#this shit can be so painful and I hope this can help

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

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

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

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

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

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

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

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

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

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

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

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

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

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

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

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

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

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

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

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You do know. 

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

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

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi.

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

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

“So you just… showed up?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

“So why did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “It was something.”

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

But you don’t move.

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

You lean in and kiss him.

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

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

You kiss him again. And again.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

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

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

You: i am. what’s up?

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

You: is this a booty call

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

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

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

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

You: yeah

You: come over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like you,” he says quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

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

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

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bury your face in his neck. 

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

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

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

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

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That sobers you a little.

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

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

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

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

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

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

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little.”

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

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

“Fuck—” 

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

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

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

You hum around him. That does it.

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

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

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

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

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

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

Or try to.

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

What the fuck was that?

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

It’s what came after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

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

How can he be so sure?

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

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

You know he’s good with his hands.

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Maybe.

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

It scares the shit out of you.

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

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

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

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

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

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

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

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

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

There’s a pattern now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns around.

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

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

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

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

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

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

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

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

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

The opening credits roll.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

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

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

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

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

You make out. A lot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

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

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Completely.

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

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

You don’t.

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

So he starts with his mouth.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

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

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

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

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

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

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

“Yes, please—”

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

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

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

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

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

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

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

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

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

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

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

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

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

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

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

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod against his shoulder.

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

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

He keeps going.

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✧

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

But something’s changed. Settled.

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

And you let him.

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

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

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

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

And so is he.

✧

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

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

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

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

He just watches for a second, quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

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

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

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

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

“You do,” you say, instantly.

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

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

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

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

But he’s not around as much.

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

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

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

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

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

And that makes you want to try, too.

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

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

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

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

You laugh. You keep writing.

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

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

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

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

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

And then you don’t tell anyone.

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

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

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

Fuck. There it is. 

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

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

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

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

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

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

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

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

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

You stare at him, slackjawed.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he licks into you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus,” you breathe.

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

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

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

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

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

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

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

It springs him into action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

✧

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

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

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

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

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

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you know he will.

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

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

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

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

You’re in.

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

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

You call Yoongi.

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

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

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

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meet me out back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

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

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

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

But he holds your hand through it.

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

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

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[nephynes]

clingy obsessed sub jungwon and fem reader please!

hope you like it xx

MDNI

══════════════════════════

It's 8:03 in the morning, and Jungwon is already pouting. You haven't even had your coffee yet. "Why do you have to go?" he mumbles, curled into your side, shirtless and clingy, hair still a little messy from sleep. "Just... stay home. Call out."

"You know I can't," you sigh, smoothing his hair. "Not all of us have hefty trust funds to live off of, baby." He glares at the ceiling like it’s the cause of his current dilemma. "I could get a job."

"You say that every morning."

"I mean it this time."

You snort. "No, you don't."

He whines low in his throat and buries his face in your chest like that might convince you to stay. You've already brushed your teeth, packed your bag, and you're half in your blazer, but none of that matters to him. Not when he's in one of his moods. “I’ll give you my trust fund”.

"What am I supposed to do without you?" he mutters lower. "It's so boring here."

"I gave you a list yesterday," you remind him, amused. "Read, walk the dog, go to the gym—"

"Don't wanna." He shakes his head.

"You could finally try that art class you signed up for."

He glares harder. "Don't wanna." You sigh, and he just clings tighter. "You don't even like your job that much," he adds softly. "You always come home exhausted."

Yeah. Because he drains you first.

You think of last night, how you came home late, still in your pencil skirt and heels, barely even through the front door before he had you pressed to the couch. Clutching your waist and mouthing at your neck. Humping your thigh like a dog in heat, whining against your shoulder that he missed you so bad it hurt.

You didn't even get to change or take your clothes off first. He came in his boxers while you were still wearing your work blouse.

You never said it out loud, but you liked him that desperate and shameless. And now here he is, wrapped around you like a koala, soft and whiny and impossibly hard through his briefs. You glance down and sure enough, he's already grinding against your hip, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

"Jungwon."

He blinks up at you, already breathless. "Just a little. Please?"

"I'm in a rush."

"You always say that."

"Because I am."

He whines again, rutting up helplessly. "I can't help it," he breathes. "You smell so good and your skin's soft and I miss you. So much. I didn't even sleep right."

"I was literally in bed next to you."

"Yeah, but not in me."

You choke on a laugh. "You're unbelievable."

He whimpers as you pull away, chasing you with his arms and his hips. "Can you at least let me finish on your thigh again? Just—just real quick, promise."

You raise a brow. "You came on me twice yesterday."

"I know." His voice dips into a whine, so pretty and pathetic it almost makes you cancel your whole day. "But it's morning now. And I'm lonely."

You sigh and zip your skirt up. “No baby, I have to go” you say kissing his forehead and leaving the room.

Jungwon knew you weren't supposed to come home until five. It's barely noon right now and you only stopped by to grab your laptop bag you left on the kitchen counter, maybe heat up some leftovers too. Definitely not to find Jungwon sprawled out on the couch like a goddamn heathen, shirtless, flushed, panting, with one of your panties bunched in his fist and another stretched over his nose.

You freeze in the doorway and he doesn't even notice.

He's too far gone, hips jerking up into his slick palm, whining under his breath like he's in pain. "Baby," he moans, high and broken. "Miss you so much. Smell so fucking good, fuck—"

Your eyes flicker to the kitchen counter. Your work blazer from yesterday is crumpled there, and your laptop bag is open beside it. You left it this morning and he rummaged through your shit like a pervert, looking for God knows what.

You take one quiet step forward watching him gasp, rutting faster, shameless and soaked, cock flushed and twitching in his hand. "Can't do anything when you're not here," he pants. "Can't fucking think. Just need you so bad, I—I can't—fuck, please—"

"Please what?"

His eyes fly open. And instead of covering himself or scrambling for an excuse, Jungwon just whimpers.

"Oh my god," he breathes. "You're here."

