#sorry for the ramble but I have THOUGHTS and FEELINGS

[sknyuz]

hi :)) i LOOOOOOVE your writing, you do all the boys so much justice. i was reading the intimacy one and saw you wanted requests for gotak 👀👀

this ideas been festering in my head so walk with me (or don't, that's also fine.)

new student!reader who comes to class and has a small run in with juntae (similar to how he bumped into sieun) and thinks he's adorable so they kinda just naturally becomes really close friends with him. gotak heard news about the new student and also started to hear juntae talk about them so he lowkey tries to swindle juntae into introducing all of them. juntae being the cutie (but also not naive!) he is decided to introduce them and gotak is taken back by how close they are and gets mildly jealous (for what reason 🤔😏).

sorry for the ramble and also that went no where but it's been in my head for sooooo long 😭😭😭

pairing — go hyuntak (gotak) x gn!reader (ft. bff!juntae) genre — fluff, comedy, f2l warnings — mild language, injury (minor sprain), sieun being an instigator, baku being a headass word count — ~2.1k

note: omg this took soooo long to post because of my break !! i finished this actually a week ago lol i just had lots of prior requests to get to so i never got around to posting it. alas, let us all welcome gotak’s debut on my blog !! the people have been waitinggggg and asking for this one !! and finally... !!

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

to put it simply, if you hadn’t turned the corner right at that moment, you don’t know how the rest of this school year would've turned out.

new school, new people, new everything. you had a map in your hand and maybe two brain cells left when someone rounded the hallway a little too fast and bumped straight into you. papers went flying. both of you froze.

“oh no—wait, i’m sorry, that was me,” he said, already crouched down to gather the mess like it was his life that had been scattered across the floor.

you blinked, surprised. he had soft eyes and glasses sliding halfway down his nose and this slightly panicked look like he thought you might cry.

“it’s okay,” you told him. “honestly, you might’ve saved my life. i was about to walk straight into a locked door.”

he smiled, awkward and kind. “my name is juntae. seo juntae. you’re new, right?”

you nodded. and just like that, he offered to walk you to class—it was the easiest decision you’d made all day.

juntae was the type of person who made space for you without ever making you feel like a burden. he brought you snacks during lunch and showed you where to hide out when the hallways got too loud. he also talked a lot about his friends, and one afternoon—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he said, “oh, you should meet sieun. you’d like him.”

you did. he was quiet and careful with his words, but funny in a dry way that caught you off guard. he’d glance at juntae like you really brought them here? but still offered you a spot at the table. he even let you steal a fry. so you counted that as a win.

after that came baku—loud, sunny, fast-talking. he practically tackled you into a high five and said, “juntae’s new bestie? you’re in good hands,” before dragging you into some debate about what counts as a sandwich.

somehow, you ended up kind of... just around. like a ghost that turned real. people knew your name before you introduced yourself. baku waved whenever he saw you. sieun always made room for you on the bench. and juntae, sweet as he was, forgot to formally introduce you to one person.

“yo,” gotak called, wiping sweat from his neck as he tossed the basketball to baku. “who’s that?”

baku looked up from tying his shoelace. “huh?”

“over there,” gotak nodded toward the sidelines, where you were doubled over laughing next to sieun and juntae. “they’ve been hanging around a lot.”

baku blinked, “that’s y/n.” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

gotak simply stared, as baku tilted his head. “you know them. don’t you?”

gotak looked back at you. you were teasing juntae about something, eyes crinkled, whole face lit up. juntae said something back that made you shove his arm, half-laughing, half-gasping.

gotak frowned, “i’ve never met them.”

baku paused. “wait. what? i thought juntae introduced you already—he told everyone else. dude. even sieun knows her.”

gotak narrowed his eyes. “so why didn’t he tell me?”

“damn,” baku grinned. “someone’s feeling left out.” as he threw the ball to his chest, a little too roughly to snap his friend out of it.

“shitty pass,” gotak muttered under his breath, passing the ball back to him.

baku snorted. “you sure you’re mad about the ball and not the fact that your bestie got a new bestie?”

gotak didn’t answer. but later that day, when he caught you waiting for juntae outside the gym, he slowed down.

you waved, and he waved back. maybe a little delayed, a little thoughtful.

maybe a little curious.

he hesitated like he was deciding something, then crossed the space between you with that awkward confidence some people carry when they’re not used to starting conversations but do it anyway.

he scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking down before landing on yours. “hey. uh... y/n,”

you smiled. “hi.”

he nodded, like that helped him keep going. “i’m also juntae’s friend, in the basketball team. with baku.” you tilted your head. “oh yeah—go hyuntak, right?”

he blinked.

you shrugged. “baku mentioned you once. and you were on the court earlier.”

gotak looked a little caught off guard, like he hadn’t expected you to know his name. then his mouth twitched, the smallest upward curve. “...right. that’s me. call me gotak.”

you stood there for a beat, quiet.

“it’s nice to meet you,” you said.

he glanced up, then back down, like he was working through a million thoughts at once. “yeah. you too.”

just then, the gym doors creaked open behind you.

“y/n!” jun-tae called, jogging out with his bag slung over one shoulder. “sorry—got caught up helping the coach—oh, hey gotak!”

gotak stepped back half a pace, nodding. “hey.”

juntae looked between you, confused for half a second. “wait—did i never introduce you guys?”

you and gotak both said, “no.”

juntae blinked. “...oops.”

you laughed. gotak didn’t, but his shoulders relaxed a little as he looked over at you again.

after that, he finally had an excuse.

or maybe it was just that now you were officially introduced—he started showing up more. like how he always just happened to walk by your classroom when it let out. or how he’d offer to carry your stuff from your locker even if it wasn’t heavy. he’d still act casual about it—mumbling something about "heading that way anyway"—but the look in his eyes always lingered a little longer than it used to.

you started showing up to practices more too. usually with a water bottle in hand. eventually, two.

then four.

baku started calling you their "hydration manager" and gotak rolled his eyes every time, but he’d take the bottle from your hands like it meant something, every time you handed him his bottle, your fingers would brush. lightly. deliberately. like a habit you weren’t in a rush to break.

he wasn’t loud about it, but as the days passed, he found himself looking for you more often than he meant to—your voice across the court, your laugh when juntae said something stupid, and the way you stuck around even when no one asked you to.

he didn’t say it out loud, but your presence became something he... liked. something that made the world feel a little softer when you were around.

and sometimes, when you laughed a little too hard at juntae’s jokes, gotak would glance over without meaning to. once, he got so distracted that baku shot the ball clean over his head and it smacked him right in the back.

“yo!” baku shouted, rushing over. “you good?!”

gotak muttered, rubbing the side of his head, “i wasn’t looking.”

“clearly,” baku huffed. “what were you looking at?”

gotak didn’t answer. just glanced back toward the sidelines, where you were sitting, completely unaware.

you weren’t exactly subtle either.

at first, it was just a glance. maybe two. maybe three, if you were feeling brave and he was too focused on the court to notice. there was something about the way he moved—steady, grounded, all quiet strength and furrowed brows. you’d never really watched basketball before, but suddenly it was your favorite part of the afternoon.

whenever he scored, you clapped a little louder. a little quicker. maybe even stood up once, under the excuse of stretching.

juntae caught you once. leaned over and whispered, “you cheer louder for him than for baku.”

you blinked. “no i don’t.”

he grinned. “yes you do.”

you smacked his arm. “shut up.”

but the next time gotak glanced toward the benches after a point, your hands were already mid-clap, eyes already on him.

he met your gaze.

just for a second.

you looked away first.

the more you saw of gotak, the more you saw him. it started with the little things—running into him by the vending machine after class, both of you reaching for the same pack of chips at the same time. you laughed, unsure of who should take it first.

“you can have it,” gotak said, smiling, though you could swear there was a flicker of something in his eyes. something that felt... not exactly like embarrassment, but not entirely casual either.

"no, it’s fine, you take it," you said, holding your hand out. "you reached first."

he paused, just staring for a second, before he gave a small shrug and grabbed it. “you sure?”

“yeah.”

you both took your snacks and stepped aside, awkwardly aware of how close you’d been. as you tried to avoid eye contact, you were almost certain your heart was racing. had he been looking at you like that... or was it just your imagination?

the awkward encounters started happening more often, though. a lot more often.

you’d bump into him in the hallway. near the library. at the school gates. suddenly, you felt like you were always in his orbit—and not just you. everyone noticed.

“you two are weirdly always in the same place at the same time,” juntae pointed out one day while you were grabbing lunch. “it’s like you’re following him around.”

you choked on your drink. “what? no. no, i’m not. i—he just happens to be there. i’m—just minding my business.”

juntae fixes his glasses, shrugging it off with a playful grin, though you could tell he wasn’t completely convinced. “alright, y/n. totally.”

and of course, baku caught on too. one day, while you were standing at the sidelines during practice, watching gotak and baku scrimmage, he glanced over at you, then at gotak, then back at you. then gotak. then you. he raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious.

“hey,” baku said casually, tossing the ball to gotak. “you two are like, besties now, huh?”

gotak froze, looking at him, and then glancing over at gotak to avoid meeting baku’s gaze. “what? no. we’re not—”

“uh-huh,” baku grinned, spinning the ball on his finger. “sure, and i’m top of the class.”

during practice one afternoon, it happened.

gotak went up for a dunk, but his foot slipped awkwardly when he landed, and he crumpled to the ground with a loud thud. your heart dropped as you watched him clutch his ankle, wincing in pain.

“gotak!” you shouted, rushing to his side.

he grimaced, leaning against the floor, clearly in pain.

“dude, what happened?” baku called out, rushing over too. “you good?”

“i’m fine,” gotak muttered, trying to push himself up, but his face twisted in discomfort. “just sprained it, probably.”

sieun was quick to appear by your side, his usually calm demeanor shifting slightly as he assessed the situation. without missing a beat, he turned to you, a rare glint of something in his eyes. “maybe y/n can take him to the infirmary? we still have to clean up here.”

you blinked, unsure how to respond. “huh?”

sieun shot a pointed look toward baku, who was still oblivious to what was going on. his lips curved in the smallest, lopsided smirk. “baku doesn’t need your help right now,” he said, almost too casually, before giving a side glance at you.

you noticed baku didn’t catch the hint, just furrowing his brows at the situation. “wait, what? you seriously want y/n to drag him to the infirmary? you do realize that guy’s gonna crush ‘em under his weight, right? y’know gotak’s been having too much chicken—”

sieun’s eyes flickered with something that might’ve been amusement, though his expression stayed neutral. “go on,” sieun said, motioning to gotak, tone soft but firm. “help him out.”

you looked down at gotak, who was still struggling to stand, and it dawned on you that he was huge—much bigger than you. and the thought of dragging him all the way to the infirmary alone? absurd. awkward.

but you couldn’t exactly say no, not when everyone was watching and not when he was looking at you like he needed your help.

