#telling you he can feel pain and sadness and love

[ronniesan2006]

I WANT TO CONTRIBUTE TOO-

My contribution is based on reinforcing the idea of ​​changing gods during God Games, mainly with Hestia and Dionysus. But I'm going slowly.

Artemis changing with Apollo, not only because they are siblings and the counterpart of each other, but because there are quite a few aspects that Artemis could reproach Ares about Penelope (although I consider that like Apollo, she doesn't know her well and just made the first mistake that occurred to her, lol). The first one: Why would Penelope deliberately slaughter wild animals? Didn't she first wonder if those sheep had an owner? Of course Penelope is wrong

"You know I love wild animals, but hunting is something that shouldn't be taken as a game. Knowing that those sheep belonged to someone, I think Penny is wrong"

I have a feeling that Ares would answer her something like this

"Sadly, she learned the lesson the hard way, but I'm sure that because of that event, something of this caliber will never happen and she will be more careful when hunting"

Personally, my favorite change, Hephaestus with Hestia. Here, Hestia, would not only be the most difficult to convince (for me) but she would also be touching on an important subject. Penelope went to war and let the fire of her family go out because of her absence and it gets worse if we consider that with her, an important member of that family, Ctimene (Odysseus' younger sister) went.

"I think the punishment they gave that warrior is fair. She left her family, which caused her home to become cold to the point that it doesn't feel like a home anymore and don't get me started on the fact that she took someone very important to that family…"

Ares would clearly be nervous, and I can even imagine how, unlike how he showed up with Artemis, he took off his helmet as a sign of respect towards his aunt and spoke kindly.

"Hestia, protector of the home fire, let me tell you that her sister in arms forgave her and also, I promise you that if you help me free her, she will return to her home where that flame will rekindle in your name" (Hestia would accept a little reluctantly)

Dionysus, at first it made me a lot of noise because I said "But- he never participated in the Trojan War" and then I remembered that this is an AU and it's horrible to limit creativity (xd). Well, the things that Dionysus reproaches Ares would be how Penelope let her father drown in wine out of sadness and he died with a broken heart for not seeing his daughter. Ares rolling his eyes when he hears Dionysus speak as well as Athena when she sees Aphrodite

"Your little and beloved Penelope, says she loves her father very much and yet, she let him drown in wine and in his own sadness"

"She was fighting"

"Rather, mocking the cursed nymph. Why don't you let her also drown in infinite pain, just like her poor father and finally rot?"

"Wait!… Please reconsider"

And I'll only leave those three because I'm still in doubt with Athena and Zeus (How curious). I really love this AU and I wanted to contribute with ideas that I had and this also helps me to organize my ideas and be able to write my own fanfiction xd

UPDATED WARRIOR! PENELOPE AU SWAP LIST!!

Characters who swap:

-Penelope 🔁 Odysseus

-Ares 🔁 Athena

-Hera 🔁 Zeus

- Ctimene 🔁 Eurylochus

- Aeolus 🔁 Polites

-Tiresias(the prophet) 🔁 Circe

-Aphitrite (Poseidon’s wife) 🔁 Poseidon

-Calypso 🔁 Antonious

-Scylla 🔁 Polyphemus (the cyclops)

-Dionysus 🔁 Aphrodite

-Artemis 🔁 Apollo

-Hestia 🔁 Hephaestus

Characters who don’t swap:

-Telemachus

-Hermes

DISCLAIMER!!

This might change over time since I’m still developing this AU and I’m the kind of person who changes ideas constantly, if anything changes then I’ll leave it here

[jmliebert]

Astarion Comforting You When You’re Sad

Astarion notices immediately when something is off. he’s usually the distant type, but with you, it’s different. seeing you upset is somehow unbearable

he approaches with a mix of impatience and concern, furrowing his brows as he says, “heavens, can you finally tell me what’s going on? or must I truly lose my mind trying to guess?”

doesn’t back down until you open up. for all his teasing, he won’t leave your side until you tell him what’s troubling you—even a little

if you try to brush off your feelings, he chides you: “darling, you’re awful at hiding things from me. don’t even try.” and it almost sound like a threat

but in reality he's just genuinely worried, and doesn't know how to cope with it

when you finally let it out, what starts with his characteristic intensity melts into something tender. his gaze shifts from piercing to understanding, something dangerously vulnerable flickering in his eyes as he listens

he’s uncharacteristically gentle. he holds you as you cry, his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. there’s no sarcasm, no biting humor- he's just being there for you

he could make a quip, sure. but he stops himself. he wants to be the person he once wished for during his times under cazador’s iron grip

so Astarion speaks softly, his words brimming with wisdom and the weight of centuries of experience. in those moments, you see just how old he truly is and how much he’s been through

if words aren’t what you need, he offers silence instead. he sits with you, holding your hand, as if to remind you that you’ll never be alone—not like he was, not ever

his touch is feather-light as he brushes away your tears, his thumb gliding gently across your cheeks. he caresses your hair, his other hand grazing your swollen lips as if lost in thought

and then comes that smile—the rare, quiet one he saves only for you, it hold a silent promise you see...

he draws a hot bath for the two of you, insisting it will help. with your head resting on his chest, you feel his arms around you, holding you close and your body unbend slowly

the water is warm, your pulse thrumming softly beneath your skin, and the scent of your blood is impossibly tempting. hunger gnaws at him, sharp and insistent, but he doesn’t say a word. wouldn’t dream of it—not when you’re like this

at night, he watches over you, cradling you softly and wishing you would never be sad like this ever again. if it were possible he would take all this pain of yours and bear it himself

because he loves you so much

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hello dove, you can find more of my works about astarion ♡here♡

[maritoke]

Here, have my cookie oc that I have created not long after the Faerie Kingdom update was out. I simply revived him recently, because I love my undead knight who serves in Silent Salt's army (if they won't have an army I will feel betrayed. They deserve an entire army)

Also Salted Caramel calls Silent Salt here "Grand Cross", because this is the highest title you can have in chivalry.

Silverbell why are you so hard to draw

This one is based on @cuppajj beast ancients au! I adore this au with my whole heart, please go see it--

Anyhow, I like to imagine Salted Caramel interact with Silverbell a lot. The idea of two soldiers from opposing sides just talking to each other before they will be given an order to attack/kill on sight...

So in this au it would hurt even more, because Silverbell while loyal to Midnight Lily, he is questioning the state of his home, and his punishment would probably be a painful one, because conversing with a knight from Silence Legion would be most likely considered a treason. And on the other hand while Salted Caramel respects the fact Silver just wants to protect his home no matter in what state it is, he would cut the fae down the moment he would be given an order to do so.

So yeah, doomed friendship between a sad archer fae, and the undead soldier. And if you're wantering who made Salted Carmel undead, well...

You cannot tell me that a personification of knowledge wouldn't try necromancy. Be it for the sake of knowing and learning, or just for sillies. He would do both

[cornflowersisblue]

Hi, I'm curious about your headcanons for Mr. Gap please please

Hello~ You got me thinking! I decided to make it in an iceberg format. It will start with cute headcanons, then dive into the darker, sad, or anxious ones. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 The Surface ⁺ New language: If Mr Gap picked up some human words, they’d definitely be swear words. And he’d easily find situations to use them. ⁺ I’m in your bed: He doesn’t have a concept of many things, like not fully understanding that he can cause pain (bites worse than Mr Chopped, be careful) or even what personal space is (try teaching him to knock first).

⁺ Give me that: He’s super into random little things from our world. Like, who else would sit there flipping through magazines, right? So of course he’d want to grab something cool for his collection. Personal items are probably a lot safer than, you know, body parts.

The Icy Current ⁺ Solitude: He likes it when you talk to him. But he’s usually ignored, so he acts this way to get attention. And he really doesn’t like it when you spend too much time with other. Jealousy? He won’t admit it, but he’ll do something to put a stop to it. ⁺ Am I good?: Mr Gap definitely has a praise kink. He absolutely loves it when you tell him he’s good. It’s important for him to prove he’s better than everyone else. ⁺ Obsessive Attachment: He was incredibly bored, but with you, life feels fun. Of course, he doesn’t want to lose that. Dark Waters ⁺Just Like Others: He watches others and listens to them. He mimics their behavior. It’s quite possible that he started asking "Are you okay?" after noticing others doing it and seeing the positive reaction it gets. ⁺ Everything has a price: Mr Gap doesn’t like doing things, especially not for free. That’s why he always asks for something in return, like a heart or hair. But in the scene with Mr. Scarletella, he steps out of his role as an observer because he can’t let him take you. ⁺ His Plan: Mr Gap seems to manipulate events around you invisibly, ensuring you stay close to him and free from any distractions. It all appears coincidental, but it’s clearly anything but. The Depths ⁺ Why a Heart?: Mr Gap probably doesn’t feel good without his own body. That’s why, when he asks for human body parts, it’s like he’s trying to fill that emptiness. ⁺ It will be my way: Mr Gap has an ability to move through space. What’s interesting is that he can bring the MC back from one world to another. Time is probably not under his control, but he can literally take them anywhere he wants. This is a powerful skill. ⁺ Immortality: He claims he cannot be killed. Even though //spoiler// we can kill several key characters with our own hands. ✦ . 　⁺ Something like this, most of it is based on dialogues I’ve read, and I feel like it’s quite accurate.

