the set of his jaw. He’s just…Haymitch.

“You alright?” I ask.

“’M alright,” he shifts closer, tucking me fully against his chest. “Reckon you’ve got somethin’ to do with that.”

We stay like that for a while, not talking. Breathing. Listening to the quiet of the house — a house that no longer smells like whiskey and sweat and sour bread, no longer echoes with the sound of a man trying to drink away ghosts. It smells like fresh soap, coffee grounds and goat milk, with only the faint scent of whatever liquor Haymitch is into.

It smells like us.

I trace the edge of a scar on his shoulder with my fingers. I don’t know how he got that one. He’s told me things, but not everything. Not yet.

“I was thinking’,” he says, voice low and rough with sleep, “we don’t have go anywhere today.”

“No,” I agree. “We don’t.”

“No Games. No Capitol,” he says, like he still doesn’t quite believe it. “Haven’t got to pack, haven’t got to send anyone to die, haven’t got to drink myself stupid.”

“Thanks to Katniss,” I say, “and thanks to you.”

His hand slides up, rests over my ribs. “You did more than me”

I close my eyes for a second. Try not to let the weight of memory settle too heavy. We all helped. All of us who made it out the other side. But some days it still feels like more of me got left behind in the wreckage than made it into this new world.

I think about Woodbine. Can’t help it that he comes into my mind today. The uncle, who I never met but who my father mourned until the day he left us, the uncle who lives in the hollow space between my ribs on days like this. About the way Haymitch’s hand had trembled when he told me — really told me — what happened that year. How he hadn’t been reaped in Woodbine’s place well, not in the way I’d been told at least. How the Capitol had reset the bowl like nothing had happened. How he’d been picked from the crowd and stood there, sixteen and not giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing him cry, as he was called up.

I’d never really seen Haymitch cry until then. A few times, but not when I won the games. Not when I almost didn’t. Not even when I told him I loved him for the first time. Only when he mentioned people he lost or the prospect of losing what he’s built now. Never when he describes things, his voice trembles but never breaks. Maybe because he never goes into detail.

But that night, he had and I’d held him, just like he held me after my own nightmares, and we didn’t say anything else.

My chest aches, thinking of it now. It’s weird how that one incident on one specific day could alter so many people’s lives. Even those who weren’t even born yet. It’s a strange feeling to consider that if my uncle hadn’t died when he did, I ultimately wouldn’t be here now, and likely neither would Haymitch.

Our lives would be completely different. He’d be celebrating his birthday with his childhood sweetheart and worrying about his kids being sent into the arena and I wouldn’t be here. I know that much to be true. But I don’t want to dwell on weird feelings, on what ifs, so I move gently, press my head to his shoulder and let myself breathe him in.

“Peeta wants to do something later — nothing big.“

Haymitch grunts in response.

“Before you ask it’s because he loves you.”

“Can’t think why.”

“You’re his family.” I simply say, “Katniss’ too.”

“You know, you’ve got a real annoying habit of being right lately.”

I smile slightly and I finally decide to risk saying the thing I’d been avoiding.

“Happy birthday, Haymitch.”

I lean back slightly and watch his reaction. His eyes don’t close, his breath doesn’t hitch. That’s good at least. A big improvement from getting stabby at me.

“Didn’t think I’d see forty-three,” he replies

“You’ve certainly earned it.”

He goes quiet. Just stares at me and I know where he’s gone. To Sid. To His ma. To Maysilee. Louella, Wyatt and Lou-Lou.

To Lenore Dove.

Names he’s whispered and trusted me with more than once. Pieces of himself he never gave anyone before. I don’t know everything. Not yet. But I know their names now at least, and that’s enough. It’s a start. He’ll tell me one day when he’s ready all their stories and I’ll be there then, like I’m here now.

“You okay?” I ask, just under my breath.

“Gettin’ there.” He nods once, slowly. Not a lie, but not a complete truth. “Just… feels wrong some days. Being the one who made it.”

“But you did,” I whisper. “And you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he turns, wraps himself around me tighter like he’s anchoring himself. “Thanks to you.”

I shake my head against him. “You’re the reason we’re both here. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” he says.

I let my fingers drift across his ribs. Feel the rise and fall of his breath. He’s solid beneath me, warm and real and present. I think of the man I met when I was fifteen, and the one I wake up beside now. Same man. Just… different now. Loved, as he should’ve always been.

“I ever tell you how dangerous you look in the morning?” he murmurs suddenly, voice low and gravelly.

I glance up at him.

“Oh, in what way do I look dangerous, Haymitch?”

“In the ‘I want you in bed for another hour’ kind of dangerous”

He’s smirking now — barely — but it’s there. Familiar and lazy and something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

“Well, who am I to deny you anything today. Is there anything else you would like?”

“I want to stay like this,” he says “right here. With you.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Good. And I was thinkin’ maybe I should start my birthday off right,” he drawls.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And how would you like to do that, Mr Abernathy?”

“Well, Mrs Abernathy,”

He shifts, flipping our positions, rolling me onto my back with a low groan that comes with middle age and settles over me, one hand bracing beside my head, the other slides down slowly to rest over my hip, drawing lazy circles over my skin. careful, deliberate, his breath ghosts against my throat.

“I might have a few ideas”

I laugh, his mouth meets mine — not rushed, not desperate, just full and slow, the kind of kiss that says I love you without needing words. I melt into it, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.

It’s familiar by now.

He deepens the kiss, his breath hitching as he presses closer, his fingers slipping beneath the blanket draped over us. I gasp softly against his lips.

His hand slides over my waist, up my ribs, slow and reverent, like he’s touching something he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to have even after all these years. He doesn’t hesitate like he used to. His thumb brushes the place just under my breast, where my bra starts and he pauses — checking, always checking, even now.

I nod, barely, just once.

And that’s all he needs.

He kisses me again, a sound in the back of his throat like he’s breathing out relief. His hand slides higher, warm against my skin, and everything about the moment stretches — quiet, slow, like time’s finally decided to give us space instead of taking things away.

The weight of him is comforting. His body fits against mine like it’s always been meant to. Tangled legs, shared breath, a life remade in the aftermath.