“you okay to walk?” you asked, kneeling down next to him.

“i think i’ll survive,” he grumbled, clearly embarrassed by the situation.

you offered him your hand. “come on, let’s get you there.”

he took your hand, and you tried not to notice how big his hand felt wrapped around yours. you both started walking, and although you tried to make it seem like a casual walk, every step felt like you were carrying the weight of his entire body.

sieun watched you both for a second, his gaze unreadable. the smallest of smirks tugged at the corners of his mouth.

the walk to the infirmary wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, though you were still struggling to act normal when you finally helped gotak sit down on the clinic bed. his ankle was already wrapped up, but he kept fiddling with his fingers, looking down at his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

you sat across from him, the silence stretching for a moment as you both just sat there, waiting.

“uh, thanks for this, y/n,” gotak mumbled, his voice quiet in a way that was almost unlike him. he kept glancing at you, then back at his hands.

you tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “no problem, seriously. i told you, i’m happy to help. anything for you,” you said, maybe a little more casually than you intended, your heart racing just a little.

he met your gaze then, eyes wide and slightly soft, a subtle smile playing at his lips. “anything?” he asked, teasing, but there was a hint of something more in his tone.

“well, yeah,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “you’re my friend. i’ve got your back.”

there was a beat of silence as you both just looked at each other. gotak’s gaze lingered on you, his fingers still fidgeting, though a little more nervously now.

“you’re…you’re a really good person, y/n,” he said softly, his eyes lowering to his hands again, as if he was unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks warm at the sincerity in his voice. “thanks, gotak. that means a lot coming from you.”

the moment stretched longer than it probably should have, but neither of you seemed to want to break it.

finally, he cleared his throat, looking up at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “so, uh…if you’re willing to do anything for me…”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah?”

he shifted a little, suddenly a little more serious, though his usual playful grin still tugged at the corners of his lips. “you think you could—i don’t know—not make me fall for you?”

your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you swore you didn’t breathe. his words hung in the air, the playful edge still there, but there was something different about the way he said it. something that made your heart flutter in that puppy-love way that only people in the early stages of affection could understand.

“w-what?” you stammered, unable to hide the rush of warmth that spread across your cheeks. “you’re—you’re falling for me?”

he raised both eyebrows now, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced with something more earnest. “maybe,” he said with a small, sheepish grin, his gaze never leaving you. “maybe it’s too late for that. i think i’m already halfway there.”

you blinked at him, unsure how to respond, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. the air between you was suddenly thick with something you didn’t quite know how to define.

you broke the silence with a nervous laugh, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “well, i guess it’s not so bad to meet you in the middle if you’re already halfway there.”

gotak chuckled, his lips curving into that genuine smile you’d come to look forward to. “yeah, i guess it’s not, huh?”

if u liked this, a reblog would be greatly appreciated to help my work reach other people as well >><< !! thank u thank u

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[lminis]

Snort, and All

𓆩♡𓆪 pairing: sylus x nb!reader 𓆩♡𓆪synopsis: what you find incredibly embarrassing, he finds it to be the cutest thing on the planet 𓆩♡𓆪warning: cutie patootie sylus 𓆩♡𓆪wc: 525 𓆩♡𓆪: a/n: hey guys... it's been literally a year since i've posted anything, and i swear i'm going to get back to writing again I PROMISE.. but i hope u guys enjoy even if it's really short <33

It wasn’t very often that you were able to hang out with Sylus. There were times you’d go weeks without actually talking to each other, other than the “good morning” texts he would send every morning like clockwork. He was always sent it with a little heart emoji, though he swears it’s autocorrect that added it.

But the times that you did hang out, he made sure that you guys had as much fun as humanly possible. That included spending money to watch you fail to get a plushie from the claw machines, or going to the same cafe to play kitty cards, all because you claim that you can’t play that game anywhere else because of the warm atmosphere there. He didn’t mind paying for it, as all he wanted was to see his partner smile. 

Today was the day that you finally had some time that you could take off. There weren't any major missions that needed attending to, and you didn’t have any work to finish up. So, Sylus decided to take you somewhere on your lovely day off.

He took you out on a picnic, but not before he found a private park he could buy just for you. Not rent. Buy. He bought the entire park, all for you. Of course, he didn’t tell you that part. He didn’t need you worrying about it on your supposedly relaxing day.

The day was fun. He brought lots of your favourite foods, drinks, and even brought a portable vinyl player. Music was a big part of his life, and he enjoyed sharing it with you. The two of you chatted about whatever came to mind as the music played softly in the background. Well, it was more like you talked, and Sylus listened. He loved listening to you talk. If he could, he’d get your voice recorded onto a vinyl record just so he could listen to your voice for hours on repeat. 

And then, he heard it.

You made a joke, and then you snorted. 

You fell quiet, looking at him like you silently prayed that he didn’t hear it. What’s more embarrassing than hearing someone snort mid laugh. It’s on the level of  embarrassment that you could feel this pit in your stomach, and that random urge to swallow a lump in your throat.

But then, he just smirked at you. That same smirk that made you either want to kill him or kiss him. Right now, it was wanting to kill him.

“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry, I-” He cut you off before you could finish your soon-to-be long ramble of how you were sorry and that it was so embarrassing, you wanted to die, yada yada.

“No, it’s okay. I liked it.” What you thought was the bane of your existence, was what Sylus adored about you. That face you made when you ugly cried? Adorable. The way you look with your face smooshed into a pillow when you’re dead asleep? Precious. And now that he finally got to hear you snort when you laugh? 

If he could fall for you any harder, he would. And he did.

[dazedantics]

You stood barefoot in front of the mirror.

Curtains were drawn shut to block out the darkened sky, dim yellow lights twinkling off the mirror. Elegant fabrics rested patiently on the mattress behind you.

It was late, you should be laying down in bed. But a flittering thought had been growing in your mind over the past few days. Not harmful, not unpleasant. Just persistent and appealing.

Tonight, you finally gave in to it.

You swayed this way and that, hands running down the length of your body before resting over your hips.

There was no special occasion, not a someone to get ready for. Just you. You and your pretty dresses.

You only had a handful. Nice ones, yeah, but lately you hadn't had a reason to try them on again. They were nice.

You looked nice.

You liked how you looked in them.

Maybe you should start wearing them just cause. So they don't just keep collecting dust. But, no, they were too nice for a casual trip to the grocery store.

So you kept posing in front of your mirror, smiling growing the longer you looked.

This dress was more form fitting, neckline low enough to flatter your figure, an enticing slit tracing down your thigh. Definitely the least suitable for a chill walk in the park.

Though the mirror, you eyed the pile of clothes on the bed, beginning to slip the straps down your shoulders. Which one should you try next? The heavy floor length one that trailed behind as you walked? Or maybe the-

"Mark!" You gasped.

You shrinked back, hugging your arms around yourself with an embarrassed blush blooming across your cheeks.

The boy in question sat halfway in your window sill, one foot planted on the floor, holding the curtains open.

He was still dressed in his hero suit, glassy goggles preventing you from knowing where his eyes were looking. "Uh ... uhm I ... your window was open .... You uh ... y-you look good."

You were quick to run over and hit him with a pillow. "Get outta here!"

He fell back quickly, curtains dropping back into place.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! I was just ... I thought ... I wanted to ...."

"Shut it, Mark." You huffed.

He kept rambling on while you got dressed in loose pajamas as quick as possible. Shoving the dresses away, locked back in your closet once more, you pulled back the curtains, leaning against the edge.

He was hovering just outside, flying above the second floor like he normally does after doing whatever Invincible does. All soft and dreamy under the moonlight. Blabbering and stuttering as he tried to explain his appearance.

You hadn't been mad he'd came in like that, just surprised. Just, well ... undecided on if you should be embarrassed or excited he had seen you in your moment of indulging.

And, well? It's not like it was the end of the world. This wasn't a big deal.

Words from his lips fell like wind as you kept watching him. There. All shiny and glorious in his tights.

How long had he been out today? Didn't look too tired. But still, it was late and he had come all this way already.

Leaning out the window, you grabbed his spandex clad wrist and pulled him in.

"-Oh! And, uh, I'm in here now ... hehe ...?"

"Shut it, Mark." You repeated.

The half mask he wore slipped off easy under one tug, windswept hair fluffing into place like a soft halo. A pink dust had settled on his cheeks, brown eyes wide as they focused on you.

"Um ... you uh ... were you planning on going out tonight?"

You sighed, "no," hand slacking to rest in the curve of his shoulder and neck. "Those are old. Just checking if they fit."

"You ... you looked great in them. And I swear I wouldn't have come in if I'd known you'd be changing! I'm not that type of guy! Promise!"

It wasn't hard to chuckle, eyes closing as you rested your head against him. Under your fingers you could feel him go stiff. Cute.

"You're fine. Maybe knock next time? Or I'll have to start closing the window."

Mark nodded, letting you guide him to your bed.

You plopped down, getting all comfortable before tugging at him to join you. Mask discarded on the nightstand.

"What were you up to today?"

"You know, the usual. Space travel, saving lives hahaha ... okay, but seriously though? Tell me why-"

As he went on and on, Mark started to settle into the sheets, propped against the headboard. And you scooted closer, arms twined around one of his, head on his chest. He was warm, heartbeat slow, voice humming with every spoken word. Maybe it was the whole "Invincible" thing going on, but you felt so safe with him. His touch was comforting. You nuzzled into his bicep.

"Hey, um, you ... don't have plans for this weekend, do you?"

"No. Why?"

"Well ... I had a thought. And I think that maybe ... we could find a place for you to wear those dresses again? Or! Or it could be whatever you'd like too, you know, some sweats or these pj's, ya know? Hehe heh ...," a hand rubbed the back of his neck and he kept his eyes trained on the ceiling. "But uh ... I-I wouldn't mind seeing you in them again ... a-all of them ...."