"Yeah," you say dryly. "Caught red-handed. Or should I say—"

"Don't say it," he groans, cheeks pink but not stopping for one second. "God, don't say it or I'll cum."

You raise a brow, folding your arms. "You're disgusting."

"I know," he gasps, biting his lip as his hips stutter. "I missed you so much, needed your scent, your voice, your everything—please baby, don't go back yet, I'll be good, I swear—"

"You call this good?"

He nods frantically. "I didn't cum yet."

"Not for lack of trying."

You stride forward, snatch the panties off his nose, and press your knee between his legs. He keens immediately, already grinding up against it like last night.

"Want it here again?" you murmur.

"Yes. Yes please—fuck, yes—"

You smile. "Five minutes, actually no. Lay back. I’m gonna use your face.

He moans like the thought of you doing that is the best gift he's ever received.

You're supposed to be in control. That was the whole point of this—flip him onto his back, straddle his face, maybe ride it for a minute while you stroke his cock and make him beg. He lives for that, getting teased until he's flushed and twitching, getting permission to cum like it's some holy reward.

But this?

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Because right now your hips are grinding down without rhythm, your thighs are shaking, and the hand you had wrapped around his cock is barely moving anymore—your grip loosening with every flick of his tongue, every groan he lets out into your pussy like he's fucking grateful just to be beneath you.

You bite your lip, breath catching. "Fuck, baby—slow down—"

But he doesn't, you don’t even think he can. He's completely gone, drunk off your taste, grinding his tongue over your clit with frantic, messy strokes like it's his pleasure on the line. His fingers clutch your thighs, holding you down like he needs the weight, like he wants to disappear inside you completely.

It's unhinged. He's unhinged.

You don’t even think it’s about making you cum anymore, it's about him now. He's panting and flushed and moaning into you like he's the one being fucked, hips jerking helplessly beneath you, cock untouched but leaking all over his stomach, twitching with every gasping breath. You try to lean forward, force yourself to finish him off properly, but your body betrays you.

Your hand slips.

Your thighs tighten around his head.

You swear under your breath and sit up instead—watching from above as he ruts up into nothing, mouth still working like it's all he knows how to do. “Oh baby.”

His abs clench. His moan cracks and is muffled beneath your thighs and then, he cums.

Unprovoked and unstimulated, just from having your pussy on his face and the sound of your voice in his ears. You feel it before you see it—his whole body stuttering beneath you, a sharp inhale against your cunt, and then he's spilling all over himself with the neediest whimper you've ever heard. It's obscene and almost feral.

And he still doesn't stop.

Even as his cum coats his stomach, even as he trembles under the weight of you, he keeps eating you out like it's oxygen—desperate and messy and so fucking good it pushes you over the edge right after. “Want it, gimme cum—baby please.” He talks into you, edging you further.

You gasp, hips bucking, thighs shaking as your orgasm crashes down, and he just moans into it, lapping it up like he's starving. “Wonie! Baby! Oh Fu—Ahh!”

When you finally stop shaking—barely, you exhale hard and lean back, bracing yourself on the arm of the couch, staring down at him still between your legs.

He's looks ruined. Sweaty, flushed, soaked in his own cum, mouth still parted like he's waiting for more.

And he smiles. All dazed and sweet and proud of himself like he didn't just hump the air and almost pass out on your pussy like it was his fucking job.

You rake a hand through your hair, chest still rising and falling. "You," you mutter, breathless. "Are out of your fucking mind."

Jungwon hums, still dazed, eyes fluttering. "I love you." He says as he reaches for your phone, and you know it’s to call your work to tell them you’re not coming back in today.

══════════════════════════

• a/n: sizzle sizzle

[cheesesandwichsanto]

The Letter

Summary: You find a letter in Eddie‘s room

Warning: none

Word Count: ~1k

A/N: English is not my first language

If you enjoy the story; likes, reblogs and comments are really appreciated 🖤

It was like every other Friday evening after Hellfire Club.

He called you the moment he was back home.

You drove over to Eddie’s trailer.

You both ordered some food, watched a movie together and smoked one on his porch, while talking about everything under the sun.

He crashed on the couch while you slept in his bed.

You both had been best friends since kindergarten.

He was just one year older than you.

You were inseparable ever since.

But when puberty started, everything changed for you.

You saw him in a different light.

You didn’t saw the boy with messy hair, leading some so-called cult, living in a trailer park that everyone saw.

You saw a handsome man with long flowing curls, passionate about his hobby and the person he truly was.

He didn’t put on an act for others.

He was seen as the town’s freak, but you just as a regular girl from creative writing club. (Which you, honestly, just joined because Eddie convinced you. So you could help him write his lyrics.)

He repeated senior year for the second time, you repeated it for the first time.

So you hoped you could graduate together and leave this shitty town behind.

The moment you fell in love with him?

It was when you were at Corroded Coffin’s band practice at Gareth’s garage, waiting for Eddie to finish and go to the new taco place in town.

You observed him playing his guitar, and seeing him pulling those strings with his silver rings on his fingers during his solo, with his tongue peeking out to focus, and his curls up in a messy bun, it did something to you that you couldn’t explain.

You couldn’t look at him the same anymore.

Normally, girls were into boys like Steve Harrington or Billy Hargrove - the pretty boy or the bad boy.

But not you; you liked the nerdy metalhead living in Forest Hills Trailer Park.

You knew that he had a thing for Chrissy Cunningham in middle school.

He told you, and it brought an aching pain to your chest.

It didn’t help when you saw them in the woods a few weeks ago during break, sitting on the bench, talking and laughing.

Friday evening

You picked up “Ghostbusters” from Family Video, while Eddie ordered some pizza.

After the movie, it was time for your weekly smoke session.

“Can you grab my lighter? It’s on the green box left shelf” He yelled from the living room, before he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and went outside to sit on the porch.

You misheard him, thought he said ‘in the box’.

You looked for the green box, (how are you supposed to find anything in this mess?) grabbed it and opened the lid.