His fingers find the edge of my underwear, tentative, but only in that familiar way that means I know you. I know what you’ve survived. I’ll never take more than you give.

And I do.

Give.

All of it.

Outside, the wind stirs the trees. A bird cries again, but further away this time.

His lips move along my jaw, down to the place just below my ear, slow like he’s memorising me again from scratch.

“I love you,” I whisper.

His hand stills for a second. Then:

“You better.”

I laugh again — breathless, honest — and his smile ghosts across my skin.

He shifts again, his hand lacing with mine above my head, his mouth finding mine one more time.

And just before the world falls away, he whispers against my lips:

“Best damn birthday in a long time.”

[viviansturns]

𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒔 - part 2

... you find yourself falling for your university pen pal

cw (whole series): flirting, fluff, very sad angst

January 14th, 2025

Hey Y/N,

So you seemed pretty anxious and midterms are coming up, and I sent you flowers. I’m not sure if anyone still sends flowers via mail, but I figured why not? I hope they survived the journey and aren’t all fallen apart or ruined.

Speaking of snail mail… Why is letter shipping so slow? I’m pretty sure my last letter went on a world tour before landing at your place.

Your glow in the dark stars are actually exactly what I wanted as a kid, but my dad said they’d peel the paint off the ceiling.

Anyway, hope you’re surviving midterms without too many panic attacks. If you need a distraction, I’m just a letter away (albeit a slow one).

Sorry there’s not much to this letter. I’m not sure what to say today.

Talk soon,

Matt

_______________

January 25th, 2025

Matt,

The flowers were actually perfect. A little squished, yeah, but still good. I didn’t expect them, which made them kind of disarming. In a good way.

Letter shipping is painfully slow. I keep checking the mailbox like I’m waiting for something urgent.

Break left me more tired than rested. My parents have a way of making everything feel heavy, even when they’re trying to be light. I get what you said about everyone being slightly off.

I had a panic attack two nights ago, nothing new, but it still shook me up. I haven’t told many people that.

If we were at the same school, I think I’d drag you to a cafe just so I didn’t have to sit with this stuff alone. You’d probably bring a sketchbook. And we could just draw people passing by. Or eachother or whatever.

—Y/N

P.S. if you send me a polaroid of you i’ll draw you too

_______________

February 5th, 2025

Y/N,

So I don’t really have a polaroid camera, but I printed out some pictures to send. There’s a bunch because I wasn’t really sure what kind of one to send. Face reveal I guess, hope it’s how you imagined me or something.

Also, sorry to hear about the panic attack. I know that feeling, like your body’s short-circuiting for no good reason. I get them sometimes too, especially right before exams.

Midterms are a mess already. My roommate pulls all-nighters and eats dry cereal out of the box like it’s a coping mechanism. I’ve just been trying to keep my head down and get through it.

I liked what you said about the cafe. That sounded nice. I’ve never really had someone to do that kind of quiet with.

Hope you’re holding up okay.

—Matt

P.S. I’ll send better flowers next time. These ones didn’t have the best reviews, but I liked the colours.

_______________

February 16th, 2025

Matt,

WOAH okay, I didn't know you were a literal model? Yeah that’s crazy you kind of look like how I imagined but more… I don't know. Anyways, I drew the first one because I liked it the most, I hope it’s okay. 

You’ve been on my mind a lot lately—more than I expected. Getting your letters feels like catching my breath. There’s something about the way you write that makes me feel like I’m not as weird for thinking the way I do.

Midterms are finally over. I’m mostly just relieved. I crashed right after my last one and slept for twelve hours straight. It helped.

Also… what’s your number? I know the letters are kind of our thing, but sometimes I want to say something small without waiting two weeks. Still—if you don’t want to, I get it. I just catch myself thinking, he’d probably get this, or I wonder what Matt would say about that, and then I remember I have to wait for stamps and envelopes.

Random vent. Or actually not that random because it was just valentines day. I’m not in a relationship or anything. I guess I wish I was. Not for the whole performative, “look at us” thing. Just the quiet parts. Having someone to come back to. To tell about your day. You seem like you’d be good at that.

—Y/N

[INSERT DRAWING OF MATT HERE]

_______________

February 27th, 2025

Y/N,

Your drawing actually surprised me. It’s really good. You caught details I never even noticed and you somehow made me look less tired without changing anything? It’s like a vibe you added.

I’m glad you got through midterms. I know you said they hit hard this time, and I kept hoping you were getting enough rest. You don’t really say when you’re struggling until after it’s passed. I’m probably the same way.

About your number—I’m not going to give it to you. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t want to mess up what we have here. There’s something special about waiting for letters, about the slow pace. It makes everything feel more real, more deliberate. I don’t want to lose that.

That said, I wanted to send you something more immediate, so I included some chocolates. Probably a little late for Valentine’s Day, but I hope it still counts. You said you wished you had someone, and maybe I’m not that person, but I hope this made you feel thought of.

You’re easy to care about, Y/N. I don’t think I’ve told you that yet.

—Matt

P.S. If the chocolate melted on the way, just lie and say it didn’t.

P. P. S. I lowkey wouldn’t mind more photos. To draw or something.

_______________

March 11th, 2025

Matt,

The chocolate didn’t melt. (Okay, it did a little, but I ate it anyway. It was perfect.)

Your letter sat in my bag for three days before I opened it cause I really wanted to read it, but give it the right kind of attention, y’know? These letters mean a lot to me, and my roommate says I’m spending to much time thinking about them. Or you I guess.

Also, “you’re easy to care about”? Kind of an insane thing to just drop at the end like that. I don’t know what else to say about it.

I’ve been going on long walks lately. No destination, just walking until I forget why I needed to clear my head in the first place. My parents called me twice this week and I didn’t pick up. I don’t know what to say to them right now. Everything feels like effort.

I think I used to believe that being alone meant being independent. Now I’m not sure. Lately, I’ve just been craving something that feels safe. Not even romantic, just… steady.

Thank you for being that, in a weird way.

 —Y/N

[Image of you - 1] [Image of you - 2]

_______________

March 22nd, 2025

Y/N,

You said you’ve been walking a lot lately. I’ve been staying up too late for no reason. It’s like I don’t want to go to sleep because I don’t want to wake up and repeat the same day again.