You peeked up at him. Him and his stupid perfect face that retained no damage no matter how hard he got beat up in a day.

You ran your hand along his side, trailing till you got to the spot just below his pecs. Lightly, you raked your nails against the space. "Would you now?"

A stangled sound left his throat and he took hold of your wrist. "Y-yeah. But I understand if you don't want to! Like ... it's-it's totally cool. I'm chill with that too."

"Uh huh. And how long exactly were you in that window?"

"I didn't see anything I shouldn't have! It was just the last one, swear! When it was on. Didn't see you ... change or anything ...."

Humming, you shifted to lay more on top of him, one leg draped over his thigh. "Are you being honest with me?"

The abrupt head nods he gave were adorable. His ears were all pink.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"You really wouldn't mind if I started wearing dresses like that more often?"

"Yeah! Of course! You're-"

You smiled, giving it a thought.

"Well, I have been wanting to start wearing them more." You shifted once again so you were now fully laying on him. "Mark? You wouldn't mind being my critic or whatever? Going with me to buy them and stuff? Telling me what looks nice?"

He sputtered, "y--y-yeah of course! Just uh ... tell-tell me when. I'll be there."

You giggled. "Thanks, Mark. You're the best."

He laughed nervously, licking his lips before swallowing. "You know me."

"Yeah, I do." You murmured, one hand running the length between his hip and just under his arm. "You know what else I know?"

"What?"

"You need to dress out of this suit."

[lilianade-comics]

Has Danielle tried considering Danny's perspective on Vlad? The guy tries to hit on your married mom the instant you meet him, has attempted multiple times to kill your dad, *clones you* (which, as the clone themself, I can see this being a morally grey dilemma because they wouldn't exist if that didn't happen), etc, etc. Is she truly aware of the type of sleazy scumbag he is and simply doesn't care? Is her perception of him warped that much due to bias?

Not saying she isn't allowed to love Vlad as a parent, of course, especially when she's the first and likely only person he (in your AU) genuinely cares for and treats with any amount of respect.

I was just wondering when the two finally form a mutual understanding that, "Yeah, Vlad sucks as a person. I won't betrayal him, and you can't change my mind, but I at least acknowledge how he's made your life hell." Surely, they do at some point since they're seen causally hanging out and getting along in your other comics without much issue. They don't have to entirely stop being enemies, either, as they're naturally on opposing sides because of her loyalty, but she can still sympathize with him and find the whole situation a bit depressing to say the least.

Anyway, sorry for rambling. Merely wanted to spill my thoughts and curiosities after seeing your Eye-for-an-Eye snippets. Would love to see or hear about the first time they sit and have an actual heart-to-heart conversation about everything that doesn't devolve into an argument or physical fight.

Danielle at this early stage in this AU is more in denial about Vlad's villainous behavior than she is later, and she's mostly ignorant of Danny's personal experiences with him. She thinks the best of Vlad because she's his child, and because Eye for an Eye isn't exactly the most ideal circumstances for her to meet Danny, they're going to be pitted against each other in an antagonistic rivals relationship for a handful of "episodes". From Dani's POV, Danny is the so-much-better-than-her ideal golden boy that her father (used to be) obsessed with, and Danny had her home destroyed, so Dani is not currently keen to hear Danny's justified objections to her father's lengthy rap sheet.

Urban Jungle is going to be the much needed Danny & Dani relationship development episode, because it's the perfect backdrop for them to come to an understanding since they'll be the only two people who escaped Undergrowth's control. Two incredibly similar rivals, one town to save, and a ton of interpersonal issues to work through. They'll end that story on much better terms than they did in Eye for an Eye, and Dani will begin to morph into Danny's chill cousin instead of his bitter rival.

(In the meta sense, Dani's stubborn defense of Vlad is meant to mirror Danny's stubborn defense of Jack. I'm not saying either one is right or wrong for this or that Jack and Vlad are a 100% fair comparison, but I am saying the kids are kindred spirits and both feel they are in the right. That being said, Dani becomes a relatively neutrally aligned character rather than a traditional antagonist, and she's just as likely to side with Danny later on as she is with Vlad.)

Thanks for the ask! Rambling is great, and it's helpful to me to have to try to articulate what I'm doing with this AU. (I originally envisioned this monster as half semi-serious canon rewrite, and half obnoxiously self-indulgent fanon fluff. And since it's based on season 3, there are so many pacing and narrative direction issues to try to account for that I. Simply haven't done that. So it's kind of all over the place & I couldn't tell you how the AU ends because I don't know :P)

[unnamedcorvid]

:D I love thinking about them. they make me ill

I can’t believe I actually never thought about what they all looked like till I saw your post and. yeah this lives in my brain now yippee thanks :)

When y'all are imagining the ourthurchestra/ orchestrarthur are you imagining them in the outfits they died/ were snatched by Kayne in? Like suit with dried blood on it. half torn clothes from the pits. Laron mining jacket. Emphasizing their failures (if so what were they wearing that the entirety of rehearsal) or as if Kayne didn't care to get them new clothes. Or are you imagining them in concert black suits, hair combed, shaved as they like, dressed to the nines? Not wearing things they had picked out in life, all uniform but for length of hair, scars, and possibly facial hair. Set dressing. Providing contrast between the well dressed other Arthurs and our Arthur, who has been traveling for weeks, is exhausted, dirty, disheveled, gloves covered in blood, with each piece of clothing telling a story or a connection - Warin's shirt and gloves, Arthur's own pants and shoes, Evrard's cloak and armor.

[satocidal]

im so used to writing gojo ive forgotten how to erite for the other men LMAO

anyways now i want your thoughts on how the jjk men would console the reader if she got rejected

me when any character besides satosugu. it's crazy, my entire masterlist is just them with sprinkles of other characters. like i'm actually very scared of writing anyone else now (and have a superiority complex that i just KNOW them)

but onto this, yes. (these are with assumptions that jjk men and you guys are platonic) don't come @ for toji or nanami👹

I like to think Satoru would unironically throw you a pity party, don't get me wrong, it has everything you Love, expect ofc the person you wanted - and this fact, Satoru reminds you all night through his lame ass jokes. He fully believes in exposure therapy and so, the rejection gets brought up in jokes, at your expense, all night. Somewhere in the night your phone would also get stolen and he would read all the texts between you two, talking about how that didn't age well at all. But he makes up for it, he truly does - when he holds you so tight next to him, reminding just how much better you could do - you do deserve, and just full on bashing them. Makes use of his money to remind you that finer things in life do exist. And uh, duh, binge watching love island because, ofc.

I do believe that Toji would have the worst 'first' response to it - a little, "so?" dropping out of his mouth, or worse, "who didn't see that coming?" and it just makes you feel worse. But but but, he is quite the charmer and he senses it all too quick - so there he is beside you, acting all cool and non-chalant and ready to bestow his wisdom on you, he'll just settle beside you, offering something to drink - his holy grail for tough nights, and mutters a little "it's okay - if it ain't meant to be, it ain't meant to be." Actually very calm about the situation, in facts, for a minute too long, he'll even validate your stupid responses (not for too long, because he can only take so much). However if you need a hug, or a shoulder to cry upon? he's holding you so tight, offering the best quiet night you could want - and reassuring you that things will get better and you always are going to meet someone who'll be it✨for you. lol i can't see him not getting sappy when he comforts you so

A pursed line, a shake of his head and a long sigh punctuate the silence Nanami offers you, the moment you tell him the fact, bro is not amused. To say the least, Nanami was invested - from the very beginning when you had started questioning, stalking that person to slowly eating nanami's brain off about them, he'd been invested - so now he can only offer a sorry smile as he holds you, even he didn't see this coming. Like everytime else, he allows you to ramble, listening wholeheartedly - wincing and grumbling about how the rejection could have been avoided, grimacing that, that person reacted immaturely, staring onto his palm wondering where he went wrong to even allow you to like a person who would act this way. And after all of it, he opens his finest wine because what other ocassion if not for your grief - and then, he starts talking smack. and shit talk he does good, bringing down that person's everything - fashion taste, financial status, past relations - anything and everything, a true hater, such that you end up wondering if nanami was the one who got rejected.

The tea is boiling on the stove - for either case, Suguru had sent you with so many affirmations, it almost felt disappointing to tell him you got rejected. the clench of his jaw is so obvious - but he just smiles, smn in attempt to reassure you further, a little "i see," slips him as he leads you to the couch. You see he can't take it, not the frown you have as you recount the story (he's making mental notes of everything), not the little catching of your words when your throat gets all weird, so on the verge, not when he sees you blinking back the tears. Suguru is a hater, second to only nanami and that is because nanami doesn't pause on the hate track - suguru waits, suguru works his way to heal you first. so many reassurances whispered in your ears as he holds you, already making to-do plans to cheer you up, the hand on remote to browse through the movies you love to watch, other hand recahing to block that person BUT also, silently slipping in the worst responses in your head. telling you how that person never deserved you, how you must be going through smn he didn't notice because how could you like that? there's absolute disgust in his voice - and you know that disgust finally shines when he begins catfishing that person through some account just to get back on them, for you <3

[rei-ismyname]

I meant to write this up earlier, got distracted.

I was meaning to ask you how you feel about the 05, if that you think they’re a compelling dynamic as a team post their original run(Post X Factor too even). One of the fascinating facts about X-men, to me, is how they nearly got the same fate as the inhumans circa the early 70s, relegated to a back forgotten corner of the universe had not claremont, cockrum and byrne stepped in.

It’s amazing to me how certainly the All New Cast replaces the 05 as the definitive X-men team in a pop culture consensus. We rarely see them all together anymore, even when X-men makes the conscious effort to go “back to basics,” like with the current X-men FTA runs.

I admit, I don’t get the same immediate understanding of the 05’s group dynamic when I read their original run, comparatively to other Lee Kirby creations of the era, with this feeling easing up by my reading of X-factor. They can feel less warm at times, and maybe that’s by design for that group specifically, I didn’t feel the same about the All New group during claremont’s run, regardless of how much bickering there was. Maybe it’s just writing of the time. Sorry if this is a ramble, I like picking your brain for x-men takes

Interesting question with a not so simple answer. Actually, that's not true. I could just say that the original run is 💩 and leave it at that, haha, but we both know I'm not going to. Generally though, I'm pretty confident in saying that if the 1963 run was the only X-Men that existed, I wouldn't care about it. It's likely I wouldn't even know about it. There's gold there (like Magneto), but you have to sift through a lot of chaff to get it. Even then, everything interesting about the book was refined by other hands or revisited.