Inside were some pictures of you and Eddie.

One where you both were barely 10 years old, his arm around your shoulder, in your grandma’s garden.

Him grinning from ear to ear.

Another one with Eddie and you dressed fancy.

You both were 13 and it was Snowball, where he didn’t want to go at first, but after you bickered for the 7465th time, he gave in.

And he ended up having more fun than you, but he would never admit that.

But there was also a folded piece of paper underneath the photos.

You were just nosy by nature, so it would be unfair to you not to open it.

You took a seat on the bed and folded it open.

It was Eddie’s handwriting.

You would recognize this scribble everywhere.

To my dear Y/N,

If you're reading this letter, I’m probably dead, or I maybe finally grew some balls to tell you how I feel. Hopefully, it’s not the first. If its the first one, please take care of my guitar.

You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life.

Do you remember that one time I picked you up from Robin’s? It was raining outside, and I felt like shit for letting you wait. But you didn’t even care. You were soaking wet, but when you got into my van you burst out in laughter, because you said I had a booger sticking on my cheek. (It was glaze from a donut. I still swear) - that was the moment where I wasn’t able to deny my feelings for you. I know, weird. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, so hopefully you feel the same. I don’t even know what I am writing here. So I come to the point:

Sweetheart, I’m in love with you

Your guitar god,

Edward Munson

You put the paper down and started at the wall, but got interrupted by a voice.

“You read it, didn’t you?” Eddie said, standing in the doorway, scratching his chin and sounding slightly awkward. You nodded slowly.

“Eddie… why have you never told me about how you feel?” You asked back confused, wrinkling your eyebrows.

“Why would a girl like you, be with a guy like me? Come on. You’re out of my league anyway.” He mumbled, looking at the floor of his room.

“Don’t say stuff like that… you are the most important person in my life.”

You got up to stand in front of him.

“And I … feel the same Ed’s” you whispered nervously.

“Seriously?” his brown eyes turned big.

“I do.”

It took everything in you, to do what you were doing next.

You reached for his face and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

He pulled away, stunned for a second, but then he kissed you again.

After a while, it was you who pulled away, your lips millimeters away from his.

“I really, really like your letter by the way, guitar god, I always knew there was some kind of poet inside you, even if it was not easy to read your scrawl” you said teasingly, taking a strand of his hair and twirling it around your finger.

“Oh shut up” he said laughing “I’m fucking embarrassed that I even wrote that cheesy thing, you should burn it”

“I’m happy you did. And I will frame it, and put it on my nightstand next to my bed.”

[yuriosakawa]

“And if you still think you can stop us, don’t forget I’m…” 

What was going on? It had been four years since Invincible and Omni-Man began "preparing" Earth for the Viltrumite invasion. The resistance still persisted despite the deaths.

You were exhausted. Before all this started, you and Mark were good friends. Since childhood, in fact. You lived right next door to him. Honestly, it wasn't hard to learn his secret; after all, it's not like he or Nolan did a good job hiding their powers.

You truly loved Mark. You thought you and him would be happy together...

But then, he broke your heart by joining his father in trying to conquer the planet.

Now you were part of the resistance. You didn't do much because you didn't have any superpowers, but you still helped where you could.

Like right now, when you were serving some of the refugees a few bowls of hot soup, trying to comfort them with a small smile. Something they smiled back at, despite the exhaustion and despair they all felt.

You were relatively popular in the refugee camp for your kind and considerate attitude, always trying to lift others' spirits with a smile. Everyone was pretty sure that if it weren't for you, they would have lost hope a long time ago.

Even so, you missed your friends. William and Rick were part of the resistance and died when they were caught stealing the technology to kill a Viltrumite.

You still remember their screams of horror and pain, especially William's, who couldn't believe his best friend was his killer.

All that was left was to wait for Angstrom with that strange thing that supposedly had enough energy to kill Nolan.

“Angstrom, were you followed?” 

“The Immortal led them away. We’re safe..”

“Yeah? That’s what Rex thought, too…” Eve, probably the only friend you have left, commented cynically. You approached her and tried to give her a smile. 

“Don’t worry, Eve. I’m sure this will work!” You chirped, and despite her grim expression, Eve did seem to grin a little at your words. 

Angstrom pulled out from his bag some sort of canister filled with purple energy. Meanwhile, you looked at what remained of the resistance, most of them young adults and children. They had to defeat Nolan and Mark; if this didn't work... nothing would stop the Viltrumite empire.

A loud explosion echoed, shaking the building.

Shit... they're here.

"Take cover!"

Eve immediately made a large shield, covering them from the rubble. The smoke cleared, revealing father and son.

“Told you we were close.” Nolan casually told his son, as if they were simply having a stroll through the park. Mark’s eyes, however, were fixed on you. 

“Hey, Y/N.” He said, his casual tone laced with mockery as he added, “You look good~” 

You frowned. Mark never stopped loving you even after he destroyed the world, but his love was twisted and inhuman. You made it clear that you could never love the monster he’s become, something that he’s never been able to accept.

Eve launched herself at Mark, firing several pink beams, while Rudy primed the cannon. Meanwhile, you tried to help get the people out of the building.

Mark flew behind Eve, who instantly created several layers of shields. Rudy loaded the weapon and pulled the trigger, hitting Nolan, who was thrown into the air.

He lowered the weapon and was then rammed by Omniman, rupturing his metallic suit and leaking the amniotic fluid that kept him alive.

“Someday, you too will die…” 

“Sure, but you should’ve died at birth.” 

Eve was starting to get tired. Mark just stared at her in boredom.

“Last chance, girls…” He said, swatting her energy projectiles away with a dismissive air. 

Eve created a shield and then threw several pink daggers.

“You and your stupid resistance made us kill thousands of innocent people~” Mark singsonged, and with maximum speed he destroyed the shield, grabbing both girls by the neck.

“Stop this, or I stop you.” He said, and for a momentum his gaze softened into something a little more human, “Please.” 