I had a weird week. Someone I used to be close with is sort of back in my life. We were on-and-off for a while—one of those situations where you never fully cut it off, but it’s never really working either. It’s hard to cut her off because she’s just so… magnetic I guess. Nothing’s happened. I don’t even know if I want anything to. It’s just confusing.

I keep thinking about what you said, about craving something that feels steady. That stuck with me. I don’t think I’ve ever really had that. Not with people, anyway.

It’s strange how writing to you makes everything else feel clearer. Even the stuff I don’t want to think about. Maybe that’s why I keep doing it.

Thanks for reading all this, even when it’s messy.

 —Matt

P.S. Thanks for the polaroids.

_______________

April 10nd, 2025

Matt,

Thanks for the update. Sounds like a lot.

I didn’t really know what to write back at first. Took a few days to figure out how I felt, and I’m still not totally sure.

Glad you have people around. Complicated or not.

Things here are fine.

—Y/N

_______________

April 21st, 2025

Y/N,

I think I worded that last letter badly. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was putting something between us — I wasn’t trying to change the dynamic, just needed to get it out of my head.

You’re the only person I tell this stuff to. I should’ve thought more about how it’d sound on your end.

I don’t really know where that other thing stands, if I’m honest. But I know what this has started to mean to me. And I care about what you think — probably more than I should, but that’s where I’m at.

I really miss your letters when they take too long to show up. This means a lot to me. 

—Matt

_______________

May 1st, 2025

Matt,

Thank you for being honest. I don’t want you to hold anything back with me — I want to know what’s really going on in your head. That’s how this feels real.

I care about what you think too. More than I thought I would. It’s strange how someone you’ve never met in person can mean so much.

I miss your letters when they take too long too — and I catch myself rereading the ones I have.

I hope we can keep building this, however complicated it gets.

—Y/N

_______________

May 12th, 2025

Y/N,

I’ve been thinking about your letters a lot lately. It’s strange how much comfort they bring me — like you have this quiet way of making everything feel less heavy, even the stuff that’s messy or confusing. I don’t think I’ve told you that enough.

I’m sending some flowers again. Nothing too fancy, just something simple that I hope will brighten up your room or maybe remind you someone’s thinking about you. I figured it might be nice to have something living and soft around you, since I know things can feel a little overwhelming sometimes.

Also, about that Polaroid — if you feel like it, could you send me another? I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything, but you’re pretty, and I like having a little piece of that when I write back. It’s silly, I guess, but it makes this all feel a bit more real.

—Matt

P.S I know you didn’t ask but here’s one of me smiling. 

i sure hope that ex doesnt cause a problem... anyways arent they adorbsss

*THESE POSTS ARE SCHEDULED AS I AM AWAY CURRENTLY, TO FIND OTHER PARTS YOU NEED TO SCROLL DOWN ON MY BLOG*

[merakiui]

I just read His Blueberry Eyes fic and HOLY MACARONI is a heartbreaking MASTERPIECE! It's been a while since a yandere fic has made me bawls out. Though it has left me with some questions (if you don't mind) Why did Azul push the reader? What will happen to him now? And how the tweels reacted to reader's murder? T_T I'm still craving for angst LMAO

AAAA THANK YOU!!!! ₍^ >ヮ<^₎ .ᐟ.ᐟ I'm obligated to give you an entire box of tissues after that fic,,, it's a heavy one. But omg I love to answer questions about fics!! <3

Why did Azul push the reader?

It's not explicitly stated in the fic, but you and Azul got into an argument in the time leading up to the push. It's very vague, so the contents of the argument can be imagined based on your own interpretation. Azul has a very volatile mental state in the HBE au, so it really could be anything that prompted that physical reaction. Maybe it was a severe fight or maybe it was something small. Either way, he pushes you down the stairs,, not intending for you to actually fall all the way down and hurt yourself and the baby. I imagine he probably only does it to scare you, to reinforce some form of (abusive) control.

What will happen to him now?

JAIL!!!!!!! ...which is the simple answer, but of course the more realistic (and longer) answer is the grueling process that is a murder trial and investigation into everything that led up to that night. That was actually the foundation for the fic in the beginning. I wanted to initially write it like a documentary of sorts, in which characters involved with Azul are interviewed about what he was like and whatnot. This was the original idea intended to be written like a transcript (please ignore my scattered way of planning):

But back to the lengthy process that is Azul's trial,,,, there are so many parts at play here, not just murder, but also things like domestic abuse and the years and years of this relationship growing unhealthy and toxic and codependent. Maybe he hires a good lawyer so he can get off with reduced sentencing (or just buys his way out),, or maybe he's so overwhelmed with grief he just wants to take his punishment, however harsh it may be, and melt away into the shadows of his sorrow. In any case, there is no such thing as happiness or freedom for Azul. Like the very end of the fic states, he's back to the beginning: living a lonesome existence in a grey world. >_<

How did the tweels react to reader's murder?

They're devastated, naturally, and they show it in different ways. It was mentioned on the blog before that they were both so excited when you told them you were pregnant. Floyd wanted to buy an absurd amount of shoes for the baby already and Jade couldn't wait to put together photo albums of the little one. They love you and that baby so much. :( it's hard for them to grasp the fact that one of their closest friends did such a horrible thing and that you're both gone now. They mourn not only you and the unborn child but Azul as well.

It's harder for them because they actually saw you when they went to check on Azul after he hadn't been answering his phone (and you hadn't answered yours either). It's traumatizing to not only see your lifeless friend but another friend of yours who may or may not be dead from his own self-inflicted harm. If I ever write more with this universe, I'd like to cover what went on behind the scenes with you and the tweels, as they have always supported you and offered their help when you needed it. It's Azul who got in the way of that most of the time, always hellbent on isolating you.

I think the worst part (aside from the crushing guilt and the grief) is that they really did hope for the best and wanted Azul to get better. It's not exactly canon, but I imagine the "hotel" you speak of staying at in the fic is actually just a code word for the tweels' residence. You were so close to getting out. That's what haunts them both. If they couldn't help your unborn baby, then they really wanted to help you. And yet...