Look at these bozos tucking Chuck in

I think one of the reasons they're so interesting is because that shared wacky, horribly traumatizing history is there. They're family, they're best friends, they're each other's ineffective support systems, they're ride or die soldiers and they've been through fucking EVERYTHING together. 62 years of hardcore paramilitary shit squeezed through a sliding timescale into only 15, growing every week with some new crisis. Dealing with only a life or death race war is a pretty good day for them on average - never mind aliens, Gods, time travelling killbots, possession, mind control, literally dying, torture, and every other thing including the kitchen sink. Who can they talk to that can actually understand? The Summers Protocols are written in their blood, protecting people who HATE them. How can these people not be intensely fucked up? So many words answering this question under the cut. 💯% rambling but it's definitely my thoughts on the O5 X-Men.

They can't, so they are. 15 year olds drafted into a forever war by a manipulative billionaire who's nearly as fucked up but pretends he's not. The school is up to code now (I mean it's a jail now but you know what I mean) and they teach real lessons, actual adults join willingly (you're 45% sure) and there's multiple telepaths around to keep Chuck in line. Newer X-Men get standardized training and are shadowed by experienced soldiers. You helped Scott formulate these protocols when you were both too traumatized to sleep one month. You're so glad that students' mental health is a priority but you worry they won't learn valuable repression skills. Bobby has the right idea, tell a joke. When people laugh it almost drowns out the particular soulless drone the Gen 1 sentinels made. Can anyone else hear that?

The Champions see like 1% of repressed X-Men trauma and wig out

These newer folks are family too but they weren't there man. It was the fucking wild west! You call home reflexively for the 250th time and your birth family is angry. 'We never had a son called Hank, stop calling us.' Why was that necessary again? Maybe the mindwipe will wear off one day. You'd ask The Professor about it but you don't want to risk demerits for disturbing his construction of death traps. Besides, you're studying Quantum Physics to maybe help survive fighting Magneto later. Why did you think about him? He's so terrifying, that look in his eye. Maybe you'll talk to Scott about it, but he's running the day's 400th simulation of your gruesome deaths. Bobby would just joke about it, but there's a sadness in his eyes that you recognise. This ... dream feels further away each day, your own dreams are much closer and they're always the same. Mutant/human relations just get worse and worse - you've wasted your life, and you're training a 10 year old with horns to follow you. You can't remember their name either. Was it Bong or Bing or? No they died the last time the school blew up. FUCK ! 😭

Yeeting bowling balls during free play was day 1 shit. 'Testing his reflexes.'

Okay hopefully I've made my point. They are beyond fucked up with terrible coping skills. Things you'd learn from family, friends or teachers, but your Messiah complex emotionally unavailable God King Chuck just recommended a codependent relationship. You can talk to the rest of the O5 (if they're alive and in control of their own minds) but they're just as fucked up. There's nobody else - they all want to kill you. And it. Never. Ever. Ends. Seriously. Fuck. Me. It just keeps getting worse. They've got so much history that every facet of their origins has multiple contradictory accounts. They're a beautiful mess found family that love each other so much but mostly don't know how to express it, let alone do healthy conflict resolution.

I didn't read the X-Men comics sequentially, so by the time I even knew what X-Men was the O5 had been mythologised in and out of universe. My baseline perception started there entwined with pop culture osmosis and as I read back through it all the context radically shifted around, especially the early stories or remixes of them. LBR, the 1963 run kinda sucks, lol. I love it, of course, but if you filed the X-Men's name off it I'd hate it. In a big way it's a historical artifact. The Rosetta Stone and Stonehenge except sixties camp. The time dilation just makes it ... wackier. I hate that word, not as much as zany, but I really don't like it. Let me explain.

Take the social and ethical values the 1963 characters have in their first run - they're not especially sympathetic or even heroic in many ways. Their politics is vapid, social awareness negligible, zero class consciousness. They mostly look better than the people they fight especially the alleged mutant liberationist who's a stylish yet run of the mill megalomaniac. A budget Doctor DOOM - though there's massive potential. I don't care what Stan Lee said retroactively - I don't buy an all-WASP pro-establishment group who beat up their fellow mutants as inspired by any progressive movement period, let alone civil rights. At best there's Red Scare aesthetic and vague iconography coming from the centre of both sidesism. That's on the page, that's the blueprint from which it all came.

The best and the worst. Magneto doing stuff and sex pests plus Drill Sergeant Chuck.

The characters are so popular and iconic that many books and flashbacks have been set in that time period. The Hidden Years, as Hickman so aptly put it in HoxPox. That alone (not to mention other media) makes it ripe for interpretation, speculation, and variations on the theme. Every time it's revisited there's a new angle, simply by virtue of time having passed. The X-Men were founded in 1963, but it's always fifteen years ago relative to the present. The O5's values (and technology level) are updated and/or deconstructed to reflect that, which in turn alters every dynamic. For example, instead of the X-Men being Mad Men-esque raging sex pests with eyes bulging out and tongue on the floor when Jean shows up, they're more realistic middle class teenagers to reflect that WOMEN ARE PEOPLE. Bobby's hypersexual performance is the most extreme but we know what he's repressing. Where 60s kids were gullible bootlicking fucks that bend to any authority (I assume - if you're a 60s child, no offence), no matter how unreasonable - X-Men: Season One showed Jean to be deeply suspicious of Xavier's motives, methods, and mission with the others not far behind her - the first instinct being to get far away from this bald lying maniac and his idiot plans. During the Magneto fight from issue #1 she's thinking 'we are NOT ready for this and someone is going to get hurt.' Chuck responds with 'duly noted.' She calls Chuck out about wiping minds and running a secret paramilitary group instead of a school and he has to try to present a coherent ideology. S1, and many other adaptations, stress that this is not normal, it's dangerous as fuck and there's massive question marks around whether these children are capable of consenting. Many such cases, etc. No, really, there's been so many remixes and additions to the HY and I love them. Even in the 60s and early 70s they'd break up or join other teams, show up in weird adventures with the rest of Marvel, retcon stuff from a few issues ago. First Class, Origins, Season One, and on and on.

Not really a school, you're in my army now.

Which interpretation is 'canon'? They're (mostly) deliberately incompatible so we have to decide for ourselves, piecing together a mosaic with drastically different tiles. We all have our own, likely influenced heavily by which corner/s of fandom we're in or the analysis we consume. I suspect we mostly choose what feels good for our faves, and I don't exclude myself from that. Adaptation theory holds that Siegel and Shuster defined the superhero genre with Superman and every work since that is an adaptation to some degree. Without being over literal in that I want to apply it to the X-Men separated by author/creator. Each adaptation of the X-teams is influenced by what came before, but the best are not beholden. Keep in mind that while Stan Lee's name was credited for a lot of stories in that era, it's unlikely he actually wrote them all, or by himself. The Hidden Years was built by many hands, they're just ... hidden.

Wein and Cockrum went big with Giant-Size, with Chuck recruiting globally to rescue the O5 under Cyclops' command then merged the two. Claremont came on board and adapted the Hidden Years formula into a sprawling epic with the Mutant Metaphor running through it. He'd open up the past with flashbacks but more importantly he retconned Magneto into a three dimensional antagonist. Moustache twirling VILLAIN!!! self identifying as evil becomes a deeply traumatized man struggling with the power to prevent another holocaust getting a little too committed to the bit. That retroactively makes us view the Hidden Years differently, if not entirely as the work of unreliable narrators. His years-long arc culminated in disavowing his actions and submitting to trial, then atoning through promising his loser husband he'd raise the new kids - The New Mutants. You can see the HY formula updated and tweaked into something far more interesting - an adaptation. The original run is adapted, but the characters from it stuck around too. On and on that went, decade after decade, until Bendis hit on yanking the O5 out of the HY and into the present. It kinda changed everything for me while exposing newer readers to the oldest X-Men.

Prepare for deconstruction. You'll hate it.

I truly laud Bendis and everyone else involved for revisiting their kitschy beginnings - bringing them to the eternal present away from Chuck and putting them in the audience surrogate position under the microscope. I'd argue that decision and execution reshaped the O5 , de- and re-constructing them in a modern environment. It had a lot of problems but it did wonders for the O5. The films had already done their own thing, but they didn't push the comics forward. They might have brought new eyes to see Patrick Stewart or Hugh Jackman in the art but the ideas flow one way 99.999% of the time - from comics to other media. House of M shook things up for everyone, but most of all it split the O5 again along militant lines. One thing led to another and the Phoenix upended their lives again with Scott killing Chuck in AvX. Scott was penitent but didn't slow down ideologically and the other living O5 had had enough - especially Hank. He time travelled and bought the young O5 forward to 'stop mutant genocide', then lost control of the situation. They weren't paragons from a better time who'd fix everything, they were just messed up kids and they had their own ideas.

A lot of fanfic tropes are used in the teen O5 conceit and I don't think that's a coincidence or a bad thing. Interestingly, instead of being a fix-it or alternate universe they're brought to us to suffer under the weight of expectations, their own legend/infamy, and saddled with the existential horror of predetermination. Predestination. Not just 'you will do these things' but 'the universe will blow up if you deviate even a little bit.' These legends walked among the present day X-Men, but as they were at the very beginning. Awkward teens. Here's the cliff notes on the 'truth' they learn and their reactions.

Beast - turns himself blue and furry, still has a crush on Jean, and becomes an irresponsible gonzo science MF. Can't believe it, freaks TF out, eventually learns magic.

Angel - can't get a straight answer for quite some time, eventually meets his amnesiac cloudcuckoolander shirtless self, cracks over the boatload of trauma waiting for him and tries to run.

Bobby - his two clown selves HATE each other despite being very similar, and spend most of the time on the back foot. Grows up a little then iis forcibly outed and does the same to his present self while knowing that he'll have to live the lie for decades.

Jean - super uncomfortable with the perfect dead Jean everyone has in their head and the legacy, learns she's got exactly one person in her romantic future and he killed Chuck. Everyone wants to either fuck her or kill her. Has multiple kids but also doesn't.