“I’d rather die…!” Eve choked out weakly but defiantly, clutching Mark’s hand. 

“G-Go to hell…” You also managed to say. 

Mark sighed and then squeezed Eve's neck harder, hearing a faint crack.

“Eve!” You cried, horrified, eyes filling up with tears as you saw how your last friend fell to the ground. Before you sharply turned your head to glare at Mark. “You monster! You killed her!” 

Mark looked at you intently. He finally had you...and nothing and no one will take you away.

“Ah, she’s not dead.” He revealed with a shrug, “Just paralyzed.” 

You gasped as you turned your head to look back at where Eve laid to reveal that Mark was telling the truth. She was still very much breathing, but her face was forever locked into a grimace of pain and hatred as she glared up at the monster that used to be her friend. 

Tears of heartbreak once again ran down your face, horrified over what Mark had done to her. Because dead sounded like a much better fate than this. 

“Huh, so that’s what you were practicing on those protestors last week.” Nolan commented as he stood besides his son. His level of casualness making you sick on your stomach. 

“Yeah, I got some people who’ll take care of her.” Mark said, his voice lowering a bit “So, you know, I can visit.” 

“Y-You’re sick…” You hissed weakly, glaring up at the boy who was still holding your neck hostage. 

Nolan looked at you with an air of indifference and disappointment, “Are you sure you want this one, son? There are much better pets out there…” 

“Positive.” Mark nodded as he turned his gaze back to you. Even with the goggles on his suit, you could still see the maddened glint of lovesick obsession in his eyes, “She’s the one I want…” 

Mark then finally let go of your neck and carefully placed you back on the floor. You gasped as you clutched your throat, trying to get air back into your lungs. 

Mark knelt down and roughly took your chin.

“What do you say, Y/N? Do you accept me now? Keep in mind that any negative response... will make me kill Eve.”

You saw Eve's face of fear and pain, still paralyzed, trying to make you refuse... but no... you didn't want to lose anyone else.

“Do you promise she’ll be okay?”

“With my life.”

You swallowed hard and nodded. You would do anything to keep Eve safe. You saw your friend and gave her a sad smile.

Eve wept as she listened to the exchange; she couldn't believe you had sacrificed your freedom so she could live.

“Hi! Since you are all part of the resistance, we need to kill you!” Nolan cheerfully told the terrified gable of the resistance members. 

“Murderers!” Angstrom shouted with rage, stepping forward. 

“Ah! A volunteer.” Nolan grinned as Mark began walking towards him. 

“Don’t touch me!” Angstrom hissed, shoving him away with disgust. 

“Hey, buddy.” Mark grinned as if this whole exchange was entertaining for him. As if Angstrom’s outburst was little more than a toddler throwing a tantrum. “You sentenced yourself to death when you joined Club Resistance.” 

“Justice…Justice will come for you.” Angstrom murmured, his voice trembling with anger and loss, “For all the friends we’ve lost to your senseless cruelty. For all the families you’ve torn apart. You will reap what you—"

“Let’s do this, Mark.” Nolan said, interrupting Angstrom’s passionate speech “I missed lunch because of that riot in Bangkok.” 

“Yup, way ahead of you.” Mark nodded as he stepped forward, but then, surprisingly, a green portal appeared from beneath Angstrom, swallowing him whole; much to everyone’s surprise. 

“What the hell was that?! A portal or something?” Mark questioned, glancing at his father who only shrugged. 

“Eh, who cares? Grab your pets and let's go."

You hugged Eve tightly, feeling Mark pick you both up and then kiss your head with a tenderness that made you want to vomit.

"Don't worry, you’ll be safe with me. As long as you make me happy, Y/N~…” 

[avvail]

Hi, hope you're having a good day today! I was wondering if you could do a scenario where a detective relucently lets a vampire superhero feed on him? mlm, perhaps?

“This is usually the other way around,” the detective hums, one hand in his pocket and the other tapping away the ash at the end of his cigarette. The superhero stands on the rooftop, spine stiff and his expression one of anxiousness.

The detective can practically smell his uneasiness in the air. He’s hiding in the shadows, almost as though he’s too frightened to come out.

It makes him scoff.

“If you need my help on a case, I’m balls deep in the copycat killer case right now,” the detective told him firmly, already building a strong wall to the hero’s protests. Not that he’s making any. “So stop lurking in the shadows like you’re gonna bite my heart out. Jesus, it’s creepy.”

The superhero hesitates, and then steps out of the shadows. He looks worse for wear, and the detective’s eyes roll up and down his form with a clear air of judgement.

“Man,” he hums. “You look like shit.”

The superhero frowns at the cloud of smoke tumbling from his lips, his nose wrinkling in grim annoyance. “Can you put that out?”

“It’s a free country.”

“It stinks,” he snaps.

“Not my nose, not my problem,” the detective raises a brow. “What’s got your panties in a bunch? You’re gloomy.”

The superhero bites his tongue, deciding not to bite. He swallows the insult, his stiff shoulders sagging with a small sigh. The detective steals a few scrutinizing glances at him. Just to observe.

“I need...” He sighs sharply. “I need to feed.”

The detective’s gaze hardens. He already knows what he’s going to ask. “No.”

“Please?”

“I said you keep that shit away from me and I won’t hurl your ass in the nearest prison cell for taking a bite out of those innocent folk,” he reminded him sternly, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes. “Don’t make me go back on it.”

“I’ve not been feeding,” the superhero whispers urgently. “I can’t. You know I’m new to this and I don’t know what to—”

“The answer is no. Jesus, I can’t believe you dragged me from my work for this.”

The superhero’s gaze softens. He looks crestfallen. “Please...”

The detective swallows back the words teetering on his tongue, drilling an intense gaze into the hero. He notices the eye bags, the pale complexion, and he definitely looks worse for wear. Sickly; the detective’s expression hardens, spitting out a sharp curse. He runs a hand through his hair, stamping the cigarette out under his boot. The orange tip fades into the rain soaked cement.