The entire thing is one big ghost and they're constantly reminded of it every time they see articles or news headlines. It's the sort of ghost that will remain with them forever, and even if they grieve, mourn, and heal it will always linger. It's a wound that can never be stitched shut. It will leave a deep scar on their hearts.

A lot of Floyd's grief translates into frustration and anger. He blames himself, of course, and replays every instance over and over in his head. What could he have done differently? What should he have done differently? Jade is silent about his heartbreak. He puts on a strong face for Floyd's sake, but the truth is that his heart has never been heavier. He cries in the shower because it's the only place that feels like the ocean, where the water swallows up his tears and the running water drowns out his sobs. The twins oscillate between loud and quiet grief, and it comes in waves.

Overall, it's just a very, very sad time for everyone.

[thebroccolination]

As of right now, this is my favorite part of the entire series. Not even the sex on the floor part! Don't get me wrong, the sex on the floor part is inspired and magical and my primal, savage Peraya heart is very grateful to Krist for its existence.

It's just that this whole section before it is perfect.

Especially the music, my god.

Whoever chose the music for this part is my hero. This is how you create atmosphere. Like, this is honestly up there with "Distant Signals" in "SOTUS" for music that completes a scene for me. The hopeful melody and the blue lighting makes the whole scene look so intimate and otherworldly.

And then you've got the tension between the characters. Tam thinks he's lured Phi in with the promise of food, but Phi went in knowing he didn't have anything.

Like, I think this is the clearest sign of how low Tam's self-worth is.

Tam hesitates before opening the fridge because he knows nothing's in there. Then, when it's revealed and Phi smirks off to the side, Tam just stares and visibly struggles with what to do next.

For Tam, he's only worth anything if he's doing something to support Phi. Like that line from "Encanto": I'm pretty sure I'm worthless if I can't be of service.

He's not seeing the way Phi looks at him. He's not even looking at first. He's just visibly scared.

Even when he admits that he lied and there's no mackerel, he still can't look at Phi directly.

It's only when Phi cuts him off to say, "I know," that Tam finally looks at him.

Like, he truly can't understand why Phi would just…be there.

And while Tam stares at him, Phi just patiently waits for him to speak.

Tam asks, "Then why did you come in?" and that's what hits me hardest. He thought Phi came in for food, not for him. He probably saw the entirety of their relationship as built the foundation of how much he can offer Phi.

But Phi tells him, "I just didn't want to leave," and then looks at Tam like this:

Tam is all Phi's ever wanted, but Tam truly doesn't seem to have known it. Because he was misinterpreting Phi's constant praise for how much he relied on Tam as the reason they were together, and not something Phi just…appreciated about him.

They started dating in their second year of university after Phi made his crush on another man abundantly clear, so Tam saw himself as the rebound and a convenient second choice at best. Even though they dated for four years, Tam clearly never brought up that particular insecurity, and he's guaranteed to have others that stemmed from it. Like when he accused Phi of only coming over to have sex with him when Sosay got out. Phi seemed flummoxed by the accusation, so I doubt it was true. But it seemed to come from Tam's assumption of how little he thought he mattered.

And of course Tam's insecurities aren't Phi's fault, but at least Phi recognizes who he's actually dealing with now, not the version of Tam he thought he knew.

They're truly starting over with eyes wide open, and this scene is such a beautiful and delicate representation of it. :')

[linnlarsnhansn]

Skam anniversary podcast episode 3

Carl Martin joins to speak about Eskild's iconic introduction on Skam. Also interviews with Lisa Teige, Julie Andem, Mari Magnus and Morten Hegseth. Listen here

Full english translation here:

Torkil Risan (host): This episode we’ll talk about episode 1-8 of season 2. The season with William and Noora. 

Lisa Teige: A lot of people were interested in Noora 

TR: Already in season 1?

LT: Yeah. In Jonas and Eva too of course, but towards the end of season 1 and beginning of season 2 it took off, from what I could tell. 

TR: How did you notice that?

LT: I noticed it first by being stopped in the streets. Which was an absurd situation in the beginning. And then you got stopped more often and lost of secret filming. 

TR: Lisa Teige noticed the pressure more in season 2. 

LT: I think I really noticed the pressure in season 2. That’s when we went to Gullruten (tv award show). And we got a lot of attention from the media, that was very new, and started to get shielded. Which was completely new as compared to being stopped in the streets. 

TR: Skam became a hit for real. And someone who contributed to that was Morten Hegseth. 

MH: I worked with a VG (newspaper) project called Panelen, where we talked about clips and pop cultural moments. And we covered Skam thoroughly. It highly affected my work days. I went to the apartment where William lived, walked in Noora’s footsteps everywhere in Oslo. 

TR: In your free time? Or at work?

MH: At work. It was a lot of it at work. And on my own time I thought about- I’m curious about people, so I did a deep dive and tried to find out who these people were in real life? 

(TR walks us through the scene where Noora plays guitar to William)

TR: Morten Hegseth ranks this scene high on the list.

MH: I’m still thinking about when Noora sat down with the acoustic guitar. It might be the most moving moment in Skam.

TR: And here I am, ever the cynical, and think that scene is a bit of a hard watch. According to show creator Julie Andem, actor Josefine Frida Pettersen also found it a bit difficult.

JA: She didn’t want to sing. Josefine could sing, she was very good at singing. So we had a conversation early on that it would be nice with a scene where she sang. And I don’t remember why it turned out that way, but it was something with the situation and William’s gaze. His gaze, where you believe he’s not just playing her anymore, you can see he’s falling in love for real. And hopefully we are too, because she’s so vulnerable and lovely when she’s playing. But I remember that right before we were going to shoot the scene, she just said “do I have to?”. And I said, let’s give it a try. And she starts playing and the hearts of everyone on set is melting. And she said you have to tell me if I look cringe.

TR: And I understand everyone here. Those on set, who’s melting, because it is beautiful, but also Josefine. It’s kinda like someone saying “sing as beautifully as you can”. It’s not just the character that’s vulnerable at that moment, you are too. And then it’s almost too good, she does a great job. But I understand that it was hard to do. 