Scott - Learns he becomes the new Magneto and kills Chuck, flees in the face of Logan wanting to kill him/everyone treating him like he's adult Scott Summers. Has multiple kids who hate him and everything is upside down.

WTF Logan. Valid reaction, kids.

So these sixties ciphers (yeah I said it - Stan Lee wasn't a good character writer most of the time) come to the future under false pretence of saving it and they freak out. The social positions are flipped and the legendary progenitors of the X-Men institution just seem like loser teenagers. They have weak powers and everyone is disappointed with them one way or another - the original X-Men deconstructed and laid bare. It's decided they go back immediately and what do they do? They say 'fuck this shit, we came here to save the world and that's what we're going to do. Destiny can go fuck itself.' Their real superpowers of coping with endless mind bending horror and existential despair kick in.

Then we get years of reconstruction - breaking down exactly what makes them heroes and legends, but having them earn it as outsiders amongst outsiders. The pedestal is rejected because nobody deserves that shit. They're not perfect, they're relatable and yes, they are pretty fucking special. But they're still just kids and shouldn't really be here, doing paramilitary shit. They hold a mirror up to the absent Xavier and his dodgy fucking practices, to Logan and his Madonna/Whore delusions, to the school that inexplicably bears Jean's name. They do the same to adult Scott because they find it so hard to believe he's this mutant antichrist etc - and realise he's not that at all - they were lied to.

That bit is important because the X-Men assimilationist institution was in a post AvX reactionary phase united in hatred of Scott - who's ruining everything. It's a group delusion and the kids quickly see it doesn't match reality. They're shocked at how badly they failed their primary mission AND at how passive the X-Men are in the face of atrocities. They gradually learn about the details of their future and in doing so deconstruct the X-Men in general. Significantly, they grow wayyyy beyond the demerit-fearing yes men Chuck moulded them into and they actually get to be teenagers. Somewhat normal ones. They spend time on other teams, they kiss new people, they live outside the bubble of secrecy Xavier insisted on. Significantly, they're all treated as equally important characters and this undercurrent of sadness at the dead or no longer friends members weighs on them.

Xavier is viewed appropriately maybe for the first time as their initial shock at his underhandedness and secrecy blends with sympathising with his position. It IS easier to force people to do things. Way easier. It's heroic to choose not to, to be better, braver. They're very surprised about this but it doesn't take long for them to believe it. Characters in the present even make jokes about how shady he is. Compared to the eager beavers hanging off his every word in the 1963 run and beyond, it's night and day. So again, which is 'canon?' They can't both be, or can they?

They show the world why they are the O5. Not because of some regressive rose-tinted view of the past - because a bald billionaire chose them and they chose heroism over and over despite it ruining their lives. It was a position no children should have been put in, and that's really fucked up, but the struggle is real. They're special but you can be too. You're making history RN - they just did it first and oh boy have they suffered for it. That's why they should be revered - because they did it first. Their adult selves also show the mistakes made. Not one of them is happy or even stable and that shouldn't be surprising. They aren't perfect and neither is Charles Xavier. We should honour elders but be very suspicious when we can't question them. They aren't always right.

They don't buy into Logan's hype and bullshit either. They're appalled at his behaviour that everyone has come to accept, so much that he's instrumental in their deciding to stay in the present and then defect. This maniac is full of shit. Their Wolverine is Laura - a much better person and hero, who they spend time growing up with. Obviously that didn't stick but I kinda wish it did. When they were returned to the past by Cable they were mindwiped, but their older selves got their memories. Two sets of experiences, minimum. In a metatextual sense they had to choose their canon, lol.

Bruh, he's right there. 'Why don't you kill Scott?'

I'm speaking very personally here, but I suspect many fans can at least recognise the shape of their experiences in mine. Everyone's headcanon is going to be a little different, though, of course. I was already a fan of the O5 but ANXM recontextualised them for me. The ultimate adaptation in many ways because the original run just isn't that relatable. Important yes, but the characters were drastically improved by redoing their teen years through a contemporary, deconstructionist lens. The characters were improved and deepened by having to stare their origins/selves in the face and then living in the same world for years. I find it impossible to separate the multiple choice past so I don't bother, if that makes sense. There's value and entertainment for me in revisiting the earliest stuff but I view it through a modern lens where possible. Honestly, there's so damn much of it that it can all blend together at times.

I have more thoughts than that, tbh, but that's the core of what everything builds off. They're legends that were not just allowed to be imperfect, but forced to be. Destined to be, even. Each of them has been on wild journeys together and apart but that history is still there informing everything. To answer your question in a more direct way - with all that in mind I find the dynamic compelling in retrospect. Aside from Scott and Jean they drift in and out of each other's lives, kinda like IRL relationships. That dynamic hasn't existed since it first started being adapted IMO, but it still informs their modern interactions and relationships. They're fluid like that.

Thanks for the ask!

[new-age-cassandra]

Apologies for how long this is about to be

I am currently in college getting a dual minor in History and Gender and Women’s studies, and that future degree is calling to me telling me I need to talk about the historical context of Malevolent and how the time period plays a bigger role in the story than most people think about specifically when it comes to diversity in minority characters (Will not be talking about season 5 because that is whole other can of Cassandra’s history brain worms). 

Real quick, this is honestly just word vomit, truly just me rambling, I don’t want to start shit these are just my observations as someone who is currently studying related topics. Sorry for the hot takes ig. 

adding cut here before I get into it lol

A thing I love about Malevolent is that Harlan Guthrie made an effort to do research and be as historically accurate as he could while telling a supernatural story. One of the things anyone will quickly learn when researching any history, is that most of the time life was not fun unless you were a straight, white, upper class, cisgender man. Even by the 1930's America was extremely segregated, women had the right to vote but not much else, not to mention homosexuality and gender transition was criminalized until around 1964. 

I have been seeing a lot of talk about Faroeverse and people saying it’s just the same story but yuri and guys… Malevolent would not be the same story at all if Arthur was a woman. As I said before, women barely had rights, they also had completely different lives. Women in the 1930’s were still working incredibly hard for their rights.  Not to mention that the female experience in any time period is just so much different from that of the male, I could write a whole other rant just about the differences there but we’ll save that for another day. Swapping Arthur’s gender and trying to keep Malevolent historically accurate changes e v e r y t h i n g. Faroe/Bella/whatever you wanna call her, would not be able to be a PI, she would not be able to buy a gun and a new identity, she would not be able to hitchhike with the confidence Arthur did, she would not be able to enter the freemason’s building,  and so much more. If Malevolent is about a woman in the 1930’s it is a very different story. 

Only going to briefly touch on race because anyone can picture Arthur however they want and tbh this is the internet, anything I say someone will have a problem with… Just like don’t complain that majority of people see Arthur as a white man, because unfortunatly…  historically speaking  if he wasn’t a white man he would almost certainly not have made it out of Arkham. Also I don’t think that Harlan (you know a white man from Canada) wants to write about racism in 1930’s America, and honestly I think he’s not in the wrong for that.

My final thing is I feel it is unfair to point at Malevolent and say it’s “queerbait” or be mad that there are not “canonically queer characters”. The 1930’s were not safe for queer people like at all. A character will not just go up to another and say “I am gay and in love with you” because if someone in the 1930’s did that there would be a non-zero possibility of them being beaten, lynched, or even burned alive for it. Malevolent is not queerbaiting, because also it was not intentionally written to be queer. Does it have like an insane amount of subtext and queer coding similar to media from the time? Absolutely.  But it is just not queerbait guys, Harlan is not teasing us with a “Will they won’t they” he has gone on record to say they won’t, but that we all are free to enjoy it however we want. 

If you read all of this… I’m sorry. Hope you enjoyed. Again I say I am not here to start shit, these are just my thoughts. Gonna go write an essay about Malevolent for fun now, if I publish that one it will be much more refined and professional than this mess lol.

[angellekookie]

Hate it when a piece of fiction resonates deeply with ne and makes me reflect on my life and stuff 😪

Just kidding I live for that.

Now Aqua, I have thoughts- so many so that I'm not really sure how I'll put them together.

The first is that there's a friend of mine, we talk a lot about writing and how if you look deep enough at what's written, you get to see fractured bits and pieces of the author woven in. Always, it will be there- either in a small, subtle way or something bigger. More obvious, and harder to miss.

This is one of those works.

I absolutely loved the dynamic between Mc and Yoongi. Their care and their caution (but not really? Like the caution was there but less about dancing around the other and more about dancing around themselves? A lot of rambling, sorry😅) that they have for each other, how they understand each other, the barely contained lust- ok full disclosure, it doesn't feel right calling this list between them. Every touch was a conversation, even if they never understood it right away.

There was also some dialogue that I couldn't get over. You published this and honestly I can't even pretend to be casual about it.

Not to get emotional on main, but a lot of the times I get the urge to hide away when I feel like I don't really deserve the love my friends and family would give. The urge to really shut myself away is there constantly, always. But these words felt... idk the assurance? Like the literary version of things I try to remind myself of when I feel like an imposter in a space where logically, I know I don't need to earn.

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

“You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

I may have sobbed a little here at this. Thank.

“You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You don't even know how much I needed these words, Aqua Glossdebut, you don't. And thank you.

Like your writing means something just by existing.

"I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.” — full disclosure that this is here becaause i fear i got too emotional on main so we're gonna deflect and say it's solely here for me to say men use to yearn like this *insert men don't yearn meme and a girl staring out the window ✨️wistfully✨️*

An edit cause i couldn't stop thinking about it: But the way MC feels shitty on a Tuesday and is essentially this meme:

But then she gets her good news on Wednesday? Aqua? AQUA?!!!!

Anyways, this was a good read. A great read. Thank you for sharing 🫂

Btw it felt like this to read and also second hug is yours. I know I say it always, but I do mean it always that I'm sending hugs. Please receive with awesomeness.

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

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

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

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

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

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

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

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

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

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

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

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

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

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You do know. 

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

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

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi.

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

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

“So you just… showed up?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“So why did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “It was something.”

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

But you don’t move.

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

You lean in and kiss him.

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

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

You kiss him again. And again.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

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

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

You: i am. what’s up?

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

You: is this a booty call

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

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

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

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

You: yeah

You: come over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like you,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

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

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

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bury your face in his neck. 

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

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

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

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

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sobers you a little.

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

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

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

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

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

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

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little.”

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

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

“Fuck—” 

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

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

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

You hum around him. That does it.