Why him? He almost wants to ask. He’s a detective, and he should figure this stuff out. He remembers when he pulled the superhero from the wreckage those few months ago, the bad shape he had been in.

This vampire stuff had really knocked him down. The detective hadn’t seen that old confidence in months.

He groans. He should say no. Instead, he rolls up his sleeve.

“Make it quick,” he growls. The superhero’s eyes brighten, and he takes a hesitant step forward.

He goes to grasp at the man’s arm, hesitating just before their skin touches. He notes the way his throat bobs, and then those eyes dart nervously to his neck. The detective knows the question before he even asks.

“Your neck, can I—”

“No,” he snaps, jerking his arm to redirect his faltering attention. “You’re already on thin ice. It’s this, or it’s nothing. Take your pick.”

The superhero’s lips press into a thin line. Then, he nods tersely, and flounders around him for a moment.

“You should sit,” he urges. “You’ll probably get dizzy, and—”

A sharp glare cuts him off. He gets the command. Shut up and hurry up.

The superhero takes a deep breath, thumb prodding the smooth surface of the detective’s flesh for a moment. He seems to simply admire the rush of blood underneath, before he pierces the flesh with his fangs. The detective holds back an instinctive hiss of pain, the sharp pricks almost zapping right up his spine. The superhero might have stopped to make sure he was okay before feeding, but he’d been starved for so long, that he lapped at the beads of blood straight away.

It’s an odd feeling; not unpleasant, but not easy to ignore.

The detective’s jaw clenches, and when the superhero is done, he hides the wound.

“Let’s not make this a habit, huh?”

[hellsquills]

dude DUDE

They don't reincarnate at the same time because they don't die at the same time

Against all odds, Ford passes away first. 30 years of dimension hopping finally caught up to him. Maybe his body was too used to the constant world changing. Maybe his fight-or-fligh mode finally stopped working and let his body come down from the constant adrenaline. Whatever it is, Ford dies peacefully, surrounded by his family.

To say Stan is wreck would be an understatement. He definitely breaks a few things, stops contacting his remaining loved ones, because he can't believe this fucking universe is laughing at him once again. It takes him a while, but he reminds himself (maybe with McGucket's helps too) that his brother is finally resting. It's as comforting as it is painful. But he keeps living because he can't make the kids go through both of their deaths so soon. And if there's an afterlife, he doesn't want to hear Ford complain about not enjoying the rest of his life. That thought helps the most, actually.

Eventually, Stan passes away too, around 10 years later. That's when he sees his new-old-new life, and contacts 'Stanley'.

Ford in the meantime. Holy shit. As if he wasn't feeling guilty enough about letting his brother be kicked out, he can't bear to look at himself in the mirror. He's so. Fucking. Young. He has acne all over his face, he's sweating buckets for no reason and it's all too much. He cries his heart out, just like Stanley did when he got kicked out, but he cries for his brother. He curses himself and hugs himself, hoping that Stan can feel it somehow.

He remembers all the things Stan told him that he went through and makes a list of things not to do. As he doesn't have the pressure to make millions or anything like that, he just looks for jobs everywhere until he gets enough to ask for a scholarship at a cheap university, and he goes from there. A humble life, but he doesn't complain. He's tired of wanting to be the best at all times. He's fine with a simple life.

One day, he comes home to find a postcard from a place called Gravity Falls that reads "I have your body. P.S. please tell me you didn't make me wear some stupid turtlenecks or something."

Ford smiles and packs a bag to Oregon.

The Stan twins have their souls swapped at birth.

[fenharels-chewtoy]

I always imagined, during the early days of the Inquisition, my Lavellan looking forward to returning to her clan once the Breach was sealed. Not much longer, she'd think to herself, a creeping anticipation silently crawling up her spine. The mages were ready—everything they had worked to achieve has led thus far; she could taste victory on the horizon.

Then the Breach is closed, and they all celebrate. All they had toiled to achieve, the months spent working on the field to help refugees, to protect settlements, to gather resources. It's a relief to everyone, palpable in the air, and though many are exhausted, there is an undeniable buzz of joy at their victory.

Lavellan can go home—back to her People, back to her family. She can finally shed this title of prophet and Herald thrust upon her and return to being herself.

(She ignores the small voice in the back of her mind, that whispers of the good she's done, the friends she's made. It's not so bad anymore, the voice continues. She's begun to carve a new place for herself here, a place where she's starting to make real change in the world-even if just a small step at a time. Perhaps, she could stay a while longer?)

But then a dragon's roar, the thundering march of armored feet. The smell of blood, and fire, and death.

Haven burns.

Lavellan falls into a cave just as the avalanche buries what was left of the small town.

She crawls through a blizzard, half dead, injured and starving. Limbs heavy, weighed down by blood, fatigue, and pain. She thinks she won't be seeing her clan again.

She whispers her prayers to the Creators... as, through the rushing wind, a wolf's howl pierces the dark night.

By some miracle, she survives. They find her, all but frozen, on the brink of crossing into the Beyond. She opens her eyes to yelling and snaps at her advisors to get it together. They'll figure it out. So much shit has happened already, they can do this. She didn't just survive a trek through snowstorm in the mountains at night while injured from escaping an avalanche for nothing.

For some reason, the shemlen take this as proof of her divine providence. She keeps a reign on her bemusement and watches as the people begin to sing.

Hope.

They look to her and see hope.

The singing dies down as Solas quietly asks to talk.

The orb is Elven. It belongs to one of her gods. It becomes even more prudent to remain in a good light with the Inquisition. She sighs and steels herself to properly don the mantle of Herald.

When she returns, she sees their faces still alight with hope and faith. They had just survived something terrible, and things will only get worse from here. The Elder One has shown his face, and the cards have been dealt.

But she had delivered them away from a brutal end at the hands of a false god, and returned to them from the dead. The Maker has blessed them! A prophet, a guide, a Herald.