(skip to 11:23)

Sounds bite from Noora during her first date with William: What’s all this? Have you taken notes from a shitty high school movie?

TR: What about you Julie, have you taken notes from a shitty high school movie?

JA: Obviously. All of Skam is, in a way, a high school universe. 

TR: And this Skam universe has gotten a bit bigger at this point in the show. In the first episode we met a new character - Eskild. 

(sound bite from the scene where Noora walks in on Eskild and another guy) 

TR: Typical Eskild? 

*laughter* 

TR: That’s Carl Martin Eggesbø you’re hearing, who plays Eskild. 

CME: What’s happening here is that Noora opens the door and he stands with his ass towards her. A fun fact about that scene - that’s my friend Sebastian Warholm, known from Himmelblå and much more, who’s on his knees. We lived together at that point and Julie said “do you know anyone that can come and blow you?” He didn’t actually, but it was a very fun scene to have as your debut. That’s the first thing you see. You see my ass before you see my face in Skam. 

TR: And Carl Martin really wanted the character to have some nuance. 

CME: I thought about how in shows, often when there’s a gay character, he’s a stereotype - flamboyant and funny. And it stays there. My wish was that he would be more than that. I needed that for myself. But I didn’t really understand how that would play out. So it was more a wish that I spoke to Julie about. That character really grew with me and with Julie. I don’t think that I alone would’ve been able to- it’s Julie that has helped me to articulate what I wish to say with the Eskild character. But I also had a sense for the funny stuff and the type of comic relief that Eskil is. I grew up with Borettslaget (norwegian tv show) and Robert Stoltenberg’s characters, and I like to say that Eskild is a mix of Roy Narvestad (main character in the Borettslaget) and Linn Skåber in Hjerte til hjerte. That just happened, I was simply a product of that time. Eskild grew out of that. And he has a very dominating energy, but who’s also very caring. And maybe because I’m quite bad at following the script or have a hard time learning lines, I did a lot of improvisation and that turned out to be what worked with Eskild. Because I never said the same thing twice. I remember thinking that my role, intuitively, was to go into situations and crush them. 

TR. Crush the situation? 

CME: If someone has a project, I just dominate the room. He’s very dominating, it’s draining to be with him. He’s not someone who respects other people's space a lot. He feels very open himself and because of that he just assumes that others can be open too, instead of assuming they are closed off people. 

(skip to 24:00)

TR: From Vilde Noora often hear things like “you have such good morals”, so maybe Noora needs to meet some resistance to her opinions. At least Julie Andem thinks so. 

JA: Noora has very strong morals that can turn too strong and judgemental towards others. She’s a character with a conscience and she has to learn to lower her morals and listen to other views. All of season 2, from what I can remember thinking the premise was the question of what is good vs evil and what’s in between. You have Noora that’s explicitly good, and William that’s explicitly mean. And is it possible for them to meet in the middle? 

TR: And William is an interesting counterpart to Noora. He’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Or Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones’ Diary if you’re more familiar with that reference. 

JA: He’s inspired by “the coolest guy at school”. The unreachable, mysterious guy. And he also had to have some questionable values to match Noora’s. And he was a character with a very firm mask. So you think “does he like me or not?”. Someone that’s difficult to read. And that was very important during the auditions when we were casting William. We had a lot of guys in who were great actors and who had the looks to be the hottest guy in school. But I remember thinking that Thomas Hayes has that unapproachable thing that’s almost impossible to play. A strong mask. 

TR: I’m sure that some Ibsen fans are listening as well. And when it comes to couples to liken Noora and William too, Julie Andem has made a clear reference. The similarities between Nora in A Doll’s House and Noora in Skam was too tempting to those creating the Norwegian exams. In 2017 one exam question was: “In the two attached texts you meet two women with the same name. Nora in A Doll’s House wants to leave her husband. Noora from the tv show Skam tries to convince her boyfriend William to not leave her. Compare the two texts and place them in a cultural historical context.” 

TR: At the start of season 2 the comments sections were really taking off. The show was updated daily and people were commenting on everything. 

Mari Magnus: This was a point where it was all crazy. It had gotten lots and lots and lots of attention.

TR: There was one thing the fans had had enough off. 

MM: They got tired of slow motion. They wrote “typical, now there’s slow motion again when a hot guy arrives”. This was alluded to in season 2 when William has been in a fight with the Yacuza boys and arrives at the school yard to a Kanye West song. The perfect song to the perfect clip. He says “I need a slow motion video right now”. The wind was perfect that day. We didn’t have a wind machine, but I’m sure someone commented “Wow, does Skam have a wind machine on set now”. But Noora’s hair just blows up perfectly when William walks by and such fitting lyrics. 

TR: The guys are pretty cool at that moment. And the song fits perfectly. 

MM: And the song is a nod to them, like “ok we know you don’t like slow motion”. 

TR: Maybe worth noting that this was before Kanye West, amongst other things, became a self declared Nazi and his music could be listened to to a much higher extent without also taking a stand on the views he’s more and more associated with.

(skip to 33:45)

TR: To Julie Andem, Vilde and Sana were easy characters to create gold with. 

JA: Always, if you placed Vilde and Sana in a scene together, something would happen. Because they have very different values, but also very different energies and ways they communicate. So they were always super fun to put into a scene together. 

(skip to 38:10) 

Sound bite from William: Why do you spell Noora with two o’s? Nobody else does. 

TR: Thank you, William. Julie Andem can tell us. 

JA: The name Noora was a muslim name from the start, because Sana and Noora were the same person for a long time. I had an idea of what happens if you put a muslim values in a blonde girl. And then if figured that just makes her a christian *laughs*. I played with different thoughts when I developed both Noora and Sana, that in the end became two different characters. But who were quite similar at the start. 

[spartanseagoat]

Pick a gif intuitive Reading- What to expect during this Uranus Gemini transit?

Disclaimer: this reading is for entertainment purposes only. You have free will to make your life choices. Take what resonates and leave the rest. Thank you and enjoy your reading!

There are 4 piles to choose from. Take a deep breath and whatever number 1-4 pops in your head is your pile. You can also choose by seeing which gif resonates with you more.