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

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

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

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

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

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

Or try to.

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

What the fuck was that?

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

It’s what came after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

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

How can he be so sure?

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

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

You know he’s good with his hands.

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Maybe.

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

It scares the shit out of you.

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

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

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

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

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

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

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

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

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

There’s a pattern now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

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

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

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

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

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

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

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

The opening credits roll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

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

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

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

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

You make out. A lot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

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

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Completely.

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

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

You don’t.

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

So he starts with his mouth.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

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

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

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

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

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

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

“Yes, please—”

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

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

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

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

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

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

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

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

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

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

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

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

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

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

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

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod against his shoulder.

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

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

He keeps going.

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

But something’s changed. Settled.

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

And you let him.

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

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

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

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

And so is he.

✧

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

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

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

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

He just watches for a second, quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

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

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

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

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

“You do,” you say, instantly.

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

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

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

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

But he’s not around as much.

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

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

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

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

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

And that makes you want to try, too.

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

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

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

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

You laugh. You keep writing.

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

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

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

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

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

And then you don’t tell anyone.

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

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

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

Fuck. There it is. 

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

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

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

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

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

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

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

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

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

You stare at him, slackjawed.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he licks into you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus,” you breathe.

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

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

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

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

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

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

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

It springs him into action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

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

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

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you know he will.

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

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

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

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

You’re in.

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

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

You call Yoongi.

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

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

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

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meet me out back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

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

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

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

But he holds your hand through it.

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

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

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this fic! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

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[twicedone]

Let's talk about... Pyrrha Dve

So, firstly!!! I want to make it plain here that I am RAMBLING about a character I LOVE and while I'm going to TRY to keep things about them as close to canon as I possibly can - I am dumb, and I forget things!!!!!! Secondly; SPOILERS FOR Harrow the Ninth and Nona the Ninth!!!! Thirdly; I will be making grammatical errors and you will be dealing with them!!! (sorry!) Anyways, I absolutely ADORE (full-caps and bold too!) Pyrrha Dve, I think that there's FAR more to her than our beloathed (I kid) Tamsyn has outright stated! (refer to @dammit-tazmuir 's wonderful post here for a look at the Pyrrha-berg ) and I think she'll be pretty important in Alecto the Ninth! However, this post is less about how Pyrrha IS and more about how she FEELS to me. I'm very early on in my transition journey, poking myself with a needle and crying at stuff all the time... so when I started reading Nona the Ninth and saw all the care Tamysn had put into Pyrrha I started to have the thought that maybe --just maybe-- she'd been intended to be read as a Trans character. I kept reading (and talking to a friend about the books, 'cause that was fun!) and the more I learned about her the more the conviction built in me that she was Trans; well, not LITERALLY Trans. (She had a female body at one point, one that she sacrificed long ago... and maybe that sorta disqualifies her from it but that also sounds REALLY fucked up to me??? So I think she's fine, and can rep Trans pride whenever she wants.) Anyways. She's lived the past TEN THOUSAND YEARS in a male body (sounds familiar.), having to stare at the face of her half-dead best pal whenever she intermittently had control of him! I can hardly imagine a better metaphor for dysphoria... forced to stare at someone other than yourself, someone who you care for on some level (it's you, after all.) but you know it's not REALLY you or your body. It's just your soul looking out of eyes that hardly belong to you. Her insistence on shaving her facial hair and hair-hair, even though it was only mentioned a handful of times, it really spoke to me. I hate seeing anything on my face, and I hate the mop of hair that my body makes. When she asked Pal if he could zap the follicles out of her chin, jod (lol) I felt that. There's also like, just how emotional she can be... (not really a trans-thing but more a TD (that's me) thing.) which speaks to me on a personal level 'cause of all these stupid new feelings I have to deal with. And just like, a lot of her dialogue. I don't know, maybe it's wishful thinking and the desperate need for a role model transplanting my own experiences onto a fictional character! Whatever! It's my head canon, and I'll do what I want with it! Edit; I FORGOR TO TALK ABOUT PYRRHA AND WAKE!!!!!!!!!! I can't be the only one (and I'm sure I'm not) that thinks that Pyrrha and Wake were far more intimate than Wake and G1deon, right?! It seems like all signs are pointing towards it, like Wake only included G1deon by accident because she wasn't aware of what Lyctorhood actually was! I think maybe they even loved each other, in a fucked up and supremely toxic way. Maybe Pyrrha would've actually helped her had she been in charge of G1deon's body at the time. ALSO What Trans woman isn't in love with a crazy fucked up woman? (or man, or enby, or someone outside or in between it all) I'd fall for Wake too, Pyrrha says she's got a thing for "Landmine People"? Wake is a fucking NUCLEAR BOMB!!!! I'd betray my jod to sleep with her too, WOOF!

Thanks for Reading!!! (Or skipping to the end to yell at me!) Please let me know what you think in the quotes, and I'm sorry to dammit-tazmuir if I accidentally pinged them or something, I'm still learning how to use tumblr!

ONE LAST THING!!!!! I will throw myself on a fence and haunt Tamsyn as a revenant for all eternity if Griddlehark doesn't get a payoff, you have been WARNED!!!!!!!!

[ongreenergrasses]

Super left field but how do you think misogyny maniests in the districts? From a character perspective it’s intentional that katniss is a hunter and peeta is a baker (2 roles that are generally associated with a particular gender) but if I remember correctly there was never any snide commentary about this from other characters even from like the careers during the games - which i guess is also a reflection of how the circumstances are in the districts, you can’t afford to be stuck to “gendered roles.” Unfortunately though, it’s always been obvious that misogynistic views can prevail regardless of circumstance (see finnicks sexual exploitation + how Annie is viewed/characterized + Johanna strategy in the games). plus also always wondered what that split was of female to male victors esp when it comes to sponsors and stuff i wouldn’t be surprised if mentors found it easier to vouch male tributes. Even with katniss like girl was so skilled but all anyone wanted to criticize her was her “attitude” and yes it is an important factor people consider but the girl is also in an insane position rn so fucking fr and i can’t help but wonder what the conversations would be like if there was a male tribute with the same demeanor. Actually idk i keep contradicting myself bc I guess finnick displayed that for guys too in the same way charm is emphasized to be a major asset/weapon too. sorry to bombard with a long rambling

no worries for the long ramble! I have so so many thoughts on this but I’ll try to be concise

I feel like misogyny is very present when you get beyond a surface level, especially when it comes to people’s attitudes…yes Katniss is a hunter, but she’s thrust into the caretaking role for her family at a young age, and being a caretaker from very young is a role that really plagues young girls and women and a responsibility that falls less to men. Katniss’s attitudes towards other women are very telling to me, she sees women as people to be protected and sees any types of display of emotion as weakness. when men show emotions, she switches into needing to protect them. at the same time, any woman that shows aggression or anger (Clove, Johanna) is immediately vilified. Katniss has a very narrow definition of an “acceptable” woman, and she is much more lenient towards men when it comes to their personalities and attitudes and far less judgmental. she’s young enough and presented as ordinary enough that I think her views are probably not unique and are a good indicator of everyday misogyny.

I think when it comes to the female tributes, their attitudes and appearance are very heavily scrutinized and prized in comparison to the boys. I always think about how it takes Katniss hours for prep but Peeta gets to sleep in, because he just has “less prep”. yes, Finnick’s trafficked and his appearance is heavily emphasized, but he is always presented as the exception to the norm in pretty much every aspect, and we see also from Katniss’s narration that in the districts, sexual exploitation plagues women at a very high rate and seems to be almost exclusively a women’s issue.

the final thing I’ll mention is that there is a serious Madonna/whore complex approach when it comes to all women in thg, regardless of who’s narrating (it’s common throughout Coryo, Katniss, and Haymitch’s narration), and in this vein, motherhood is seen as the ultimate duty and way of fulfillment for a woman and someone who “fails” at this is also vilified (Mrs. Everdeen, to an extent Mrs. Undersee).

[ask-impatient-samurott]

Afterword

Hi!

So, ask-impatient-samurott has finally ended, huh? That's crazy.

[Most of this is emotional rambling. xD Jump to the bold parts to see what comes next for the blog.]

God, I have so many thoughts and feelings about the end of my little story here, it's hard to put into words!

I can say for sure that I am so so very happy that I was able to complete a story of mine. Prior to this blog, I created several different little stories. Some with Pokemon, some without. After seeing all of my prior attempts fall through, it's like... healing? In a way? To have finally followed a story to its conclusion! I'm doing backflips right now, can't you see?

I'm thrilled and proud of myself for being able to write and finish off a story somewhat cohesively. xD Even after all of the several month long hiatuses I took WHEEZE

I want to thank everyone who ever interacted with, or enjoyed, or showed the bare minimum of interest in this blog. You, and you alone are the reason why I got this far! Nothing is a bigger motivator than knowing there's at least one person out there who's waiting excitedly for the next installment. ;v;

Ask impatient samurott was started as a mostly unplanned/unwritten/un-mapped-out story, but I knew from the beginning that it wasn't going to have a happy ending. I feel like I have to apologize for that? I'm sorry to anyone who was hoping we'd walk out of this without casualties, but nothing gets me going more than tragedy. So a tragedy this blog was! lmaO

Even with all its jank, weird pacing, and questionable writing, ask impatient samurott holds a very special place in my heart, and I'm happy to have shared it all with you!

Some clarifications, because I know the finale video might be a bit unclear at some parts:

Nema is, in fact, dead.

Kappa's eyes were damaged beyond repair, and she is now blind. She can only really "see" through smelling and recognizing others scents. Bizarrely, she can see ghost-type Pokemon just fine.

All of Valkea's pokemon have chosen to move out of The House (remember that?) and have chosen to live their own lives.

This includes Morelet and Marigold.

Marigold's casual distrust of Kappa has turned into full-blown loathing and hatred.

Morelet doesn't know what to feel about Kappa anymore. He has chosen to leave for now to sort out his thoughts.

The only pokemon remaining at the house are Kappa herself and Mustela. Jean moved in shortly after Marigold and Morelet left. Mustela has taken on an Azurill which she has named Ducktail. (After the hairstyle, not the animal.)

The four currently live together in The House, in relative peace.

Kappa did not regain her memories of the accident, but she fully remembers the events at the Giant Chasm.