These people—her people—stand tall, prideful and strong. They are a resilient bunch, and they will continue to fight to protect the world.

Her heart beats harder, pulsing strong with newfound purpose.

She spends the next years falling into the role of Inquisitor. Herald. Savior and Hero.

Lavellan slips behind the mask of the Inquisitor, tucked away where it is not needed. There is no time for distractions when she's fighting a war, leading an army, protecting Thedas.

She thrives as a leader and hero, standing beside empresses and kings. Orlais and Ferelden simper at her heels, seeking favor with the Inquisitor. Her name holds weight, both grand and terrible at once. She is revered, she is praised, she is feared, she is respected.

And once Corypheus falls, another threat arises.

Her heart disappears like a thief in the night, and the Dread Wolf bears his blood-soaked fangs at her world.

The South snaps at her, calling her a threat, hissing at the wrong enemy. After all she had given for them, after saving them time and time again-

The Inquistion is ripped away from her.

Her friends leave, one by one, called away to the lives they had briefly left for the Inquisition.

She is alone.

But she cannot return to her life before—she cannot stop now. The world needs her.

She pushes Lavellan further away and fixes the Inquisitor in its place. She fights for a better world, she fights for this one. For her people. For mages and elves and spirits and all those who suffer. They do not deserve to die for a chance to fix past wrongs.

She fights for her heart, a broken wolf marching on towards his death.

(A decade later, the Inquisitor falls to her knees once the rift closes behind them. Soot and blood cover her, but she rushes to push healing magic into Solas's injuries.

He doesn't believe what he sees. It's her. It's really her.

She's here. With him.

She smiles weakly and holds him as he collapses into her. The beginnings of crows feet have replaced where the once-twining branches of Mythal's vallaslin marked her face. Scars, stories long told, stand where fresh injuries once lay—and oh, he still remembered healing each one like it was yesterday. Her defensive magic was strong, and she preferred fighting in the frontlines, but she was always a little reckless.

He chokes out on a sobbing chuckle quietly at the memory.

A decade. She's here.

***

Her heart cries quietly in her arms.

She holds him close, whispering her love into the quiet air around them. Her magic licks gently at his injuries, a solemn echo of their time in the Inquisition.

In this quiet moment, the mask finally falls, and Lavellan takes her first proper breath in a decade.)

[eroz-codes]

Education_Developer Project Lifecycle

I see a lot of people here on codeblr want to start some project but, not really know the best way to get started. To rectify this, hear is my very in depth guide on how to get started. Read this entire post (some of these are started early but its milestone is later).

Note, I highly suggest the use of Github and will be referencing some things that are specific to it (like Wikipedia pages). If you prefer some other method that's fine just be aware you may be making your life harder than it needs to be.

Milestone 1: Form Teams

Find your people, exchange contact information and determine a time to meet up, consistently. If you are working solo, ignore some of the instructions for this section. That is not to say ignore the parts about consistency and time management. In fact, because you are working solo that should be even more important.

At the first meeting establish chat service (teams, slack, google chat, discord). Establish the frequency of the meetings and how often everyone should check their messages (ex: every 24 hours). Discuss the options about the project.

Platform: Android, django, iOS, react native, etc.

IDE: Xcode, WebStorm, VSCode, etc. Note that modern IDEs now have built-in methods for sharing your editor view with teammates: code together, code with me, etc.

Backend: firebase, postgresql, not needed, etc.

Libraries

APIs you will access

Package manager: npm, yarn, gradle, etc.

Finally, discuss the roles you all want on the team, what should one person focus on, who is the manager, editor, client rep, tester, researcher, repo master, master of specific tech, analyst etc.

Deliverables:

Add a wiki page (or more) to your repo titled "Team Organization" and list there the decisions you made from above, along with any pother pertinent information for the team.

Add a page to your wiki titled "Project Description" which should be kept updated as you make decisions about your project. It should contain these sections:

Description: a short description of your project,

Technologies: a list of the technologies you plan to use: frameworks, libraries, hosting services, etc.

Client: your client's name and contact info, if you have one, otherwise just say "Startup."

Milestone 2: Personas and User Stories

If you have a client who wants you to build the app, or you have identified a group of users for your app, then try to meet with them. Ask them what they do? (that is relevant to why they will use the app), why they want the app? how do they currently do the things they want the app to do? etc. If this is a startup answer those questions and more.

The point of this section is to better understand the users of this website. You need to make personas and user stories and record them so that you can reference them as you complete this project. It is very easy to loose sight of who will be using your product and assume they know more than they actually do.

Deliverables:

Add at least three personas to your wiki. These should cover 3 distinct user-types for your app. Each Persona must have a name, photo, and personal history.

Add a "User Stories" wiki page with at least 9 user stories covering the most common use cases for your app. They should all be of the form: As <the name of one of your personas> I want a <feature> so that I can <satisfy a need>.

Milestone 3: Design

For those that are more artsy than everyone else, now is your time to shine. Use a tool like Pencil, figma, justinmind, balsamiq, mockflow.com to design your product.

Your design should include:

An image for each of the major screens and dialogs of your app. Show all the widgets in their proper placement. Name each screen and write some text to explain how actions in one screen will lead to other screens.

In the case of a widget-free apps, you should include diagrams for all the major 'areas', animation stills that detail the most common animations and game mechanics (for example, Super Mario would have a set of drawings showing Mario jumping, punching up, and landing on a Goomba's head), as well as story boards if they are more relevant to your game.

A goal of the design is for you to think about the usability of your app. Try to 'use' the app in your mind: simulate how a user might use the app. Printing the screens into sheets of paper of the correct size and shuffling them as you pretend to use the app is a very common way to test the usability.

Another goal is to save you time. Remember that making a change now, like adding or deleting a screen, is a thousand times easier than if you wait until after you have written the code.

Deliverable: Add one page to your wiki called "Design" and add the images of your design here, along with some textual description of each screen and what it is used for.