Pile 1

Pile 2

Pile 3

Pile 4

Pile 1

- oh! I heard “getting shit done” you all are not playing at all when it comes to living the life you want. You all cut so many ppl out your life. You don’t even miss them either lol, it giving “we’re just strangers with shared memories now.” Lol. I keep seeing a bee so you are on the move constantly. Are some of you all business owners or thinking about owning one? I just get this vibe that you’re trying to build something that has an impact on your community. Your energy is very business oriented. If not owning a business then you’re just making serious life decisions. You might’ve had a go with the flow attitude, now you’re being more practical with your decisions. Yeah, I don’t even know have much to say because you’re so focused on getting yourself together, you’re not really focused on anything much. I am getting you will have 2 prominent relationships(platonic and romantic) during this transit.

Pile 2

- I love this energy so much lol. Y’all are about to have a time!! I hear “celebrate the fruits of your labor” okay so, this entire decade has been trash for you lol. It’s been one thing after another but you kept on going. The universe has seen your efforts and things will get better for you starting in 1-2 yaers. The rewards will be small that leads to bigger ones. I’m hearing you need to let that one toxic person that you know is toxic go. I feel this is a long time friend but their energy is sketchy. Very much have a Love-hate thing for you. They energetically block your blessings. Romance and fun dates will also be a theme. This is very much 5th house/leo energy. Also Libra vibes as well.

Pile 3

-not you all beefing with your family members😭😅. See, you’re older and wiser and have gotten fed up with toxic family members. They smile in your face but talk shit behind your back. You tried to be cordial but it’s driving you crazy. Speak your peace but I advise not to lose yourself in the anger. Channel it into a creative project. Your inner child is angry but your inner teen is feeling rebellious. For you, these next few years is doing the things you felt restricted to do when you were a child. Some of you grew up in deeply religious homes and you outgrew those beliefs. For others, I’m hearing different political beliefs with family as well. Yeah you’re changing your appearance too, I’m seeing you embrace this 90s grunge era lol. I just feel this fed tf up energy from you all

Pile 4

- similar to pile 3 with this teenage angst energy coming from you but it’s not as loud as pile 3. You guys are giving me to cool for school vibes. Yall are kind of petty but you like it 😭. Very sarcastic group. You all have this “whatever.” Attitude that you’re developing but it’s making ppl feel 2 types of ways:

-they think you’re dope asf and love this nonchalant attitude of yours. May unintentionally attract ppl to you. This is the energy of how new the people will view you.

-people who’ve known you for years will be shocked by this vibe from you. I sense you’re the type to overthink and worry about everything but now you’re going more with the flow. Very few will embrace this new you, others think you’re being lazy or going through a phase.

Either way, you’re not carrying what ppl think anymore and will start to have tho sarcastic ass energy about you lol. You do care though, just not letting it overwhelm you every 2 seconds.

Thank you! I hope you enjoy your reading! Follow, like, reblog if you want to see more of my content.

[lilac-hecox]

In case people have never looked at the filters section on AO3 under the Smosh fandom I thought it would be fun to break it down.

Warnings:

Self-explanatory these are the different warnings most commonly used in the fandom when applying them to fics.

Most common for our fandom is choosing not to use warnings and no warnings applying, followed by graphic violence and major character death.

Ratings:

The ratings of the fics with the most common being teen and up and then general audience followed by explicit and mature. All are fairly close, though, so we have a good mix!

Categories:

The category of the relationship in the fic! Roughly about 1,000 more M/M fics than F/M followed by F/F and gen, but when you look at the top pairings it makes more sense.

Fandoms:

These are the fandoms that are used in the fics alongside the Smosh fandom tag. I love that Board AF is on there. Rhett and Link makes sense, as does Dan and Phil because of Anthony's close friendship to them. Game Grumps is kind of surprising, though only in the sense of fic overlap.

Characters:

These are the characters tagged the most in fics essentially who may be written about or included the most in fics.

I am mildly surprised that Shayne is the most written about but not too much because there was a reason they had the 99% strength joke.

But Shayne and Ian are only separated by 20 something fics.

The bottom is super interesting because it goes from Spencer to Chanse and then Olivia. I think the Chanse comes from him mainly being a signature support character in Angela-centric fics, but his own fic amounts are creeping up.

Olivia, I am not sure if that's a holdover from her being a popular pairing with Courtney before and also probably written a lot in Smosh Squad fics or as support in Shaymien or Shourtney fics?

I'm also surprised that Tommy isn't in the top 10 alongside Spencer because the other characters kind of follow their main pairings, so to speak.

Relationships:

These are the most written romantic relationships!

Ian and Anthony are first, but if I recall, what was told to me that between the time Anthony returned and now increased the ianthony fics by 100 or so? Even so, they would have still held the top spot but they were the flagship pairing so not surprising!

Damien/Shayne is holding on from the section of time where Shaymien ruled. There are still new fics that are added for them but at a less frequent basis than before.

Angela/Amanda is absolutely flying up the charts and with good reason. They are well loved and in a ton of content and have a lot of shippable moments. They are only 81 or so fics away from overtaking Shaymien.

Shourtney is lower than I thought, but I feel it's a fair spot. I think shourtney has always existed in this weird spot where people felt fics were too much or too far or people pushed to sibling-code them. I also saw a super interesting conversation that Shourtney being confirmed real may have slowed the fics down because people may now feel less inspired or enthused to write about a real couple.

Platonic Shaymien and Spommy are tied with 132 fics. Spommy grows despite not being given much to work with lately, and I remember fondly when Spommy passed 100 fics! I feel they'll keep climbing because spommy is a pairing typically universally loved or liked.

Platonic ianthony is next, and I feel it's used a little less because if they show up as side characters in a shipping fic, they are typically tagged via their couple tag. (Ty for that!)

Angel/Damien worked it's way up in the last couple of months because it took a while for AO3 to clock their amount of fics (and it helped push Anthony/Kalel off the top 10) damangela are very close to 100 fics!

Platonic amangela is almost tied with damangela. I'd be interested to know if platonic amangela is tagged a lot in fics where Amanda and Angela are paired with different people?