[esoteric-crow]

hey actually isn’t there something kind of really sad about the fact that the hardest difficulty (that isn’t just like. hell or hell. which is just ‘haha hehe Blow up.’) is called Dante Must Die. i think about it a lot. i can’t quite put my finger on why it makes me miserable but maybe someone else can.

but you know what i CAN talk about and i DO have actual fully formed thoughts about?

regenerating like crazy is great. but isn’t there something kind of inherently fucked up about the fact that, because of the regeneration dante and vergil have, neither of them will ever have tangible evidence to themselves or others of their suffering? asking themselves, was it really that bad? did it even happen at all? no matter how much you put vergil through hell and how afraid he is inside, there will never be a mark on his skin that says “i have suffered”. the world leaves no proof, nothing to take home from this experience aside from a more broken mind. vergil doesn’t say his feelings, or even allow them to surface properly, because that’s a kind of vulnerability he cannot handle. the only way he could perhaps earn someone’s sympathetic care is by expressing what he has suffered through, but he cannot verbalize that. and he looks perfect. unmarked by time or trauma. there isn’t a single part of his body that could scream out for him that something horrible has happened that he cannot figure out how to deal with alone.

and dante is just as poor off. and he’s very difficult to figure out emotionally to a passerby. dante purposefully puts on a happy face every day, and to the majority of the world, it’s convincing. there’s certainly no evidence to themselves contrary. not a scratch on him. but he is like kind of constantly getting the ever loving fuck beat out of him. stabbed and jabbed. when you look at him, you see happy, sweet, goofy dante. for all the years of pain he’s gone through, there isn’t a single marred inch of his skin that could tell you even a day of the agony unless he told you. and why would dante do that when he can pretend it simply isn’t happening until he’s alone and can sit with the terror that’s constantly in him and the loss he’s been living with, over and over losing people and being surrounded by the ghosts of their presence. whether the ghost is a wayward descendent, a gun, or just a lingering smell of ash in his childhood home. but that will only be private. he can be the walking dead, he can treat himself like shit, but his body refuses to show anything for it. and he’s certainly not going to die.

obviously, the same thing can be said for the opposite side of the spectrum: scars can be a constant reminder in the mirror of what happened that you cannot erase, always to some degree a part of you. among other stuff. so both sides of the coin are full of The Pains and The Anguishes.

on a side note, i really like when people give them like, one scar. i don’t really have a favorite one that people give vergil but i really like dante with just the one bigass gnarly one in the middle of his abdomen from the rebellion gettin jammed in there. his One scar. a treate. like it defies his regeneration somehow.

i love making a scarred up guy. i have plenty of scars n marks myself, and i feel like they should definitely be more normalized, so like, no this post isn’t anti scars or something. they’re normal and not ugly or whatever the hell people try to say. this side note is probably entirely unnecessary, but i’m tired and i’m worried about someone misunderstanding me i think. anyway i’m trying to say ooh scar angst yeah but sometimes No scars is also fucked up too. that’s the point here.

to sum up: i believe there can be something Fucked Up and angsty to be said about the fact that the sparda boys heal perfectly fine, but only externally. it is 3am. this is not articulated as well as it could be i don’t think. aaaand post.

[concretecultist]

The Vulture and The Finch

summary: a short story where the finch trusts the vulture, leading to a gut-wrenching betrayal.

word count: i have no idea actually but it is short.

warnings: angst, no happy ending, betrayal

A/N: Inspired by the song Birds by the Sea by BANKS. im back and im here fo bring the heartache.

“You never sang for me,”

Fighting the tears in your eyes was something you found yourself doing more often these days than not. His outfits were the same, but he wasn’t. How did this much time pass? You felt so lost, you stand alone now and the one person you wanted to stand by you forever… now stands with someone else.

“Y/N… what did you call me here for?” He has a right to ask this question. You haven’t spoken in almost two years. All the rumors you heard have become too much to bear, it was gutting you to even think about any of it being true. But seeing the five o’clock shadow and the ring on his left hand was answer enough.

“Heard you’re living with a girl by the sea,” You tried to smile, tried to choke out laughter to seem supportive but it all just sounded strangled; gurgled as if you’re drowning.

You stare out at the waves, aching with the knowledge that Noah always knew you wanted to settle down by the water as it was your safe space. You could cry while sitting on the shore, sharing something in common with the water that greeted you, the salt in your tears mimicking the crashing of the waves, releasing your pain. The wind that whisked past you whispered in your ears with each gust, ‘this too shall pass’.

It all feels like a lie now.

He said he’d never leave you. With all the warnings your mutual friends were giving you, you shouldn’t have believed him, especially because every time he said it, he said it by the door.

Subtle foreshadowing.

Was it because you broke the ancient superstition to never buy your lover shoes unless you want them to walk right out of your life? Perhaps it was the time you bought him the watch he wanted, bringing forth the bad omen on yourself, giving you no choice but to countdown how much time you had left together.

How rich that he’s wearing that very watch now.

“Heard she’s have a little baby now, how sweet”

He’s taken your dreams, your visions, just to fashion them to fit his current life. A piece of you has been stolen, it has kept you up at night more times you can count while he sleeps ever so peacefully.

“You don’t get to speak on my family,” His voice was void of any patience. He’s not even sure why he entertained you to come out here.

It’s sad really, the thought of Noah was always accompanied by birds, flying around you two as they sang their tune, but he never sang for you. His refusal should have been sign enough, he knew the type of love you desired and his defiance was a display of the deprivation.

“I should have listened to everyone when they told me not to fall for you, fuck! Even your own best friend warned me! He always told me you’d never change your ways but he was wrong. You did! I just wasn’t worthy, apparently,”

“Y/N, I have a wife and our child to get back to. I’m not here to debate my choices with you!”

“Then why did you come?!,” spinning around to take in the sight of him. He always had tired eyes but they only seemed more exhausted as they ran over your features. You weren’t sure if it was due to him preparing for a child… or if it was the fact he always found you mentally and emotionally taxing; that any energy he spent dealing with you was quickly depleted.

“Because I felt bad for you!,” his own expression was an indication of his involuntary slip up, however, he figured he might as well drive the sword deeper, “I came here because I still ask Nicholas about you and he tells me you’re not doing well. I know it’s my fault but what can I do now, Y/N? I’m married- I have a daughter on the way, I-,”

“So you take my plans and execute them with another girl? Yes. That sure shows your sympathy for me, Sebastian!”

“What is the point in all this?,”

The million dollar question. You asked yourself this all the way over here. No answer you came up with sounded good enough and you know no matter what answer you give, he will find pitiful.

“Closure, I guess,” You shrugged, wrapping your cardigan tighter around you as you turn back to the sea. Standing ankle deep in the water, wishing to be carried away in the ebb and flow. You hated how he could easily make you cry.

“You took the life I wanted for us both and you gave to someone else,” now there was venom on your tongue, “You were my songbird… y-you were supposed to bring love and joy but come to find out you’re a fucking vulture hiding in the skin of a finch. You mimicked me until the hunger of your own selfishness took over! You picked at me and picked until you were full and sated then you left my fucking carcass to rot and you think you deserve the peace? The clear conscience that you have?!,”

You really didn’t mean to break. You came here to ask how he was and to congratulate him on his new life, but the more you think about it- you didn’t want to do that anymore. He took the heart of a hopeless romantic and squeezed it dry right in front of you. How do you congratulate that? When he drained the blood from you just to pump it into the life he has today, making it full and youthful?

It’s sickening, actually.

You turned once more to look at him and swallowed thickly.

“You are the bad omen in my life. There was no black cat, no broken mirror, no walking under a ladder. Just a 6’3 bloodsucker who carefully chooses his next conduit to drain until he gets what he wants,”

You began to walk past him, just wanting to leave. That want was quickly diminished when you come to an immediate halt, feeling his hand wrap around your forearm, the coolness of his ring seeping through a hole in your cardigan brought a type of burning you’ve never experienced.

“That’s not fair,” he hissed, eyes strong and dead set on yours, surprised with you snatching your arm out of his grasp.

“No, what’s not fair is Nicholas telling me you’re naming your daughter after the name I was going to give our child!,” you push him away, a fire burning under your flesh, the complete opposite of the cool air that rushed between the two of you, “What’s not fair is you giving your wife my dream home!,”

Another push.

“What’s not fair is you making me believe that what you have now could have been with me,”

Another one.

“What’s not fair is you leaving me in the middle of the night while I cried for you and never turning back!,”

Another.

“What’s not fair is you dedicating songs to your wife and all I ever fucking got was a half assed unreleased verse on a usb!”

One more.

“What’s not fucking fair, Noah!! Is you watching me fall in love with you knowing you never felt the same way. That I was just a place holder until the girl you truly wanted, wanted you back!!!”

Next thing you know he’s stumbling and falling into the crashing waves, sea foam in his hair and salt water burning his eyes.

“You can have it! Have my life!,” you bellow, watching as he tries to pull himself together.

“You’re the one that has to live the rest of your life knowing you’re so empty that you have to siphon others to feel joy, to feel anything!,” you take a few steps toward him, pointing a finger with so much anger it could kill, “You have nothing left to siphon from me, so good luck trying to figure everything else out on your own,”

“Y/N,” he just sat there, head hanging low while his arms rest on his knees.

You had nothing left to say, nothing left to hear, so you had no reason to stay.

“Y/N!,”

The sand sinking with each step, forcing you to use your arms, your anger promoting the momentum.

“Y/N! Fuck!,”

His voice became quieter the more distance you made.

His facade will crumble.

And you’ll find your birds by the sea. Reminding yourself over and over that you’ll get what you deserve out of this life.