Milestone 4: Requirements

This will be the main requirements document for your project. If you were charging a client for your work, this document would form part of that contract, specifying exactly what features your software will implement. The other part of the contract would be the payment details.

The document includes the design you made before (so, embed or add links to those images) but extends on that with detailed descriptions of all the desired features.

You will also mark each feature with one of:

Required: Core functionality of the app. Must have these for it to even start working.

Desired: Added functionality, usability, features, cosmetic features.

Aspirational: Other cool stuff you would like to add

Remember: all good programmers should understate what can be done and then over deliver. If you think something is going to take you 4 weeks, tell the client it will take 8. Then, when it inevitably takes you 6 weeks, you will seem ahead of schedule. On a similar note, if the client is asking for a lot of shit, say no. Now is not the time to be a people pleaser. If you want to please them, do it as a surprise addition, after basic functionality has been achieved.

Roughly the required features are those that need to get done first before anything else can even get started: things like logins, navigation menu, connection to backend, etc. They lay the foundation for building the app. An app that only implements the required features will at most get a passing grade in the class: 70.

The desired features are what make your app worth using. They make the app functional, attractive, and easy to use. Roughly, an app that implements all the desired features gets a 90 in the class.

The aspirational features make your app a professional-quality app. Implementing some of these moves it towards 100.

Deliverables:

Make a Requirements wiki page and list your requirements there.

Each item should succinctly explain a feature.

Each one will have a number. You can add sub-numbering, 1.1, 1.2, 1.2.1, etc. if you want.

Each one will be marked as either: Required, Desired, or Aspirational.

Add all the Proof of Concept Issues to your GitHub Issues with label:enhancement, milestone:Proof Of Concept. These are what you will implement first.

Milestone 5: Research

As a developer, you need to be intimately familiar with the technologies you are or could be using. You need to understand the pros, cons, and requirements of each library and platform that is relevant to your project. Thus, you need to be up to date on technology and, since technology seems to be always changing, this will be something you need to do throughout your career.

Specifically, you need to

Know about the various platforms available to you: their options and limitations.

Know about the various libraries that you can use to make your work easier.

Download, install, and build sample 'Hello world' apps using the most promising technologies. It is not enough to just read about it, you have to do it in order to learn.

Learn how to use the specific framework+libraries you choose to use for the project by building little apps with them.

Learn to use your package manager.

All of the above needs to be done before you start coding together with your team. Do not assume your teammates will teach you. You are responsible for learning.

This milestone will take a lot of time and work, which is why you should start working on this milestone as soon as that first meeting occurs where you discussion options.

Deliverable: Create a separate repo (I suggest naming it research-<projectname>) where you will place your sample project built using your team's chosen framework. The project will be more than just "hello world", or cut-n-paste from a tutorial. Start with tutorial code but, add you own code to their code. The app should have some minimal interactivity: user enters some data, program does something with it and shows the user.

Milestone 6: Architecture

Now that you are comfortable working with your chosen framework, you will write a document that roughly describes the big parts of your code. The structure will depend a lot on your chosen framework.

If you are building a webapp then you will probably list the set of database tables (models, for example: rails:ActiveRecords, meteor:Collections, etc), the set Views, and the set of Controllers. For webapps you should also list the of your URLs app, and what lives at each one.

If you are building an Android app then you will list your Activities or Fragments, along with their corresponding Views, as well as your model Java classes. You will also list your database tables (firebase, sqlite, localStorage, etc) if you need persistence, which almost everyone does.

Think deeply about your design. Go over the most common use-cases and check how those will be accomplished in code: which methods will be invoked? do the methods have references to all the objects they need in order to perform their job? Remember that your main goal is *de-coupling** the various classes: the fewer references (method arguments, global variables) they need, the easier your life will be.

Deliverable: Add architecture document to the wiki containing:

List all the languages/frameworks/libraries/services/APIs you plan to use. Explain how they will tie together. For example: This will be a native Android app written in Kotlin, using the android.graphics library, using firebase real-time database for cloud data, and firebase authentication for user accounts.

What package/build manager will you use? npm, gradle, yarn, flutter, pipenv, etc.

List what each person will work on. Everyone must make significant code contributions, or they will fail the class, see Syllabus.

Make sure all the images (if any) are embedded in the wiki page and hosted at GitHub.

Make sure the wiki page is easy to read.

If you are building a webapp:

Deployment How will you deploy? Which hosting provider(s)? Automation? Scripts? Explain.

Are you using Virtual Machines (vmware, vbox, etc) or Containers (docker) for development or deployment? Explain.

Is it a SPA or traditional? or mix? Explain. (My web application development lectures explain the difference.)

List of URLs you will implement. Explain any search arguments in English. Link (actual hyperlink) each URL to the page it shows in your Detailed Design milestone.

If implementing a REST API, document it. List all methods, parameters, and give English description of what they do.

The Views of your app. Embed the images from your Design Milestone. Typically, a webpage includes multiple views. For example, this webpage has a Header, Menu, and Content views (at least).

The Database schema: set of tables/documents with list of attributes and their types. Describe each table and attribute in English.

List of common queries you expect will be needed. Do any of then need to join tables?

If you are building a mobile or desktop app:

Release: How will you create and deliver a binary to testers? Explain. Note that the testers include us (the teachers of this class, when we grade your app). You must deliver a simple to install app: double-click to install.

Are you using Virtual Machines (vmware, vbox, etc) or Containers (docker) for development? If so, explain.

The Models for your app. These could be UML class diagrams, or just models with attributes (with type) and descriptions (in English).

How will your app maintain state? in memory? or database? or both? Note this in your Model Classes.

If you are using a db-backend (say firebase) then include the Database schema: set of tables/documents with list of attributes and their types.

List of common queries you expect will be needed. Do any of then need to join tables?

The Views of your app: name, describe. Embed the images from your Design Milestone. Typically, one page in the app is composed of multiple View elements.

Below will be complete as I do for my Capstone project.