Finally, Damien/You brings up the rear, which isn't too surprising! I think it helped push Courtney/Olivia off the chart? Damien lovers are passionate and creative and good for them for enjoying what they love!

Additional tags:

Mainly, what is the majority tagged in the fics. By far fluff is the most written in the fandom. A roughly 300 something difference to Angst.

Friends to lovers and then smut are also close! I think it's interesting that AU is a tad lower. I also think the first kiss is a very cute tag to have in the top 10.

So, that's the Smosh fandom AO3 tags. I love fandom statistics so I wanted to break it down a little. I will probably check these again in December maybe?

I hope someone enjoyed it! Let me know if you want to what surprised you or didn't surprise you!

[netexyy]

Part 4 || Wrong universe, right guy

 - what happens when you suddenly wake up in the Pandora instead of your usual bed on the earth after reading 10+ ff of neteyam? Obviously something very weird but interesting, right?

Neteyam x reader

Word count - 3.1k

Summary: after staying up all night reading Avatar: The Way of Water fanfics, Y/N wakes up as a female Na'vi in Pandora and realizes she's somehow become part of the world she obsessed over.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The silence between you stretched just long enough to feel like a confession.

You glanced away. Mistake. Now you were hyperaware of how close he was. How warm. How much this was absolutely, definitely not a fanfic anymore and, like, wow—your brain was doing gymnastics.

You tried to be chill.

“So… you’re okay with everything?” you asked, very normally. Very cool and casual. Like someone who hadn’t recently brained their crush and fabricated a complete alternate reality to cover it up.

Neteyam hummed. “I’m okay with you. Even when you’re weird.”

Your heart did a flip.

“And trust me,” he added with a grin, “I’ve met weirder. Spider once tried to marry a beetle.”

" That's kinda concerning, even for him" You snorted.

Then—glitch.

Just for a second.

Like a skip in a video. Like your body had a loading screen. A flicker.

You didn’t even feel it, but he saw it. You knew because his hand froze halfway through a pebble toss. His head tilted. His brows knit together.

Crap.

“I didn’t imagine that, did I?” he asked slowly.

Panic.

Panic.

Panic.

You laughed, way too loud. “Haha what? Imagine what? Neteyam, babe, are you still tripping off that fruit?”

He stared at you.

You stared at him.

You could hear your own brain buffering.

“…I’m gonna go meditate,” you said, and sprinted off like you were being chased by a thanator.

---

You didn’t meditate. You hid.

In the upper canopy. Inside a weird hollow tree. You think there might have been a bat in there. You don’t care.

Your thoughts were running a hundred miles an hour.

This was getting worse. The glitching. The dreams. The star-lady Eywa giving you cryptic guidance like she was running customer service for interdimensional errors.

And the worst part?

You didn’t want to leave.

You wanted to stay. With Neteyam. With the dumb glowing mushrooms and your dumb feelings and your sketchbook full of dumb catboy art.

You curled up in the tree, buried your face in your arms, and whispered, “Eywa, please don’t force me to go back to Earth. I don’t even have a skincare routine there.”

---

Meanwhile

Lo’ak squinted at Neteyam. “You’re telling me she glitched again?”

“I saw it,” Neteyam muttered. “Her body sort of… flickered. Like before.”

Spider, sitting upside down from a branch, said, “Maybe she’s haunted.”

“Maybe she’s a time ghost,” Lo’ak offered.

“She’s not a time ghost,” Neteyam snapped.

“Okay, okay,” Lo’ak said. “But if she starts floating or speaking backwards, I’m out.”

Kiri just sighed from her hammock. “You’re all idiots.”

---

Evening

You were on your way back, guilt ballooning inside your chest, when you bumped into Neteyam.

Literally.

You walked straight into his chest.

“Oof—”

“Where were you?” he asked.

You blinked up at him, trying to recalibrate. “Um...nowhere ?”

He blinked.

“Not important,” you said quickly. “Listen, about earlier—”

He cut you off gently. “Y/N. If something’s happening to you… you can tell me. I won’t freak out.”

You swallowed. “Even if it’s weird?”

He smiled. “Especially if it’s weird.”

You hesitated. The truth clawed at your throat. The panic and dreams and the very real fear that Eywa might yoink you back to Earth at any moment.

But then—

“You glitched again,” he said softly. “Didn’t you?”

You nodded.

He exhaled. “Okay. Then let’s figure it out together.”

And just like that—your panic dipped below your ribs. Just enough to breathe again.

---

That night Eywa didn’t show up in your dream. Instead, you saw yourself. Your human self. Alone, sitting in your old bed. Reading fanfiction.

A familiar blue glow pulsed outside your window, like the forest was calling.

You stood, walked toward it—and paused. Between two worlds.

Then a voice echoed.

“What you love most… may be what pulls you away.”

---

You jolted awake.

And for once, Neteyam wasn’t there.

You sat up, disoriented, only to find Kiri squatting at the foot of your hammock like a gremlin.

“You look haunted,” she said cheerfully. “New dream?”

You groaned. “I hate mystical foreshadowing.”

“Wanna go stare at Neteyam until you feel better?”

“…Yeah.”

---

The next day started out normal.

Well—normal by your new standards.

Which meant Lo’ak chased a viperwolf with a stick, Spider ate something he shouldn't have, and you pretended not to be glitching while crushing on your crush who was still recovering from the time you knocked him out unconscious.

Normal.

But then.

You faded.

Not flickered.

Not shimmered.

You full-on turned translucent for three whole seconds.

You were in the middle of picking fruit with Neteyam. Laughing. Relaxed. Definitely not thinking about the dream or Eywa’s vague cosmic riddles.

And suddenly, he wasn’t looking at you anymore.

He was looking through you.

Wide-eyed. Pale. Frozen.

You looked down.

Your hands—transparent.

The fruit you were holding—dropped through your fingers and hit the ground like betrayal.

Then your body snapped back into full form.

Solid. Blue. Horrified.

You met Neteyam’s eyes.

“…Hi,” you squeaked.

“You… you just—”

“Yup.”

“And the fruit—”

“Yup.”

“You’re not from here, are you?” he asked, quietly this time. Not accusing. Just… sad.

You looked down at your knees. “No.”

Neteyam swallowed hard. “What are you?”