“Someone will sing for me”

————————————————

I know it’s quick and short but I really missed writing and this is to help me get back into it after the long and unexpected hiatus!! Thank you all for your support and patience!!!🩵

tags: @dravenskye @babs-96 @tech-depression-inventory @magnificentstrawberryomen @mrscevans @tinyfairies @mxddymay @themorticians-world @rainy-darling @darknightstarryeyes @thisbicc @lilhobgobbler @lovethe-void @cind6547 @flowery-mess @widowsofchaos @abiomens @amelia-acero @collapsedglasshouses @poppy-in-the-woods @rostoken @dkxxm @fadingintothegrey @blairboo @lacy1986

[kingofbodyrolls]

Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | chap 2: who

You’re only human, and day by day, you find yourself falling for your neighbor—the world-renowned singer-songwriter, Jimin. But behind his dazzling smile lies a hidden fragility, a heart weighed down by unspoken sorrow. When his young daughter shows up at your door, her teary eyes and trembling voice telling you her father is crying, your heart skips a beat. Rushing to his side, you find him on the floor of his studio, surrounded by scattered papers and raw, unfiltered pain. Now, as his quiet strength falters, you’re left wondering—can you be the melody to soothe his fractured soul? Can you help him piece together the remnants of his broken heart?

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: strangers to lovers / neighbors to lovers → Genres: slow burn romance / fluff / angst / smut / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 8.8k → Warnings + triggers: mention of past bad relationships (only briefly mentioned), crying, pain, hurt (emotional), stereotypical assumptions, slight misunderstandings, protective and oblivious big brother Yoongi, Hwa-Young is so cute 😭 → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: waaaah 🤧 This chapter holds such a special place in my heart—it’s one of those moments that feels like capturing a fragile piece of the soul in words. There’s something tender, something magical about it... but I’ll let you discover that for yourself. I truly hope it speaks to you as deeply as it does to me 🫶💖 This whole story (which will be posted every Sunday for the next eight weeks) is for my dear friend @remmykinsff! I hope you’ll love it 💜

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Jimin is the kind of neighbor who seems almost too good to be true. Warm, thoughtful, and effortlessly kind, he’s the type of person who lights up a space simply by existing. But there’s a shadow beneath his radiance—a quiet sadness that lingers in his faraway glances, in the melancholy chords of his songs. Despite his inviting smile, you can’t help but wonder what burdens his heart carries. Is it loss? Longing? The memory of someone who used to be here—perhaps the mother of his sweet, joyful daughter? The questions tug at your mind, but you hold them back. Curiosity simmers, yet you don’t dare pry into his private pain.

Since the day you introduced yourself, he’s gone out of his way to make you feel at home. In the past week, you’ve unpacked every last box, even posting an ad for someone to take them off your hands for reuse. And in that same time, Jimin has invited you into his cozy, art-filled home more times than you can count, eager to hear your thoughts on his lyrics. His daughter is just as charming as the house she brightens, her laughter filling every corner. Their kindness is so genuine, so disarmingly human, that you wonder how someone so well-known, so revered, could remain this grounded. You’d expected someone of his fame and talent to carry an air of distance, but Park Jimin is anything but.

“So, do you have the hots for him yet?” Namjoon teases, jabbing his fork into a helpless carrot on his plate.

The question hits like a snowball, and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks, turning them as pink as the cranberry sauce on your plate. “What? No!” you stammer, immediately looking away, out the frosted window of the restaurant. Outside, snowflakes swirl in the brisk wind, blanketing the streets in soft white. It’s warm inside, but the chill of Namjoon’s question lingers. Christmas is just around the corner, and yet, all you can think about is a certain neighbor with sad eyes and a voice that seems to carry the weight of the world.

When you don’t respond—don’t even lift your gaze from the table—Namjoon chuckles, the sound low and teasing. “So you do like him.”

A heavy sigh escapes you as you practically collapse against the table, your arms folding under you like a crumpled paper. “How can you blame me?” you groan, voice tinged with exasperation, though the tightness blooming in your chest says otherwise. Jimin’s face flashes in your mind—his warm smile, his soothing voice, the gentle way he looks at his daughter—and your heart betrays you, skipping a beat. “He’s just… he’s so good-looking, so sweet, so—kind. And don’t even get me started on his daughter. She’s the most precious kid I’ve ever met.”

“Wait,” you say suddenly, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as though afraid the other restaurant patrons might overhear. “Did you know he had a daughter?”

Namjoon pauses, his glass of water halfway to his lips. He raises a brow. “I didn’t,” he admits, taking a sip. “But, honestly, it makes sense. The guy keeps his private life locked up tighter than a vault. I didn’t even know he lived out here in the sticks.”

You laugh softly, though there’s an edge of disbelief to it. “Right? I mean, the Park Jimin, living in some rundown neighborhood? When I found out he was my neighbor, I thought I was dreaming. But, seriously, why would someone like him live there? He’s famous. He has money. He could live anywhere—penthouse, sprawling mansion, you name it. So why here?”

The thought makes your cheeks burn, and you look down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of your napkin. You’re not sure if you’re embarrassed at the audacity of your questions or the fact that you’ve been thinking about this way too much.

Leaning forward, you rest your elbows on the table and let your words tumble out before you can stop them. “Joonie…” Your voice is quieter now, almost tender, as though you’re confessing something sacred. “Jimin seems so sad. He lives all alone with his daughter, and all of his songs—they’re so full of pain, of longing. Do you think…” You hesitate, swallowing hard, then press on. “Do you think all his songs are about his wife? Do you think she left him? Or…” You don’t finish the sentence.

Namjoon lets out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes as he sets his fork down with a clatter. “Slow down there, Miss Investigative Journalist.” He leans back in his chair, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. “First of all, did you even check if he had a ring on his finger? That might save you a lot of speculation. Second…” He points his fork at you for emphasis. “Why are you asking me? What do I know? I don’t have some magical hotline to his personal life. All I know is the guy is a phenomenal singer. If you’re that curious, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

His bluntness sends a blush creeping up your neck, but you manage a small laugh, shaking your head. “Ask him? Yeah, sure, Joonie. Hey, Jimin, so who broke your heart and why do you look so sad all the time? That’ll go over well.”

Namjoon smirks, raising a knowing brow. “Hey, you’re the one who’s dying to know. Maybe it’s time to stop speculating and start finding out.”

You let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the stool, the wooden legs creaking softly under your weight. “I didn’t see a ring,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “But… his daughter, Hwa-Young—she looked so sad when I asked about her parents. I don’t know. I don’t want to pry, but at the same time…” You trail off, glancing at Namjoon, your voice quieter now, hesitant. “I also don’t want to get involved in something complicated, you know?”

Namjoon doesn’t miss a beat. He throws his head back with a laugh, loud and carefree, drawing a few curious glances from the nearby tables. “You’re already thinking about dating the guy, and you barely know him?” he teases, shaking his head as he spears the last piece of chicken on his plate.

“I am not!” you shoot back, your cheeks flushing. You cross your arms, pouting slightly. “I’m just… trying to protect myself, okay? You know what happened last time. I’m not exactly great when it comes to men.”

Namjoon sets his fork down with a scoff, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, trust me, I know. Thank god you never told your brother about Mark.”

At the mention of him, you groan, covering your face with your hands as a whirlwind of memories comes rushing back. Mark, with his sharp words and subtle lies that chipped away at you piece by piece. Controlling. Manipulative. Always holding you at arm’s length, but never letting you go. Everything Jimin doesn’t seem to be.

You peek at Namjoon through your fingers, your lips twitching into an incredulous smile. “Yoongi would’ve kicked his ass.” The thought is enough to make you burst into laughter, the sound coming unbidden and pure, like the first light after a storm. “Honestly, it’s probably for the best that he never found out what really happened with Mark.”

Namjoon’s grin widens as he nods, clearly enjoying the idea of your overprotective brother delivering swift justice. “Oh, no question. He’d have tracked the guy down, dragged him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in, and sent him running for the hills.”

You shake your head, laughing, the tension easing from your shoulders. The restaurant’s warm glow feels softer now, like a comforting blanket against the frost-laden world outside. You glance out the window, watching the snowflakes tumble lazily from the darkening sky, and push aside the lingering thoughts of the past.

By the time you’ve both polished off your plates, the conversation has shifted to lighter things—memories of college pranks, ridiculous holiday traditions—and the laughter between you and Namjoon feels like medicine.

After settling the bill, the two of you make your way to the cinema, the cold biting at your cheeks but doing nothing to dim the warmth between you. You tuck your scarf tighter around your neck as Namjoon buys tickets to the cheesiest Christmas movie playing, grinning like a kid as he hands you your popcorn.

The night stretches out before you like a quiet snowfall, soft and full of potential. And for a while, you let yourself get lost in it—lost in the glow of the screen, the sound of your best friend’s laughter, and the feeling that, maybe, just maybe, better days are finally ahead.

Days later, you find yourself nestled in Jimin’s living room, the soft hum of warmth from the fireplace wrapping around you like a blanket. Hwa-Young is curled up beside you, her bright, innocent energy a stark contrast to the quiet gravity of her father’s voice as he strums his guitar. The song he plays is one you heard last week, but hearing it live—here, in the heart of his home—feels different. Intimate. Raw.

“I’ll put it all on the line.I’ll be that someone she can count on.One, two, three, four, five…So many people to see.Places to go,”

His voice floats through the room, hauntingly beautiful, the kind of sound that lingers in the corners of your mind long after it’s gone. It’s even more mesmerizing live than it was over the radio. How many singers can claim that? His voice is unfiltered, rich, filled with a vulnerability that pulls you in like a tide you can’t resist.