Source Control

Ethical, Legal, and Security Considerations

Proof of Concept (PoC)

PoC Demo

Testing

Beta Release

RC1 Release

Quality Assurance

Website

1.0 Release

Final Demo Video

[angelnumber27]

you are literally faking all of your “problems” for attention. I have bpd, past severe subst abuse problems, suicidal treatment resistant depression, abuse history and I’m not on here all ditzy posting kittens and tits, in fact my shit on here is disgusting and scary. No one with severe problems has a lil flower blog, just lying and begging 4 money making us REAL troubled ppl look fake as u are

So because I post images of kittens and tits I don’t have the mental illnesses I’ve been diagnosed with? Where’s the logic like this is the most absurd stupid thing I’ve heard in a while and it’s actually incredibly harmful to think like this.

I think maybe you should not be on this website or the internet at all if this is how you’re going to act

I hope you feel better bc this is not how you treat people 🖤 and this entire take in general is very very dumb

Here’s screenshots of my ongoing health conditions :) I cropped out a couple bc I felt like it lol

I’m sorry that I don’t solely post depressing negative shit. I don’t see a reason to do that. My goal here is to lift people up not tear them down. This makes absolutely no sense whatsoever

You need help babe. Badly

[sluckythewizard]

[PUT INTO PLACE, TIED DOWN AND ARRANGED, AND IS NEVER THE SAME, AGAIN.]<-listen to my favorite songs. VAMPIRES ARE WONDERFUL ARENT THEY. THE FLESH IS SO MUCH MORE DURABLE. SO MUCH STRETCHIER THAN HUMANS. THE STRESS DOESNT KILL A VAMPIRE THE SAME WAY IT DOES A HUMAN. YOU CAN TAKE THEM APART THREAD BY THREAD AND LEAVE THEM WIDE AWAKE WITHOUT WORRY OF THE BRAINMATTER SPOILING UNDER VINEGARY AGONY.

[bloodanddiscoballs]

thank heavens for kind doctors

[matteoberrettini]

lorenzo sonego serves, winston-salem open 2024

photos by grant halverson

[xikyuu]

TEEHEE i only started like really listening to yaelokre on friday LMAO like i’d heard harpy hare and i listened to their other stuff and except for the song ‘and the hound’ (SO good and SO underrated btw) most of their music didnt click for me? buf for some reason the stars aligned and now they have been rattling around in my brain for a solid minute

im. not super well versed on the lore either 😭 i read part of the wiki and. i gotta say a lot of stuff on there is NOT in the songs lmao (although tbf there’s like 7 songs out rn and 4 of them are i think about an in-universe folk tale i believe? perhaps?)

in the songs we only have cole and clémente’s backstories (kind of, it’s still a tad vague but we have a general idea) and im pretty sure perregrine is gonna get a song about them as well? thats what ive heard anyways (kingsley my shining light inshallah you will get a song as well)

im gonna stick to just listening to the songs and watching the youtube videos as they come out cause its easier for my smooth little brain to absorb information that way

real. i listen to a few of their songs (and the hound, hartebeast, harpy hare, bird cage blue and yellow, and kid & leveret — the first two and kid & leveret have to be my favs. especially k&l.)

i found them from harpy hare a year ago — literally in the end of april i think — bc i actually did an asl assignment for translating songs into ASL and i chose harpy hare. bad idea bc it was way too fast for me (and i chose it bc it was slower than the other songs i listen to 😭). i think i might still have the asl translations?? but i had to listen to the song over and over bc i had to video myself signing it and. i could not physically stand hearing harpy hare for SEVERAL months. truly hilarious imo.

the stuff in the wiki that’s not mentioned is songs is probably bc yaelokre is pretty interactive w the community. pretty sure there’s a discord server? and ik ive seen some of their tiktok posts about lore.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Thank you for making that cherik edit of "Marvel's Squirrel Girl: The Unbeatable Radio Show!" especially with the subtitles!!! Made it so much easier for me, who has a really hard time understanding audios without subtitles or transcripts, so thank youuu!!!

Also, Idk if you know that new edit trend of using the song "would you love me" from epic the musical to portray like people falling in love with each other across multiple universes. But anyway, your tags in that post about a podcast not being safe from cherik made me think of that edit trend. I realize that's literally so cherik coded

I went and looked for an example of the trend:

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS6a3MYN4/

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS6a3QVjN/

YAAAAY i'm so happy you enjoyed !! i wanted to make subtitles with that specific purpose in mind so i'm so glad someone got use out of it (i know i had to repeat some bits a couple of times because /i/ wasnt exactly sure what was said during my first couple listens, so i figured other people might not be able to hear some portions well either) :]]] !!!!

but vjALJAKLJKLJERA that's so funny ........ and true ...... even in a podcast universe they'll find a way to be wedded and divorced and remarried 🥺💀💀 they're inevitable ...

Tiktok 1

Tiktok 2

[luthifer]

heating pads be like 'OWE OWE OWE THIS IS TOO HOT' to 'frozen. no heat anywhere'

[yilingbee]

firstprince hunger games au where henry is a career tribute that comes from a family line of victors (most notably his brother and grandmother), he volunteers bc that's what's expected of him and tbh he thinks dying in the arena might be the only way to escape his grandmother and alex is a tribute from district 12 who's mother is the mayor from the merchant class and dad is a miner from the seam (who died trying to start a revolution after ellen divorced him when alex was 11 and who alex blames for abandoning them bc why would you be a rebel when you have kids? don't you know what happens to rebels?) they meet in the arena by accident, all throughout the training period henry never shows up and it gives him a reputation that he thinks he's better than everyone and doesn't need to show off - a true asshole that even the other careers don't want to align themselves with, so when they bump into each other in the arena alex thinks this is the way he's going to die, but henry doesn't do anything and alex is so confused and doesn't know if he should try killing henry or run but something in henry's eyes stops him from doing either and they become reluctant allies bc both refuse to kill the other and throughout the games they grow closer and eventually fall for one another, but only one can live or can they find a way to be together beyond the arena?