You winced. “I’m still working on that.”

Silence.

Then he said, very gently, “You know you can’t stay like this.”

You looked at him.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I really want to.”

---

Later that night, you couldn’t sleep.

So you did what any girl hiding an interdimensional secret would do.

You wandered into the forest alone.

With a stick.

Obviously.

And that’s when you found it.

The spirit bloom.

A flower glowing like starlight, pulsing like it had a heartbeat. Resting near the Tree of Voices.

It shimmered when you touched it—but didn’t disappear. You stayed solid.

Your Na’vi form felt… grounded. Like gravity had claimed you again.

Behind you, a twig snapped.

You turned, heart jumping—only to find Neteyam, barefoot, shirt half undone, looking like a painting of guilt and curiosity.

“I followed you,” he admitted. “You looked like you were about to disappear again.”

You held up the glowing bloom. “This stopped it.”

Neteyam stepped forward slowly. “That’s a spirit anchor. Kiri told me about them. Rare. Almost extinct.”

“Well,” you said, “lucky me. I’ve got main character energy.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he looked at you like he was memorizing your face. “I don’t know how much time we have,” he said. “Before… whatever’s happening to you gets worse.”

You swallowed. “Neither do I.”

Silence fell between you, thick as vines.

Then he said it.

The thing you weren’t ready for.

“But if we did have time… I think I’d be falling for you.”

You blinked. “Neteyam—”

“And if you were real,” he continued, stepping closer, “if none of this was a dream or a glitch or a trick… I think I’d want you to stay.”

Your eyes burned.

You held out the spirit bloom. “Then help me figure out how to anchor. Before Eywa kicks me back to Earth like a software bug.”

---

The next few days were chaos.

Kiri got involved (because obviously).

Lo’ak tried to eat the spirit bloom (because obviously).

You told Spider the truth and he immediately screamed “I knew you were a simulation!” and then apologized for watching you sleep once.

But the worst part?

The glitching didn’t stop.

Even with the bloom. Even with meditation.

Even with Neteyam holding your hand every night now and whispering things like, “You’re here. You’re real. Stay.”

You were flickering during daylight. Losing whole minutes. Dreams were leaking into the real world. Leaves would freeze midair, birds would vanish, and then reappear like nothing had happened.

You were breaking.

And everyone knew it.

---

One night, you sat by the Tree of Voices, tears running down your cheeks.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask to come here. But now that I’m here… I can’t go back. I won’t go back.”

A soft wind rustled the branches.

You jumped.

Standing across from you—you.

Human you.

Pajamas. Messy . Wide eyes.

Your Earth self tilted her head. “So. Gonna keep lying? Or are you finally ready to tell him the whole truth?”

You blinked.

And then you weren’t crying anymore.

You were standing. Strong. Furious.

“No more lies,” you said.

---

Back at camp, Neteyam looked up as you stormed in like a vengeful goddess.

“Neteyam.”

He stood. “Y/N?”

“I’m not from your world,” you said. “I’m from another one. I don’t belong here. I got pulled in by something—Eywa, or the Tree, or my own dumb obsession with your face, I don’t know.”

He blinked.

You stepped closer. “I glitch because I don’t fit. I fade because the world’s trying to correct a mistake. But I’m not a mistake.”

You held up the spirit bloom, which still glowed in your hand. “This proves it. I can be real here. I am real here. And I want to stay.”

Neteyam’s voice was quiet. “Even if it means never going back?”

You looked at him.

At his eyes. His hands. The tiny scar near his collarbone you’d drawn in your sketchbook a hundred times.

“Especially if it means that.”

He kissed you.

Like you were sunlight. Like you were his.

And when you pulled back, the glow from the bloom wrapped around you both—soft, golden, warm.

You didn’t flicker.

For the first time in days… you stayed.

---

Tag list : @mimisweetz @hercskid

[stfrancisofinfidelity]

I feel like Mel would enjoy watching cartoon shows like Adventure Time/Fionna and Cake and Steven Universe, especially loving the music from them and I had a thought that Mel would apply the song Part Of The Madness from Fionna and Cake to Frank coming back from/dealing with recovery if that makes any sense? Like coming back from a really hard case when they both are taking a much needed breather and Frank is left much more traumatized by it Mel tries snapping him out of his thoughts by playing the song from her phone and its awkward but heartfelt and Frank listens to the lyrics closely and can't help but laugh and smile at her with sparkle in his eye that is filled with so much hope and optimism because he feels so seen by her and she feels just as seen by him in the moment, sorry for rambling its just a thought I had lmaoooo <3333

okay doing some quick math mel was most likely in junior high/high school when all these shows started to air and speaking as an autistic bisexual (cuz i cannot imagine a world where mel is hetero… that girl is so bi) i think she would’ve totally been all over that shit. now admittedly i was only really into steven universe so i had to look up Part of The Madness (SUCH A CUTE SONG!!! damn u rebecca sugar for making good music) but i think it would be such a sweet gesture for her to play it for frank!! a part of autistic communication that can be very confusing for allistic people is how when we want to show sympathy/empathy, we’ll start talking about a situation we’ve been in or something we read/watched that relates to the struggle the other person is going through. it can read as us making the conversation about ourselves. so i think frank would initially be like “how tf does a song have anything to do with me about to have a panic attack???” but he’s learning how to sit and listen instead of jumping to conclusions so he sits and listens to the song.

mel’s way of understanding how he feels and what he needs to hear just baffles him sometimes that he can’t help but he so awed. it scares him a little, how he can’t hide from her, but that’s the beautiful thing about it all too. so yeah maybe he steps away sometimes to listen to the little cartoon songs she sends him because maybe it’s a little silly, but it helps him.

UGH LOVE LIKE YOUUUUUUUU such a deep cut….. such a melfrank song…. such a good frank perspective song too…. damn. i also think he’d love Everything Stays, that’s a banger

[lith-myathar]

one thing about me is any time i start having solavellan feels im going to go down a rabbit hole of some variety and today's has lead me to a leonard cohen biography

[lulubeanie]

I have not seen Star vs the forces of evil in many years. but whenever I think about it, I just start imagining how I could rewrite it so it's actually good..