You bop your head gently, letting the words soak into your skin, but your mind drifts, lingering on the mystery that surrounds him. Who is this song about? His lyrics feel personal, like fragments of his soul laid bare, and you can’t help but wonder about the story behind them. He’s not wearing a ring—but not all married or widowed men do. And then there’s Hwa-Young, undeniable proof that a woman once held a place in his life. Where is she now?

Hwa-Young slides closer to you, her small hands tugging at your sleeve as she giggles, her laughter light and free. “Ain’t daddy amazing?” she says, her voice brimming with pride. She flashes you a smile so bright it could rival the glow of the lights strung along the window. “He writes all his lyrics himself.”

You glance at her, then back at Jimin, who’s still lost in his music, his blonde hair falling slightly into his eyes as he leans into the melody. You nod, lowering your voice to a whisper as you reply, “That’s incredible. He’s amazing.”

And he really is. Every note, every word, every small kindness he’s shown you since the day you knocked on his door confirms it. But as much as you’re drawn to his talent and the warmth he and his daughter exude, there’s something else—a shadow in his gaze, a sadness woven into his songs. You know sadness isn’t a fault, but you can’t help but wonder if it’s a key to the puzzle of who he is and the life he’s lived.

You find yourself staring at him a moment longer than you probably should, the sound of his music echoing in your chest, making your heart ache for reasons you can’t quite name.

Jimin’s fingers glide over the strings, each delicate stroke coaxing the guitar to sing. His voice follows, soft and earnest, like a confession carried on a fragile breeze. The melody wraps itself around you, filling the room with a warmth that seems to melt even the winter frost outside.

“We never met, but she’s all I see at night.Never met, but she’s always on my mind.Wanna give her the world. And so much more.Who is my heart waiting for?Is she someone that I see every day?Is she somewhere a thousand miles away?”

The words weave their way into your chest, stirring something unfamiliar yet comforting. You can’t help but feel the faint flutter in your heart, your cheeks heating as his voice dips lower, like a secret meant for only you to hear. And in that moment, you understand. You understand why millions of people adore him—not just because he’s an artist, but because he’s an open wound made beautiful, a man unafraid to bare his soul in his music.

It isn’t just his voice or his lyrics, though both are stunning. It’s him. His presence, his kindness, his quiet humility. The way he feels so human and yet otherworldly at the same time. It’s impossible not to feel flustered under the gravity of who he is, as if he has a way of making you forget the rest of the world exists.

The song begins to fade, his voice softening, the strumming of his guitar slowing like the end of a heartbeat. A stillness settles over the room, fragile and delicate, as if even breathing too loudly might shatter it.

Hwa-Young, oblivious to the sudden weight in the air, turns to you, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Y/N, do you have a boyfriend?”

Her question feels like a pebble tossed into a quiet lake, sending ripples through the silence. Jimin’s fingers falter, the music stopping abruptly, leaving the air heavy with unspoken tension. His gaze flickers to you, unreadable, and you feel the heat of his attention settling on your already burning cheeks.

You laugh nervously, a sound that feels too sharp in the gentle atmosphere of the room. “I don’t,” you manage, your voice betraying the sudden tightness in your chest.

But why does your heart race? Why does the admission of your single status feel like something monumental here, in this room, in the presence of Park Jimin? You haven’t thought about relationships in so long—not since Mark left you in pieces, his manipulation and control carving wounds you thought would never heal. You’d sworn off men like him, sworn off feeling this kind of vulnerability ever again.

So why, now, do you feel as though a single glance from Jimin could undo all those walls? Why does the quiet between you feel louder than the song he’d just played?

Hwa-Young giggles, her innocence breaking the moment, but your thoughts linger, circling around questions you can’t yet answer.

Jimin offers you a soft smile, the kind that feels warm but weighted with unspoken thoughts. You sense his gaze lingering, yet you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. Something about the moment feels too tender, too fragile to face head-on.

“My dad is single too,” Hwa-Young chimes in, her cheerful tone catching you off guard. Your cheeks burn again, and you feel as though your entire face might combust. Is she… is she trying to play matchmaker with her father? The idea stirs an unexpected mix of flustered amusement and… something you can’t quite name. But if he’s single, then does that mean…?

Jimin shifts in his chair, resting his arms casually against the curve of the guitar, though his expression turns gentle, serious. “Hwa-Young’s mother passed away shortly after she was born,” he says softly, his voice carrying a heaviness that lingers in the air, wrapping around the room like a cloud.

The words hit you like a sharp wind. Your heart clenches as you glance at Hwa-Young, who sits beside you, still smiling, though it’s tinged with something wistful and bittersweet. She probably doesn’t remember her mother at all. And Jimin… Jimin is a widower. A young widower. You can’t help but wonder how he’s carried that weight for so long, raising his daughter with such love and kindness despite the ache that must linger in the quiet moments.

“She was daddy’s best friend,” Hwa-Young adds, looking up at you with a small, melancholy smile. Her words make your heart ache in ways you hadn’t expected, the sweetness of her tone laced with an understanding far beyond her years.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you murmur, the lump in your throat growing harder to swallow as you address them both. Your thoughts are tangled, a mix of sorrow for their loss and admiration for the strength it must take to carry on.

A question bubbles to your lips before you can stop it, driven by the weight of curiosity and compassion. “Is Hwa-Young’s mother who you’re singing about?” The words escape before you can think better of them, and your face instantly flushes with regret. You bite your lip and lower your gaze, berating yourself for prying into something so intimate.

But Jimin doesn’t seem offended. If anything, his smile remains, soft and calm, like the steady rhythm of a tide. He leans forward slightly over his guitar, the warm tones of his voice easing your nerves. “Not really,” he replies with an almost bittersweet chuckle. “I just like singing about love��� because I’ve never really experienced it.”

His confession catches you off guard. You blink, taken aback, his words echoing in your mind. Never experienced love? How could someone like him—a man who seems to pour so much longing and devotion into his music—have never truly felt the very thing he sings about?

“But what about…?” you begin hesitantly, the words fumbling on your tongue as you glance at Hwa-Young. You don’t know how to frame the question, don’t know how much Jimin has shared with his daughter about her mother. You don’t want to tread on sacred ground, but the curiosity burns too brightly within you.

Jimin tilts his head slightly, watching you with a knowing look, as if he can read every thought racing through your mind. The room feels smaller now, quieter, as you wait for his response.

“Oh. Jiwoo and I were never in love,” Jimin says softly, his words gentle but sure, carrying the weight of a truth long settled. “She was just my best friend.” His tone holds no bitterness, only the quiet grace of someone who has long made peace with the past.

Before you can respond, Hwa-Young slides down from the couch, her laughter light and airy as she runs to her father. Jimin sets the guitar carefully on the floor, opening his arms just in time for her to leap onto his lap. She settles there with the ease of someone who knows she’s always welcome, her joy radiating as he threads his fingers tenderly through her chestnut hair. She giggles at his touch, her laugh as pure as a bell.

The sight pulls at your heart, a bittersweet ache blooming in your chest. There’s something about the way Jimin looks at her, his entire being devoted to this moment, that makes it hard to look away. You feel a small smile tugging at your lips, your eyes prickling with tears you can’t explain.

“So…” you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the delicate warmth in the room. “You’re looking for love?”

Jimin glances up at you, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Kind of, yeah,” he admits with a soft chuckle, and then grins, teasingly adding, “But love songs also make me a lot of money.”

Before you can react, Hwa-Young chimes in, flashing a proud smile. “We’re rich!” she declares, her enthusiasm unfiltered and unapologetic.

Jimin bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking as he looks at his daughter. “Hwa-Young,” he says with gentle patience, “we’ve talked about this. We don’t go around saying we’re rich.” He leans down slightly, catching her gaze. “Yes, we have money. But we’re just like everyone else.”

Hwa-Young’s cheeks flush pink as she looks down, sheepishly nodding. “Oh, sorry, I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” Jimin says, brushing off her embarrassment with a warm smile. He tousles her hair affectionately, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, which draws another giggle from her.

The scene before you is almost too much—too warm, too full of love, too foreign to your own experience—and yet you can’t bring yourself to look away. Instead, you sit there, taking it all in, the ache in your chest mingling with a kind of longing you don’t quite know how to name.

This bond Jimin has with his daughter—this easy, overflowing love—reminds you of something you once had, something you still miss deeply. It’s the kind of connection you shared with your dad, back when his hugs felt like a shield from the world and his laughter made everything seem lighter. Warm and unconditional.

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how rare this feeling is in your life now. Men have always seemed distant, their affections guarded or transactional. Whatever Jimin has in his heart, it’s something entirely different—something you haven’t found in romance and can’t help but yearn for.

And as you sit there, watching him whisper something to Hwa-Young that sends her into another fit of giggles, you wonder—not for the first time—if you’ve spent too long searching in the wrong places.

Days have blurred into weeks, a gentle rhythm forming in your life. Most evenings, you find yourself at Jimin’s house, Hwa-Young nestled comfortably in your lap, her laughter ringing out like wind chimes as Jimin’s fingers dance over guitar strings. His voice fills the room, tender and haunting, and you let it wrap around you like a warm blanket after a long day. On the weekends, when you’re not exhausted from work, you sit there longer, hours slipping away in a haze of quiet conversations, soft melodies, and the kind of peace you haven’t felt in years.

You wouldn’t call it romantic—at least not yet. But there’s something about being near him, hearing his voice, watching the way he interacts with his daughter, that makes your chest feel a little lighter, your smile a little wider. It’s enough for now, and that alone feels like a gift.

Today is a rare day off, a pause in the steady hum of life. Bundled up against the cold, you step outside to toss your trash, the crisp winter air nipping at your cheeks. As you near the bins, you notice Jimin on the same errand. His silhouette is soft against the gray sky, breath rising in small, fleeting clouds. When he spots you, his expression brightens, and he lifts a hand to wave before crossing the short distance to you.

“Not working today?” he asks, his voice warm against the chill as he offers you one of those soft, heart-stopping smiles that always seem to linger on his pink lips.

You shake your head, a grin tugging at your own mouth. “Nope. I’m on vacation until after New Year’s.”

“Lucky you,” he says, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“I did,” you say with a nod, the memory bringing a flicker of warmth to your face. “What about you guys?”

“We had a great time,” he replies, his smile widening. “Hwa-Young’s grandparents came over, along with my parents and grandparents. It was nice.”

He pauses, tilting his head slightly as his eyes sweep over you. “Are you freezing?”

You laugh softly, though your chattering teeth betray you. “A little,” you admit, bouncing slightly on your feet in an attempt to ward off the biting cold.

Jimin chuckles, the sound low and warm, and then his expression shifts, thoughtful. “You know,” he begins, “you’ve never shown me your place. Mind if I come over and see it?”

His question catches you off guard, and your cheeks flush a shade of red that has nothing to do with the temperature. You fumble for a response, nodding quickly, your breath misting in the air as you manage to mumble, “Sure.”

“Great,” he says, and you swear his smile softens even further as he falls into step beside you, his presence as easy and natural as the falling snow.

As you lead him toward your door, you can’t help but feel a flutter of nerves mix with excitement. For weeks now, you’ve been a guest in his home, soaking in the warmth and love that radiates there. And now, for the first time, he’s stepping into your space, a piece of your world.

You let Jimin step inside, his presence filling the quiet space like a comforting hum. You’ve never known someone who could so effortlessly invite themselves over without it feeling awkward, but somehow, with him, it’s different—endearing, even. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself, or the subtle confidence in his smile. Still, you can’t help but wonder what could possibly interest him about your small, modest home.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” he says as his gaze drifts over your living room, and something about his tone makes you pause. You realize he must have known the people who lived here before.

“Oh, um, thanks,” you murmur, shifting your weight slightly before offering, “Would you like some tea?”

He nods, his smile softening as he walks to your sofa and settles onto it, as if he belongs there. “Yes, thank you,” he says warmly, his voice carrying the quiet ease of familiarity.

You move to the kitchen, the gentle clinking of mugs and the quiet hiss of boiling water filling the air as you prepare the tea. When it’s ready, you return, the cups warm in your hands, and you sit down beside him. It’s only then, as you hand him his mug and feel the heat from his arm so close to yours, that it hits you—this is the first time you’ve been alone with Jimin. Without Hwa-Young’s cheerful chatter filling the air, the room feels heavier, more intimate.

“Where’s Hwa-Young?” you ask, the question escaping your lips before you can stop yourself.

Jimin’s smile deepens, his expression softening in that way it always does when he talks about his daughter. “She’s at school. They’re offering extra classes today.”

You nod, sipping your tea, the delicate warmth spreading through your chest. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s charged in a way you can’t quite explain. It lingers, stretching like the glow of sunset before nightfall, until Jimin shifts slightly, turning toward you.

“I actually wanted to thank you,” he says, his voice low, sincere, and when you glance at him, your brows furrow in confusion. He chuckles at the look, shaking his head slightly before continuing, “For being so kind to Hwa-Young.”

His words catch you off guard, and your heart twists as you see the gratitude in his eyes. You can’t help but smile back, warmth blooming in your chest. “Of course! She’s so sweet and cute—it’s impossible not to love her,” you say, the image of her bright smile flashing in your mind.

Jimin chuckles softly, but there’s something else in his expression—something wistful. He takes another sip of tea, his gaze drifting for a moment before he murmurs, “Not everyone finds her sweet.”

His words are quiet, almost as if spoken to himself, but they linger in the air, heavy with meaning. You blink, surprised, your curiosity bubbling to the surface before you can stop it. “Why?”

The single word slips out, unguarded, and as soon as you say it, you feel your cheeks flush. But Jimin doesn’t seem to mind. He sets his mug down gently on the table, his fingers brushing against the handle, and his gaze meets yours.

Jimin’s lips part, and you know he’s about to say something—something that feels heavy and important—but before the words can form, the faint scrape of metal against metal cuts through the moment. A key slides into the lock, followed by the soft click of the door swinging open. The chill of winter slips in, brushing against your skin and swirling into the warmth of the room. You instinctively turn your head toward the entrance, your breath hitching as your brother, Yoongi, steps inside.

You recognize him immediately—not just by sight, but by the familiar rhythm of his grumbling and the huff of annoyance that escapes his lips as he wrestles with an armful of grocery bags. Only Yoongi, you think, would crash into your life unannounced and utterly unapologetic. After all, it’s only him and Namjoon who have a spare key to your place. But still—why now? Why does it have to be now of all times?

Yoongi’s presence is as it always is: sharp-edged, protective, and oddly comforting. For a man who once told you to “be a grown-ass adult,” he sure as hell has a habit of showing up with groceries and cooking dinner for you like it’s a duty he’s assigned himself. You’ve long since stopped questioning it. This is how Yoongi loves—through the quiet, practical acts of care that speak volumes even when his words don’t.

He steps into the living room, his boots leaving faint marks of melted snow on your floor. But then he stops, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of you and Jimin sitting side by side on the sofa. His gaze flits between the two of you, sharp and assessing, and his lips press into a line.

“Hi,” he says at last, his voice low and raspier than usual, the single word carrying more weight than it should.

“Hi,” you reply flatly, trying to mask the unease creeping into your chest. From the corner of your eye, you notice Jimin glance at you, his brow furrowing in quiet curiosity. He doesn’t say anything, but the unspoken question hangs in the air.

You wave a dismissive hand toward your brother. “Just put it in the kitchen,” you say, gesturing at the bags he’s still holding. Anything to break the tension, to redirect the moment back to something mundane. But as Yoongi moves toward the kitchen, the clatter of grocery bags and the hum of the fridge door opening do little to quiet the storm of thoughts brewing in your head.

What had Jimin been about to say? Would he pick up the thread again, or was the moment already gone?

When Yoongi finishes unpacking, he saunters back into the living room with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who knows how to make their presence known. His gaze flicks between you and Jimin once more, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” he asks, his voice light but tinged with mock annoyance.

It’s such a Yoongi thing to say—half-serious, half-teasing, his version of poking at you just to see how you’ll react. You sigh, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward despite yourself.

You huff, crossing your arms as you fix your brother with an exasperated glare. “Yeah, yeah, thank you so much,” you mutter, waving him off with a flick of your hand. But Yoongi doesn’t head back to the kitchen. Instead, his eyes widen, darting between you and the man sitting beside you.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, his voice low but loaded with incredulity. His gaze locks onto Jimin like he’s just uncovered a secret scandal. “Is that… is that Park Jimin?”

You groan, rolling your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t stay stuck. “Yeah,” you reply, deadpan. “He’s my neighbor.”

Yoongi’s mouth opens slightly, as if he’s struggling to process this groundbreaking revelation. “You never told me that,” he accuses, his tone dripping with disbelief, as though withholding this information is some heinous crime.

Jimin, to his credit, sits there gracefully, his eyes flitting between you and Yoongi, an amused smile tugging at his lips. He shifts slightly in his seat, clearly unsure whether to be flattered or just let the moment pass.

You sigh, feeling heat creep into your cheeks. “This is my big brother, Yoongi,” you say, gesturing toward him with the weariness of someone who knows this interaction is going to get worse before it gets better.

Jimin tilts his head in greeting, his posture as warm and composed as ever, and then extends his hand, palm steady and inviting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice velvet-smooth.

Yoongi, of course, isn’t one to miss a beat. He grins, flashing his signature gummy smile as he takes Jimin’s hand in his own. “The pleasure’s all mine. My wife is obsessed with you.”

And there it is—that word. Obsessed. You cringe, the flush in your cheeks deepening until it feels like your face could rival the color of the setting sun. You sink slightly into the sofa cushions, wishing they’d just swallow you whole. Who isn’t in love with Jimin? you think, casting a side glance at the man in question.

Jimin chuckles softly, a sound that feels like the crackle of a cozy fireplace, and you catch a faint blush rising up his neck, settling on his cheeks. It’s subtle, but it’s there—proof that even someone as seemingly untouchable as him can get flustered. He doesn’t say anything to Yoongi’s comment, just offers a polite smile and a quiet laugh.

Yoongi, oblivious—or maybe purposefully oblivious—plops himself into the armchair directly across from the two of you. The chair creaks slightly under his weight, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if settling in for a long interrogation.

“So…” Yoongi begins, his tone annoyingly casual. “What were you two talking about?”

You clench your teeth, trying to stave off the irritation rising in your chest. Yoongi might as well have brought a flashing neon sign reading “Third Wheel” and planted it in your living room. Couldn’t he see that he was interrupting? Couldn’t he feel the delicate atmosphere he’d just shattered?

You shoot him a pointed look, silently willing him to disappear back into the kitchen—or, better yet, back to wherever he came from with those damn groceries. But Yoongi doesn’t budge. He sits there, grinning, blissfully ignorant—or perhaps intentionally obtuse—as if his mere presence isn’t practically cockblocking you.

You glance at Jimin, wondering if he feels the shift, the way the air between you had been light and full of possibility just moments ago, only to be deflated by your brother’s untimely arrival. But Jimin doesn’t seem annoyed. Instead, he looks… entertained. Like this is some private little comedy show unfolding before him.

You can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

You don’t say anything. The words sit heavy on your tongue, tangled in hesitation, because continuing this conversation feels too personal—too vulnerable—especially with your brother sitting there like an uninvited witness. Jimin, perceptive as ever, is quick to steer the moment in another direction. His voice is a balm, smooth and unhurried.

“I was just asking your sister if she’d like to come see me perform at my concert in May,” he says, his eyes shifting toward you, warm and expectant.

Your head snaps up, and you gape at him, blinking as if you’ve misheard. Does he mean his sold-out stadium tour? Your heart stumbles over itself, and beside you, Yoongi looks just as stunned, his jaw slack. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head—probably imagining being in your shoes just so he could make his wife’s wildest dreams come true.

“Ehm… yeah, if you want me there?” you manage to stammer, the words slipping out in a breathless, uncertain tumble. You can’t tell if it’s a question or an answer. You’re too taken aback to know.

“Of course,” Jimin replies, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, his gaze lingering on you in a way that feels both casual and intimate. “You’ve helped me so much these past weeks. It’s the least I can do.” His hand brushes against your thigh—light, fleeting, but electric.

For a moment, your entire world narrows to the warmth of his touch, the gentle cadence of his voice. The blood rushes to your face, heat pooling in your cheeks, and you feel like you might combust right there on the sofa. If only Yoongi weren’t sitting directly across from you, his hawk-like gaze taking in every detail, his brow furrowed as if mentally cataloging the scene to interrogate you later.

“Backstage pass, too,” Jimin adds casually, as though he hasn’t just turned your world upside down.

You barely nod, unable to form a coherent thought. Yoongi, however, stares at you, his expression flitting between disbelief and muted jealousy. You avoid his gaze, knowing full well what’s going through his mind: Why didn’t you tell me Park Jimin was your neighbor? His wife would combust on the spot if she ever found out.

Moments later, Jimin rises, his presence still lingering even as he moves toward the door. “I should head back,” he says, his voice warm, though you can sense his reluctance to leave.

You trail behind him to the door, your heart pounding. “Thank you,” you manage softly as he slips on his shoes.

He turns back, his smile lighting the space between you. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

You nod, unable to do much else as the door clicks shut behind him, and the room plunges into a momentary stillness.

But the peace doesn’t last.

The second the door closes, Yoongi’s voice cuts through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “Why didn’t you tell me Park Jimin is your neighbor?” His tone is sharp, his eyes narrowing at you with all the intensity of an older brother who feels personally wronged.

You sigh, crossing your arms in a gesture of defiance. “Because I don’t want you telling your wife,” you shoot back, leveling him with a pointed look. “The man deserves some privacy, and I know exactly what would happen if you let her find out. She’d be at my place every day trying to ‘bump into him.’ No, thank you.”

Yoongi scoffs, clearly unimpressed with your reasoning. “You act like I’d tell her on purpose,” he grumbles, though his tone betrays his guilt.

“You would tell her,” you counter, your voice firm. “Maybe not on purpose, but you wouldn’t be able to keep it to yourself. One glass of wine at dinner and it’d slip out.”

Yoongi opens his mouth to argue, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he leans back in the chair with a resigned huff. “Fine,” he mutters. “But if you end up dating the guy, you have to let me and my wife meet him.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling in frustration as you grab one of the throw pillows and hurl it at him. “Get out of my business, Yoongi.”

But even as you say it, you can’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. Because for all his meddling, Yoongi is still your brother—and no matter how annoyed you feel in the moment, there’s comfort in knowing he’ll always be there, grocery bags in hand, ready to pry into your life whether you like it or not.

Still, as you glance at the empty spot where Jimin had been sitting just minutes ago, you can’t help but feel the shift in the air—the quiet sense of something new blooming, fragile and undefined, but full of possibility.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and the world outside hums with the anticipation of fireworks and fleeting resolutions, but you’ve chosen solitude. For once, you’ve turned down your friends’ lively invitations and decided against more time with family—Christmas was enough. Tonight, it’s just you, the quiet of your home, and the comforting glow of your playlist.

Jimin’s voice drifts through the room, one of his songs filling the air like a soft embrace. You sway to the rhythm, your body moving without thought, the melody wrapping around you until it feels like a conversation—a secret shared between the two of you.

Then comes the knock, sharp and unexpected. It cuts through the moment like a thread snapping, and you pause the music, your feet hesitating as you move toward the door.

When you open it, your heart clenches at the sight before you. Hwa-Young stands there, her small frame trembling, her tiny face scrunched with worry. Her lower lip quivers, and her breath fogs in the cold air.

“Daddy’s crying,” she says, her voice cracking, a heartbreaking sniffle escaping her. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

The ache in your chest tightens, but there’s no time to think. Grabbing your keys and slipping on your shoes, you pull her into a quick hug before locking the door behind you. The icy air bites at your skin as you walk her back to her house, your heart thundering in your chest.

Jimin’s crying? The thought pounds in your mind, relentless. The man who seems to hold everything together, even when the edges fray—what could make him cry? The worry claws at you as you follow Hwa-Young inside, her tiny hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you hear it—soft, raw, unguarded. The sound of Jimin crying seeps into the air, low and melodic in a way that only he could make heartbreak sound beautiful. But it’s a beauty that twists your stomach into knots.

Hwa-Young leads you toward his studio, her steps hesitant but trusting. And there he is, seated on the floor amidst a sea of scattered paper, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. A pen trembles in his hand, a few smudged lines of ink staining the page beneath it. Tears drip from his cheeks, dotting the paper like the punctuation of sorrow.

You step forward, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. Sitting down beside him on the floor, you glance back at Hwa-Young, who hovers in the doorway, her wide eyes fixed on her father.

“What’s wrong?” you ask softly, your voice a whisper meant to break through the fragile moment without shattering it. You want to reach out, to touch him, to offer some piece of comfort, but you hold back. This is his pain, his space—you can’t rush into it uninvited.

Jimin lifts his head slightly, sniffling as he swipes at his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand. “Oh,” he breathes, his voice hoarse but still laced with that quiet magic that lingers even in his brokenness. “I’m just trying to write a song.”

His words catch you off guard, simple yet heavy, as if they carry more weight than he’s letting on. You glance down at the scattered papers and see fragments of lyrics—lines crossed out, others rewritten, the ink blurred where his tears have fallen.

Your chest tightens as you realize the depth of his struggle. Writing isn’t just an act for him—it’s a pouring out of his soul, and tonight, it seems that soul is heavier than it can bear.

“Jimin…” you murmur, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a wish to ease the ache you see in him. He doesn’t meet your gaze, his eyes fixed on the paper as if searching for answers in the empty spaces between the lines.

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes still rimmed with a faint redness, and then looks past you to his daughter. “Ah, did you get worried, Hwa-Young?” His voice is gentle, like a melody subdued by sadness, a softness meant only for her.

She nods, her small fists rubbing at her tear-streaked cheeks. “Yeah,” she sniffs, her voice trembling. “I don’t want to see daddy cry.”

Before you can react, she runs to him, her tiny arms flinging themselves around his neck with such force that he nearly topples backward. He catches her in his embrace, holding her tightly, like she’s the anchor keeping him grounded. He presses a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there as though drawing strength from her. “I’m okay,” he murmurs against her hair, his voice low but steady. “Sometimes writing hurts a little. But it’s a good kind of pain.”

“But I’m good, I promise,” he says, pulling back just enough to cup her cheek. His thumb brushes away the lingering tears as his expression softens, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smile. She studies him for a moment, her worried eyes searching his face for any cracks in the truth, but she seems to believe him—or at least want to.

“Okay,” she whispers, her shoulders relaxing.

You take her calming presence as your cue. Shifting slightly on the floor, you ask gently, “Do you want to talk about the lyrics?”

His lips press together, and you notice the way he chews on the inside of his bottom lip, hesitant. But after a moment, he nods, the vulnerability in his expression clear. “Yeah, okay.”

Hwa-Young slides off his lap, still watching him protectively, and retreats to the couch with a little bounce, her legs swinging off the edge. She doesn’t go far—close enough to keep him in her line of sight but distant enough to give you space. You and Jimin remain seated on the floor, papers sprawled around you like autumn leaves scattered by a restless wind.

“Alright,” he says softly, picking up a page and smoothing out the creases with his fingertips. He pauses for a moment, gathering himself, and then reads aloud, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. 

“Even if you try to make believable excuses again, even if you try to close your eyes and turn away, you know that it’s already broken, that it can’t be reversed.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding, like the ache of something lost. You sit with them for a moment, letting their weight settle over you, your chest tightening at the raw beauty of his sorrow.

“Do you really think some things can’t be reversed?” you ask finally, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid of breaking the spell.

He shrugs one shoulder, a small, almost self-deprecating smile ghosting across his lips. “I think... maybe some things can. But not everything. There are cracks too deep, things shattered too completely. Sometimes, you just... can’t put it back together.”

His gaze shifts downward, his fingers toying with the edge of the paper, as though the lyrics themselves hold the answers he’s searching for. There’s a quiet sadness in his words, an acceptance of something unspoken, and you can’t help but wonder what he’s alluding to.