Kappa wonders whether she is allowed to be happy, after all that's happened

I am going to leave the last 30 or so seconds of the video up for interpretation for now. Though, I'm sure you can gauge what happened there. ;)

So, what's next for ask-impatient-samurott???

The blog, currently, is completed.

I do have plans to run an epilogue, within the next few months. (After Artfight, lol) It will be a "where are they now" type deal. Your characters would send in asks regarding how Kappa and everyone else are doing, alongside any questions you might have about the events of the blog and anything surrounding it.

I'm excited for it, honestly. ^^

Within the next few months, however, I am going to be making a new icon and header, whipping up a WHOLE BUNCH of new ref sheets for the characters, and just generally tidying up the blog!

Don't worry! I'm not going to drop off the face of the earth after this. If you want to check up on how or what I'm doing, my main blog is @sourdoughdirewolf and I post art and videos there when it strikes my fancy. ^^

If for any reason you want to message me, feel free to hit up this blog or my main hehehe

OOOkay. I think I've said everything I wanted too. Holy yap, Batman.

It's cleaning time for me! Thank you once again for tuning into Ask Impatient Samurott!!

(I'll be sending out a reverse ask call soon, so keep your eyes open for that if you run a blog ohohoho)

[aikoiya]

I'm glad!

Cool! I was more so asking about the style, but now that I think about it, I suppose that the art style is reminiscent enough of old Viking carvings to work. Like, you know the stone slabs with carvings that Runerigus was based on in Pokémon Sword & Shield? That's what the TotK designs kinda remind me of.

Ooo!! I like it! Are the lines inside the Triforce pieces supposed to be reminiscent of Celtic knots? If so, then omgosh I've always loved that look! X3

Oh, I'm sure. It really sounds like it'd be difficult. If I were you, though, I'd have the prosthetic embedded with a combination of magically infused Clear Quartz, Black Amethyst, & Deep Purple Amethyst. Or possibly just fusing the 2 amethysts to make a Violet or Dark Amethyst & use that.

The amethysts due to their supposed potency of energy & them being used to connect the physical & spiritual realms. Meanwhile, that specific quartz is thought to amplify intent as well as promote clarity. Infusing them with magic could be used as a means to draw out those aspects of them.

Or, you could even go with a Dark Amethyst Phantom, a clear quartz with “phantoms” of dark amethyst inside. Which could be used to draw out all the above-listed qualities in one go. And, if so, I'd also have a larger piece divided into 2, then embed one half into the prosthetic & have the other half made into something like a little ring earring that Link can wear on, like, his forward helix or something. I mean, the prosthetic being Sheikah tech, but using the gems as a way to connect the limb to Link's mind & possibly even pick up the signals his brain sends to his limbs via his nervous system. Maybe even blending Chu Jelly with gelatin made from the boiled down right arms of Stalfos from the Lost woods to make a cheap & organic rubber of sorts to work as a substitute flesh & skin. If done right, it could even be used to allow him to feel through the solidified Chu.

Sorry, rambling.

Well, my dialogue could certainly use a bit of work, but I feel like that part will be easier afterwards. No, what I'm struggling with is… how about I tell you a bit about the set-up?

See, my character, Nanema, she comes to the Gerudo settlement seeking to learn the Gerudo style of swordsmithing. However, upon arriving, she will see Ganondorf training his warriors. She'll not only recognize that the sword he was using had been a commission filled by her grandfather. Not only that, but she'll recognize the expression of a warrior going slowly stir crazy without a good challenge.

Anyway, the Gerudo guards finish training, Ganondorf approaches her to ask for her purpose there. There's a bit of back & forth, some veiled flirting. Then, the subject of the sword thI'm he'd been using, who made it, at which point, she brings up her grandfather, but Gan is suspicious, so he asks her what the other pieces of the set are, & she answers correctly.

Either way, he invites her to watch their training next time, but she politely declines, informing him that she was challenging him to a duel for the right to keep the Gloom Sword.

Now, obviously, a man so egotistical was shocked & even insulted at the idea, but his pride demanded that he accept.

The man draws a line in the sand, stating that the fight will begin the moment that the shadow of the hoodoo (the rock pillar at the center of Gerudo Town in current day Hyrule) touches that line.

So, they take their spots as a small crowd of Gerudo begins to form around them. They wait & the instant that the shadow touches the line, Ganondorf sees a flicker of movement &, instinctively, he uses the sword in his hand to block something even though the movement was far too quick for his mind to register what it was just yet.

When he realizes that it’d, in fact, been his opponent drawing a short sword & striking, then resheathing that sword, all in the span of an instant, Ganondorf couldn’t keep his eyes from widening.

That’s the opening move of the fight, at which point, they begin to circle each other. Her opening move is necessary to force Ganondorf to abandon his previous perception of her as, before, he'd been in the headspace of “I'm the legendary Gerudo Voe. I am THE most powerful & am naturally superior to a tiny little Hylian vai. This should be easy.”

That very first move just straight up murders that assumption in a back alley.

It causes him to take her seriously.

Anyway, other than that, I have the sort of hand-wavy thing: “as the duel progressed, he was further taken aback by the mesmerizing skill with which she handled her weapon. Though, at the same time, he also noticed within her a sort of energy. An aura of growing excitement, though it didn’t show upon her pretty face.

The woman was incredibly strong too based on how, despite being so small, the tiny Sheikah was able to force him back even a step with that initial opening attack. As well as quick on her feet & an obviously brilliant strategist as she had not only struck him many times, but had also caused him to falter & stumble more than once. But he would not be bested!

Even still, Ganondorf knew that she was holding back on him. She was obviously an extremely skilled Sheikah Warrior, thus she must be trained in her tribe's sorcery. Not to mention, she was only using a single one of the weapons in her arsenal judging by the second sheath at her other hip & the katana strapped alongside the first.

So, Ganondorf taunted her to try & get her to show more of her hand, but the Lady Masamuna simply gave a tiny smirk before continuing.

By this point, a number of his subjects had begun to crowd around them along the perimeter of the sparing circle, watching in awe as such a tiny vai went toe-to-toe with their leader.”

But, I don't know. It feels a bit too much like I'm telling you how cool my character is & not showing you. Like, he's "mesmerized," but I want to help the reader better visualize how she mesmerizes him.

Like, it says that she's "strong," but rather than tell the reader as such, I want to "show" it via actual feats, such as in a classic Blade Lock scenario. Which might be a good time for Gan to actually throw those taunts, which is something else. I also want to actually put in the dialogue where he taunts her. So, if nothing else, I DO have a placement for said taunts.

But anyway, with something like a Blade Lock, if she's able to maintain the lock for more than a moment, it should illustrate to him that she's AT LEAST as physically strong as a Gerudo woman, which should, theoretically, impress him. However, she wouldn't be able to maintain the lock for too much longer than that, because while I want her to be noticeably stronger than a non-Gerudo human female & possibly even an equal to non-Gerudo human males, I don't want to just make her a Mary Sue.

If I go this route, I'd need to make it clear that it takes a lot of effort to keep it in place, then have her break the lock by deflecting it & escaping quickly.

Beyond that, I'm very much going for something with a similar overall vibe to the fight between Wenwu & Ying Li in Shang Chi: Ten Rings, but with swords. I believe that I've seen it called a “punch-cute.”

I have, like a couple other parts to the fight in mind: At one point, I want Ganondorf to have Nemma backed into the stone spire at the center of their encampment & charge at her, planning to end it. However, she surprises him by rushing him & surprises him further by dropping to one knee & sort of… performing a spinning electric slide to limbo under his sword swing. All while her other leg sticks out as she passes under it so that she trips him.

He's able to catch himself, but that was never the point. The point was getting out of the boxed in position that he'd had her in while causing him to falter so that he'd need to take a step backwards when she struck him back. And it worked, because Gan nearly fell backwards, but planted his foot behind him to stabilize himself. And that meant that she'd forced him to give up ground. Sure, nor much, but every little bit gained was important.

The next clash will have him knock her off her feet, but she'll recover by going with the flow of the fall & performing a one-handed cartwheel before landing on her feet as she deflects Ganondorf's next strike with her own as she lands on her feet. This causes the man to make eye contact with her, a slight, excited grin tugging at his lips.

At some point, I need Nanema to use the handle of her sword to punch him rather harshly in the throat. Because I have a scene for directly after the spar that won’t work without it.

I have another clash in mind, but I'm thinking about using it in a later spar between them.

But, the fight ends with Nanema losing, her grandfather's sword leveled at her throat, but I also want Ganondorf to be utterly exhausted. Like, I want it to be obvious even to him that had the fight literally gone even slightly differently, then he would've lost. Which is crucial to him seeing her as someone worth learning more about.

In the end, the metanarrative point of this spar is to force Ganondorf to respect Nanema as possibly the only person that he might eventually be willing to see as his equal.

And, what I'm looking for is just a couple more clashes, definitely ones showcasing Ganondorf's physical strength, but they're both limited to the use of their swords because that's the inherent reason for Nemma fighting him: to test his capability with it & Ganondorf knows this. As such, if he were to deviate from that implied limitation, then even if he won that way, it'd be a blow to his own pride.

But that's what I'm getting at. At the same time, I actually don't want the overall spar to take up too much time in-universe & I don't want the reader to get disinterested either. However, I'm not sure how to do that. 😅

So, yeah, any help that I can get would very much be appreciated. And I would LOVE for you to beta read it! Thank you so much!!

Oh, definitely. It's still not cool to ask someone to close their eyes while you feed them. Like, I'd be too worried that they'd just picked something up off the ground or something. 🤢

Thank you! I really enjoyed all the worldbuilding I did with the bestiary. It was fun!! I especially liked what I did with Lanayru residents domesticating mallards rather than cuccos & Hebrans using silkie cuccos due to them being more cold-hardy. That was very interesting! 😁

Exactly.

Fair. Then, I'm really not sure.

Ah! I see! Thank you very much! It also makes sense. I hate using the same words too often too closely together.

Thank you! Much obliged! And I finally figured out what you meant by changing the language on my Switch! Thanks so much for that! It's been working like a charm!