You nod slowly, the truth of his words sinking in, even if you don’t fully understand what’s behind them. “Your lyrics...” you pause, searching for the right way to describe them, “they’re painfully beautiful. They feel like they come from somewhere deep.”

His eyes flicker back to you, and for a moment, you see a flash of gratitude—or perhaps relief—in his expression. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word simple but heartfelt. “It’s... complicated, you know?”

You glance at the chaotic scrawl on the page, the ink etched like unspoken confessions. “Do you have more?” you ask softly, your voice barely breaking the stillness.

Jimin’s gaze lowers, his lips parting as though the words might resist leaving him. But then, they pour out, raw and unguarded. 

“When falling asleep, drunk,And being unable to remember anything,I thought about it, “what am I doing now?”Why am I the only one like this—no, everyone is like this.The me who pretends to be okay every time,I find him pathetic.” 

His voice wavers, each word heavy with the ghosts of emotions too painful to name.

The weight of his words hits you like a wave, swelling in your chest, rising to your throat. You feel your eyes sting, and you blink hard against the tears threatening to spill. Is that really how he feels? Or how he has felt? The thought aches, cutting deep into you.

“It’s not really how I feel right now,” he murmurs, but his voice cracks under the strain, a betrayal of the truth that lingers beneath. “But these are feelings I’ve had before, and...” His voice falters, choked by the weight of what he’s carrying.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, your own voice thick with emotion. Without hesitation, you slide closer to him, wrapping him in a hug that feels both fragile and firm. Your hand finds his, trembling slightly, and you trace soft circles on his skin, hoping to ground him, to offer something—anything—that might soothe him.

At first, he doesn’t move, his breath shuddering as if holding back. But then, he crumbles, his head falling against your shoulder as his tears come freely. The sound of his crying is quiet but heart-wrenching, and all you can do is hold him, cradling his pain as though it were your own.

After a moment, he pulls back slightly, his face still streaked with tears but his voice steadier now. “I’ve written more,” he says, sliding another paper across the floor toward you. His fingers tremble as they release it.

You pick up the page, your eyes scanning the ink smudges that seem almost like tear stains. You take a breath and begin to read aloud, your voice catching as the words unravel before you. 

“The same day all over,goes by, yet again. How long should I endure through this? To be able to return...”

The words linger in the air, heavy and sharp as glass, and your voice falters, the ache in his handwriting so palpable it feels as if it’s cut into you too. You set the paper down carefully, as though it’s something precious and breakable, and look at him, your heart twisting.

“Oh, Jimin,” you breathe, your voice barely audible. It’s all you can say. Words feel too small for the depth of what you’re witnessing. You pull him into another hug, tighter this time, as if trying to physically piece him back together, though you know that’s impossible.

His head rests against yours, and you hear his breath hitch, feel the faint tremor that still runs through him. In this moment, you realize that being here, holding him, is the only thing you can do. You can’t rewrite his past, can’t undo the pain that shaped these lyrics, but maybe—just maybe—your presence is enough to remind him that he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice catching on the edges of his words as he looks up at you, his eyes glistening with lingering emotion. “Sometimes writing can be... exhausting. Emotionally, mostly. It’s like digging up the past, uncovering feelings I thought I’d buried, things I’ve been trying to ignore. But turning them into music—it helps. It’s like breathing life into the pain, giving it purpose.”

You nod, feeling the weight of his confession settle into the quiet space between you. “I get that,” you murmur. “I’m just glad I can help, even if it’s only a little.”

His gaze softens, gratitude radiating from his tired but sincere expression. “Thank you for listening,” he says, his voice almost a whisper before he leans forward to hug you. The embrace feels tender, fleeting, but carries a warmth that lingers even as he pulls away. He wipes a stray tear from his cheek with the back of his hand and pauses, his eyes scanning the scattered pages on the floor. “Do you think it’s any good?” he asks, gathering the papers with a careful, almost reverent touch.

You glance at the crumpled sheets in his hands, the raw emotion woven into each line. “I think it’s painfully good,” you say, the words heavy with sincerity. “It moves you in a way that sticks—it’s the kind of raw honesty that people can’t help but relate to.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, bittersweet and beautiful. “Sharing the pain... it makes it feel lighter somehow,” he admits, setting the papers down on the desk as though releasing a burden. The vulnerability in his voice tugs at something deep inside you, and when he turns back, sitting beside you, his presence feels closer than ever—like the warmth of sunlight just brushing your skin.

You’re acutely aware of the space between you, or rather, the lack of it. The heat of his thigh grazing yours is magnetic, grounding and electrifying all at once. You turn your head, your gaze finding his profile—delicate, yet so undeniably strong. There’s a quiet grace about him, a dainty elegance in the way he carries himself, even when baring his soul. His honesty, his unfiltered emotions, they pull at you like a tide, drawing you closer without permission.

You don’t know what this is—this invisible thread between you, taut and shimmering in the quiet. Is it just you? Are you the only one feeling this pull? Or does he feel it too, this gentle but unrelenting gravity between you? Is he always this open, this raw, with everyone? Or is this... something else?

The questions swirl in your mind, but you don’t dare voice them. Instead, you sit there, your thoughts tangled, the warmth of him beside you keeping the world at bay, if only for this fleeting moment.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv @mikrokookiex

→ Series taglist: @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @hnnnjm @flaneuseonthestreets @miniesjams32 @graydolan12

→ Author’s endnote: okay, confession time: I might have totally ugly cried while writing this chapter, and… wow, it hit hard. I’ve poured a lot of myself into Jimin’s character—like, not exactly me, but in the way his lyrics carry that raw, emotional depth (which honestly feels like the whole of Bangtan, let’s be real 😭). Anyway! I need to know—what did you think of this chapter? And more importantly, what pain do you think Jimin is hiding? 👀 Spill your theories, because my brain is doing the little ‘evil laugh writer’ thing right now 🤔✨

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[stellarsturniolos]

INTRODUCING: nurse!reader ... paired with matt sturniolo. ( inspo credit: @mattsbows )

the bitter scent of antiseptic, hands that are always cracked and dry from washing them so often, always stressed from working too hard yet still feeling like you're not doing enough, back pain that never seems to fade, and the intense desire to stay in bed for an entire weekend.

it had been an exhausting, hectic, and just plain busy day in the emergency room at the largest hospital in los angeles. from severe cases like an elderly man who went into cardiac arrest, to a basic case of the common fucking cold, you'd seen it all. and you just wanted to go home. or, more specifically, to matt's home.

but you couldn't. because you had to work the goddamn 24 hour shift, and you were currently only on hour 12. you hadn't been able to stop for a snack or a piss or even a simple drink of water because you'd been running from room to room, checking vitals and administering medications and answering questions.

at two o'clock in the morning, when most of your patients were snoozing and the hustle in the ER had calmed down a bit, you decided to step away for a quick moment... just to catch your breath.

you walked outside and turned on your phone for the first time in hours. you grinned when you saw text message after text message from matt. just telling you about his day, telling you about the video he and his brothers filmed that afternoon, sending you a picture of a cute dog he met on his run, telling you he missed you.

it was all very, very sweet but it just made you long for home even more.

the latest message was sent only ten minutes ago, so before you could stop yourself, you were dialing his phone number. you had his number memorized, of course, even though you don't even have your own number memorized. which matt never failed to tease you about.

"hey, baby.." he greets you, his voice so soft and full of love. "how's work?"

"it's... work," you say with a gentle laugh before unloading on him like you do way too often. "i'm so tired, babe. like, i desperately need a coffee, but the closest coffee shop is closed because it's the middle of the fucking night and i'm too lazy to walk all the way down to the cafeteria." you exhale heavily. "i wanna come home. i miss you."

he chuckles softly. "i miss you more, pretty girl." you can almost hear his smile through the phone and it warms your heart so much. "hey, i hate to cut this call short, but i really have to take a shit."

you're glad he can't see your sad pout. "that's alright, baby. i should probably get back to work anyway. i love you. see you in, like, ten hours."

"i love you too, my baby. take care of yourself, okay? i'll see you soon." and then he hangs up. he must've really had to shit, you think to yourself.

you allow yourself a few more seconds to pout and miss him and feel sorry for yourself, but then you go back to work. you get water for a few patients and then decide to sit and do some paperwork whilst you can.

that's when one of your fellow nurses taps you on the shoulder and informs you that you have a surprise in the waiting area. you frown at her, confused, but she just winks and waves you away.

when you go out to the waiting room, your eyes widen. because there stands matt, with a large thermos of hot coffee and a few of your favorite chocolate protein bars.

you immediately get teary eyed when you see his beautiful, soft, kind smile. you step closer to him and sniffle, feeling overwhelmed with love and gratitude.

you wrap your arms around him, hugging him tighter than you've ever hugged anyone before.

"matt..." you murmur, your voice muffled against his neck. "you didn't have to come all the way out here just to bring me coffee, y'know?"

"i know, sweetheart," he says, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "but i wanted to."

"you're the best." you say as you pull back enough to look up into his eyes. "seriously, i didn't think guys like you even existed. you.. you're so good to me. and i really do appreciate everything you do for me."

"i know you do, baby." then his lips quirk up into a smirk and he leans in close again to whisper in your ear. "i can't wait for you to come home later.. so you can show me just how much you appreciate me."

you feel a shiver go down your spine. fuck.. now you want to go home even more.

@ stellarsturniolos.

[princessofgotham777]

Dating Jason Todd (Part Two)

fanfic type: angst, fluff, comfort (ongoing)

If you liked the Titans show but wish they handled Jason’s story line differently you might like this fic!

Hey so this is in fact my first time writing fanfiction (idk what my life has come to). Sorry if it’s cringy but also I would eat this up cause I LOVE some good angsty comfort fanfiction. I won’t write smut. I don’t think I’m gonna do requests but if you have any ideas feel free to let me know. Also of course I don’t own any DC characters this is purely fanfiction. Although I’ve had tumblr for a bit I’m not really used to posting stuff so sorry if I don’t format everything well. Thank you and I hope you enjoy. (I hope you like run-on sentences💀) (if you don’t like it don’t be rude just move on dude😃🧍‍♀️)

So story line, this doesn’t really take place in any specific universe but I’m gonna be pulling concepts from Titans, The Batman, Under the Red Hood, and whatever lore I remember from the CW shows cause I grew up watching those, then just my imagination of course. The beginning takes place when Jason is still Robin but he’s no longer apart of the titans. Reader is referred to as she/her btw.

Warnings: talking about death, suicide, depression, torture (it’s not graphic I hate gore it’s just sad)

Part Two: Fear and Love

You stood in Dick’s bedroom as he packed. “You can’t just leave me here,” you said.

“I have to go find Jason and you can’t come with me,” he says.

“You know I can help.”

“I also know joker is after you, if you came to Gotham we’d be giving joker exactly what he wants,” Dick says. “Come on I’ve gotta wake up the others before I leave to let them know Jason’s off to get himself killed.”

“Dick!” You say. He looks at you with that cold glare you’re oh so familiar with. “You need to promise me something,” you say seriously.

“I’m listening,” Dick says.

“And you can’t tell anyone I’m asking you to do this, especially not Jason,” you say. You and Dick were inches apart now, making eye contact so intense you could feel a shift in the energy of the room.

“What is it Y/N,” Dick says softly.

“I need you to protect Jason,” you begin saying.

“Y/N, you know him he’s impulsive and if he wants to do something nobody can-“ you cut him off.

Teary eyed you say, “I know, but if anything happens to him I won’t forgive myself…and I won’t forgive you. Just promise me you’ll do your best.”

“I promise Y/N” Dick says. His voice is cold yet soft, almost like he wants to say more but is stopping himself.

Dick woke everyone up and told the team Jason had gone to Gotham.

“Idiot,” Kori said.

“Literally took the words out of my mouth but unfortunately he’s my problem,” Dick glances at you, “Our problem.”

“Should anyone go with you?” Gar asks.

“No, I want you guys to stick together,” he says to Kori, Gar and Rachel. “And keep an eye on Y/N.” Dick adds.

That sentence pissed you off. He starts to leave and as he walks past you say, “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” This was one of the times Dick realized why you got along with Jason so well. Dick leaves and you immediately head for Jason’s room.

You start searching for any note he might’ve left you. After you look in his room you go tear apart your own trying to find any message or hint Jason left you. Ten minutes later you find a folded piece of notebook paper under your pink baseball cap that says “Chicago”. Jason had bought the hat for you after you found out he was Robin.

Y/N, I’m sorry for leaving you alone but right now you being as far away from me and Gotham is the safest thing for you. Stay at the tower, even though it pains me to say it, I know Dick will keep you safe, and hell if he fails then pretty sure our friends with sunlight, darkness and animal transforming powers will be enough to protect you. Don’t come looking for me, I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you. I’ll be back in no time.

With love -Jay

You called Jason…he didn’t answer. You called Dick…he answered.

“What’s up,” Dick said.

“I will stay at the tower on one condition,” you say.

“Let’s hear it,” Dick says.

“Call me with updates and if anything drastic happens don’t wait till everything’s fine to tell me, I don’t care if it’s bad news or good news I just can’t be in the dark,” you say.

“Of course,” Dick says.

It had been three hours, no calls from Dick, radio silence from Jason, Barbra had no news, even Alfred knew nothing. You had exhausted everyone you possibly could have asked when suddenly you remembered one more person. Jason’s best friend, not you, not Gar, Roy Harper. You didn’t have his number but you had his girlfriend Thea’s. Thea Queen also known as a close friend of yours who happens to be the sister of Oliver Queen, the arrow.

“Thea hey I’m kinda having a crisis,” you say.

“Oh? What’s going on?” She said with a mixture of valley girl and New York accent.

“Jokers been leaving threats against Jason and I around Gotham and he’s gone without me and nobody can find him…so I was wondering if Roy has heard anything?” You asked.

“Oh my god, I have no idea but here I’ll put him on the phone,” she said.

“Hello?” Roy says.

“Hey do you know Jason’s missing?” You say.

“I do now, what’s going on?” He says.

“Jokers been leaving notes around Gotham threatening Jason and I, Jason left last night to go by himself even though him and Dick were meant to go together. He doesn’t have a tracker but we’re positive he’s gone to Gotham to try and find joker alone.” “So he’s not called you or anything?”

“Wow…no this is the first I’m hearing any of this, so where are you now?” Roy asks.

“Titans tower in San Francisco,” you say.

“Okay I will try to get ahold of Jason and actually if he has the wallet I gave him there’s actually a tracker in there…I didn’t know it was there when I gave it to him, courtesy of Oliver’s failed attempt at tracking me but I’ll try to see if I can find him.”

“Okay thank you so much, call me back as soon as you can,” you say. Twenty minutes pass and you hear a knock on the door. You open it to see Rachel with a plate of food.

“Can I come in?” She asks.

“Course yeah,” you say.

“So how are you doing…sorry that’s a stupid question” Rachel says.

“No it’s okay, I’m doing umm…I mean I’ve been better,” you laugh nervously. “I just wish he accepted Dick’s help and didn’t go off by himself.”

“Yeah,” she says to let you know she’s listening.

“And I understand why he did it you know it’s not because he’s got anything against Dick or Bruce or titans despite what everyone thinks, he just wants to be good enough. I wish he understood getting help and working with others doesn’t mean you’re weak and incapable.” You say. Just as Rachel’s about to say something your phone rings. It’s Dick.

“What’s happened?” You say quickly.

“The cops are all here, we’re at that abandoned amusement park near the pier. Jason’s not here but we think he was. There’s blood, it’s not a concerning amount…we’re sending it over to the lab. We pretty much know it was him though cause said blood is on playing cards,” Dick says.

“Shit,” you say. “Okay wait so I called Roy and he said there’s a tracker in Jason’s wallet so if it’s on him and it still works he’s gonna call me,” you say.

“Okay call me when-“ Dick gets cut off when Roy calls you. You pick up quickly.

“The wallets at some random street in Gotham…” when Roy gives you the street name you immediately recognize it as where Poison Ivy kidnapped you a couple years ago.

“Okay thank you I’m gonna call Dick,” you say. You call Dick and put him on speaker.

“The wallets at 345 Ribbon St,” you say.

“We’re on our way,” Dick says.

I hope you guys liked part two🫡🩷 Please like the fic if you enjoyed it and want to see more cause I’ve got a whole storyline and backstory and many more ideas and want to know people are enjoying my writing.

Here’s my Masterlist so you can read the other parts.

Masterlist

[willowser]

honestly if i had a bigger brain, i would write an entire android shouto fic

[chirpsythismorning]

El being *12 hours earlier* than the Cali timeline when she arrives at Nina. Will saying ‘it’s been 9 hrs’ in the scene following his monologue in the van.

We know that at some point their timelines merged when they arrived to save her…

But we don’t know when exactly those alignments took place when they were still apart… which just makes you wonder…

[dootznbootz]

Menelaus rambles a lot about not only Helen, but also Hermione. About how she used to say Olive like "Olifs". How she lost her first tooth running too fast and running into a low branch while out with Helen. How he'd sometimes wake up to Hermione leaning over him and poking his face to say, "Dad, can we go see the horses?" even though it was barely daylight. How she was much nicer waking Helen and how he thinks Hermione did that on purpose because she found "dad's face funny". How her favorite color was every color.

And Odysseus listens.

And he thinks about how his son only had a few teeth coming in when he left, teething on everything. How he could only say one syllable with his babbles. How his son needed balance to stand but Odysseus was so proud that Telemachus was very good at rolling over. How his son loved pulling at his and Penelope's hair.

How his son would be talking, walking, maybe even lost his first tooth by now. And he doesn't even know if he'll ever know his son's favorite color.

[introspectivememories]

i miss when the main personality trait for dabi was "even tho we have differing goals and wildly different ways of achieving it, know that you're my little sibling and i will always love you" and then the reveal came and hori was like "you stupid fucking idiot, you really thought you could have big bro!dabi?? he fucking hates them you idiot"

[good-to-drive]

I totally agree with the general consensus that Ringo provided a lot of emotional support and coolheadedness to the other beatles to the point where they'd have probably killed each other without him but I do also wonder sometimes how much of that is being supernaturally patient and easygoing and how much of it is Ringo just having a tumultuous and isolated childhood where he was never taught to recognize and assert his own emotional needs so he became a blank slate on which others could process their emotions

(And tbh I also wonder how an inability to access or assert his feelings may have contributed to his tendency to process pain by numbing himself and the pretty shitty way he treated women)

[flugame-mp3]

SEASON NINE FINALE WAS WILD. I HAVE MANY MANY THOUGHTS. WHAT JUST HAPPENED. A FUCKING ROLLER COASTER FOR SURE

[petrichoraline]

clawing at sheets, beating the f out of the matress, yelling, i am not okay, i am not normal about this, i had the most inhumane reaction to part 4 and am i ashamed? yeah but can you blame me!!