Ah, yes! I think I misspelled it here, because in my file for the Pearl, it doesn't have the "e" at the end of "petit." Thank you for the correction, though! And thanks for the perspective! It really helps! :3

Anyway, as it is, Château Marée-Chant has 3-4 in-house wines with another 4 that's made in Goponga & the Domain proper, but the one from Goponga is mostly just used in cocktails while the others are Poiré, Bénite Eau-de-Vie de Poire or Pálinka de Poire Sanctifiée (pear brandy made by cutting Poiré with water from the Spring of Wisdom, then fermenting it with champagne yeast), & Poirineau Sacré (made by cutting Bénite Eau-de-Vie de Poire with fresh Nayru Pear must, then aging it in mangowood barrels, making it less astringent while also adding a very slight, tropical twist). This is mostly based on research, so I wouldn't be surprised if I botched the names.

Other than that, there are a handful of other alcohols, but they're not served as independent drinks there, as that would kinda defeat the point, & are instead used mostly for cooking & such.

The in-house wines are Marée Sarcelle (a dry, ever-so-slightly salty, sparkling white wine; which you already know about), Sauvigornon Renardette (a sweet, smooth, red wine), Le Petit Bordemer (a sparkling Extra Sec rosé), & Satory Guignolet (cherry wine made from the fruit of the Satori Tree around Tabahl Woods & Zodobon Highlands; only available for a month or so after a Hyrule-wide festival in spring, but that's lore). And the other one is Fleur de Cascade (a sparkling white wine made from Splash Fruit juice then infused with a bunch of native Lanayru flowers such as Swift Violet, Fleet Lotus, & lavender; mostly colorless & flavorless, making it useful as a mixology reagent in place of sparkling water or seltzer when you wanna add a bit of bubbles).

Anyway, Sauvigornon Renardette is an attempt at naming the specific cultivar of Refreshing Grapes that the Zora use as well as something of a play on the Sauvignon grape varieties. Sauvigornon, specifically, is supposed to be a pun on Sauvignon & Vigor while I read somewhere that Renardette is the diminutive of Renarde. So, it's ultimately supposed to translate to something like “little savage vixens.” Which I chose due to my giving them a scent similar to what you find from Concord & fox grapes. I'm not sure if that came across, though.

The others that commonly show up there are Rose Royale Gin (a Zoran variety of rosy-hued gin with a bitter, yet floral flavor) & Crème de Piquassis (Crème de Cassis, but made from something I've been calling Piqurrants; a wild summer berry that's like a fusion of clove currants, golden currants, & spicebush berries). However, again, they're only used as ingredients.

So, I think I have enough booze. XD

@aikoiya The post was getting long again so here's a new one!

I knew you were going to answer that saying "this is unfair" isn't real life logic haha (and I agree that life hasn't been fair to Sky and Sun anyway). It's just that such an ending would probably leave me feeling unsatisfied and even a bit robbed, and I think it would require a lot of other changes to be made to the story in order for it to work properly. But anyway you're right, as things are now this would just be happening behind the scenes so what I'm saying doesn't really make sense. But just thinking about it changes my perception of SS in a way I don't really enjoy, so it's not a theory I favor.

Yes in that setting I'm pretty sure that the other Sun would not make herself known to Link and Zelda and would let them have their happy ending. But I think Zelda would likely suspect her existence and know that something is wrong. I guess even Link could notice that the Temple's doors are suddenly open and would ask Impa a few questions.

I had no idea Tingle called Farore the Goddess of Wind in WW, so I went on a little quest to see if I could find the same quote in the French version of the game. Apparently it's in Tingle's description of Outset Island and I never had the chance to play with the Tingle Tuner mode. I can't find the same quote in French anywhere and I don't even know if this was included in the HD remake (I guess I'll have to wait for a Switch version to find out… if they ever release one). This has me wondering if this quote isn't something exclusive to the English version, but I can't be sure and I'd like to know what the original Japanese text says. The French wikis mention that Farore is the Goddess of Wind in WW but don't provide any quote, it just looks like the pages were translated from English but that they couldn't find the same quote in French. It's really frustrating!!

Anyway that's a bit weird because WW already establishes Zephos as the God of Wind, and he seems to be a minor deity compared to Farore. The way I see it, wind is just the element that Farore tends to be associated with, and since a lot of myths might have been lost with Hyrule in WW this could just be a mistake on Tingle's part. I mean this is the game that gave us the Golden Triumph Forks haha.

I'm not limiting Nayru/the Golden Goddesses to a singular domain, quite the opposite ^^ To me Nayru being the Goddess of Wisdom includes different concepts such as order, law, science, magic, etc., and even time (since she's introduced as the creator of the world's fondamental laws), while calling her the Goddess of Time doesn't include all of that. That's why I wrote that I found it a bit restrictive. But sure she could have both titles, the same way Farore could be known most commonly as the Goddess of Courage and also called the Goddess of Wind in some situations.

Oh I didn't think of the blocks from OoT! I would say though that they don't really use any time powers, they're just random blocks that appear or disappear for some reason when Link plays the Song of Time (it's just as absurd as playing the Song of Storms to open holes in the ground haha). But yes they were blue and associated with time, and of course Nayru is too. The difference with Hylia in my theory is that Nayru created the rules of time (if that makes sense) among other fundamental laws, while Hylia's power specifically allows her to manipulate time and foresee the future. In a way I see Hylia as Nayru's spiritual daughter who inherited some of her powers over time (and that's why the color purple she's represented with is very close to blue).

The Master Sword has also been depicted as either blue or purple though, so that asks the question of the true color of all of these things! Nayru is definitely linked to time so it makes sense that the timeshift stones are in Lanayru (and Hylia also doesn't have a province named after her).

"From the edge of time" could definitely just be a poetic way to say that Hylia kind of recorded a message for Link before dying haha. But I find it interesting that she would phrase it like that, I like to see it as a clue.

Well if Zelda simply sent Link to a point further back in time, wouldn't there be two Links existing at the same time in the Child Timeline? But sure Zelda creating a brand new timeline also raises a few questions that kind of... make my head hurt. I'm not sure what happens exactly, I've always wondered! All we know is that Link finds himself in the Master Sword's chamber with the Door of Time already open, which hints at things happening in a different way this time (because he definitely doesn't have the three spiritual stones and the Ocarina of Time yet since this is before Ganon's coup, and the ending seems to imply that this timeline's Zelda doesn't know him yet). That's why I believe Zelda might have done something a bit more complex than sending him to a point further back in time, but there's no way to be sure. The Triforce of Courage is also visible on Link's hand during the ending, and we also know thanks to TP that the Triforce is still separated in the Child Timeline despite Link and Zelda preventing Ganon from entering the Sacred Realm this time. So maybe Zelda isn't able to change everything? It's complicated haha.

Anyway, whether OoT Zelda creates a new timeline or just sends Link further back in time, that's still huge time powers and that's not something Link is able to do by playing Zelda's Lullaby.

I also believe it is more likely that Talon inherited the ranch. True, Talon might not always have been so lazy, but maybe if that was the case the game could have hinted at hit. All we know is that he leaves his daughter alone with Ingo and only comes back after Link deals with the situation, which does not make him look so great. And he only promises to work harder after that.

I'm kind of bad with names so I'm impressed you're going through all of that trouble to rename the settlements!!

I haven't gotten to developping the technology that much yet, but I'm really interested in seeing what the different races could do with it! I love the idea of using the Sheikah to infiltrate the Yiga bases. I wish TotK had done something like that and shown the Sheikah helping Link that way.

Same, I was so excited when I heard about these pirates… and then so disappointed to find nothing more than a bunch of bokos with no backstory.

Vignoble is not related to noble (though I kind of make the association in my mind, especially since vignobles are sometimes called châteaux).

Yes I thought you could maybe use clos! Aquaticlos is funny, it can work! Though maybe you could use the same logic as for the raisins (I love this Raisins de Terre idea by the way, it makes sense!) and say that what the Zoras call a clos already refers to something that's underwater, since that's probably the case for most of what they cultivate.

I don't mind helping you with French, I'm glad to do so! You put so much effort and thought into this, it's really interesting.

[crabs-with-sticks]

Okay, but I just watched The Return (2024), which is an adaptation of The Odyssey, specifically the part where Odysseus returns home to Ithica, and oooh boy its giving post-veilguard Solavellan vibes! And y'all are going to get a long ramble of my thoughts because I have classicist training and you can't stop me.

Because Odysseus (and Solas) have changed. They both went to war for 10 long and bloody years. Neither particularly wanted to go to war, even though the seeds of the war were unknowingly sowed by their hands (the Oath of Tyndareus and the creation of the fade), and Odysseus does his absolute best to get out of it (similar to how Solas was going to tell Lavellan everything). But he went anyway and the war was brutal. A 10 year long siege, of throwing bodies at a wall. And then, when the war is at its end, when they are finally winning (because of Odysseus' plan), the sack of the city is brutal. Like I cannot emphasise how fucking brutal it was. The reason why Odysseus takes 10 years to get back (like most of the greek heroes end up dead) is divine retribution for the sack of Troy.

But now to Penelope (or Lavellan in this analogy), Odysseus' wife. She has waited for her husband to return for 20 years. She too has been under siege for three from the suitors who all want to marry her, and thus become king of Ithaca. She has been trying to keep her kingdom at peace. She devises cunning ways of putting them off and is in a fight (of a different kind) to regain her autonomy, but she cannot hold out forever.

Which brings us to the lead up to this scene. Just before this scene, Odysseus has murdered the suitors, as well as made their son into a murderer who has now left. And Penelope is horrified at what her husband has done. And she is angry, angry at the bloodshed and angry at being left alone for so many years. And when she asks him why, Odysseus responds "would you still love the man I had become?" And it is when he asks her for forgiveness that her anger breaks into tears.

But oooooh boy her helping him wash the blood off?? And seeing his new scars and saying "there is so much I do not know", him saying "you do not want to know" ahhhhhhhh and then "your past will be my past, and mine yours" its so perfect!

Because they've both changed they're 20 (or 10 for solavellan) older, and they've changed and they've both gone through so much trauma (I love the way this film portrayed Penelope), but they're choosing this. They're choosing to forgive and to heal together, literally washing the blood off him.

[just-null]

Do you ever do requests? If so, do you ever plan on drawing some Yandere with the Hantengu clones? :D hope you have a good day/night!!!

Mentioning an unfamiliar name

yes!! I love yanderes.. and these guys.. these guys are such good material...... nods nods..

I'm not sure about requests..I assume you mean drawing requests? I suppose if it REALLY catches my interest enough, I'd do it, but it'd probably just be line art/sketches.

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah