#fuck i need to write instead of just hyperfixating

[yourstrulynobody]

Trying to write "Eclipse's Eclipse Twins", but Im hyperfixating on this instead so have a continuation I guess??

"Monty and Roxanne FIND OUT!" (fake EAPS ep and thumbnail)

(storyline under cut)

(btw: Im horrible at interpreting personalities, so I do apologize if theyre out of character! Please do correct me by all means ty :D!!!)

(Montessa is EAPS Monty :) )

Two pairs of footsteps make their way to theatre, one thudding so loudly it muted the other who squeaked against the tiles. Along it were two female voices belonging to Roxanne and Montessa, accompanying the repetitive noise with a disagreement on their current situation.

Roxanne moves her hands in an exaggerated manner, trying to emphasize her words physically. "..all Im saying is that one of those three couldve taken him, especially Afton." She speaks in a tone that dismisses Montessa's theory, making the other pout as she continues. "Theres just no way he ran. Not in a time like this."

A soft sound mimicking an exhale escapes pass Montessa's lips before they purse. "He couldnt...—they couldnt have just taken him like that. Not one of them can make it pass any of the entrances without setting off an alarm we all wouldve heard.

"It just doesn't make sense..." She continues, her fingers curling around her snout as her thoughts rage on. "He went somewhere. I know so. Hes been... hes been stressed lately and I think we've done nothing but intensify that."

"What? Trying to get him a social life?" Roxanne's step causes the shutters of the theatre to rise, allowing their entrance. "We all agreed he needed one."

"Yes, but—" Montessa sucks her teeth, sighing as she realized the argument was futile. "Lets just ask Solar Flare. I mean, hes always around the guy, so he must know something, right?"

Golden eyes lock onto the back room behind the counter, and Roxanne's ears lower while her anxiety raises. "He has been quiet... too quiet. So I guess I wouldnt be surprised if he knew something..." She trails off, her ears perking up in sudden interest.

Narrowing her eyes, Roxanne spots a bright neon glow reflecting off the metal beams of the shelves from the back room. Her enhanced audio pickup sending her feedbacks of a hushed conversation, though unable to know what was said, the voices were recognized as Solar Flare's alongside Andy's, Jake's and Andrew's.

Roxanne allows her body to act intinstively; rushing to jump over the counter and slide into the back room just as Andy and Jake jump into a blue light—a portal. Retracting her claws that slowed her momentum, she stands up straight, staring in disbelief.

"Whats happening?" Roxanne demands though her voice dropped to nothing but a whisper.

Solar Flare's eyes narrow, covering Andrew with his body while his arm extends to shield the child further. "Classified." He speaks in a low voice, nearly growling. To Andrew, however, his tone softened. "Andrew, get in. Do not let them wait."

Andrew takes one last look at the room before slipping into the portal as well, only allowing Montessa to get a glimpse of the bright source before it disappears in a flash, making her optics reset for a brief moment.

"Fuck! What the—" Montessa's fist knocks against her temple, forcing her vision to repair itself quick. Still, she did not need to see it all to know what it was. "That was a portal. What was..."

"The kids—Eclipse's kids jumped into that thing," Roxanne would summarize, shaking her surprise off as he regains her confidence. "And Solar Flare allowed it to happen."

Solar Flare raises his head high as if his height wasnt enough. "I was simply told to." He defends himself, but Roxanne wasnt gonna allow him to continue doing so.

Tight fists grab Solar Flare by his collar as the fabric tears because of the extracted claws, dragging him down to the wolf animatronic's height. She would snarl as her teeth bares, showing a daring bite she was willing to pull if any defiant moves were made—too violent. Montessa quickly seperates them upon realization, going between the two to avoid more physical confrontation.

Montessa looks back at Solar Flare, unable to form her thoughts orderly at the revelation. "How... why—who ordered you to do that?"

"Requested." Solar Flare corrects, dusting the hem of his shirt off. "But that is none of your concern as it is classified."

"Solar Flare!" Roxanne tries to push forward, but Montessa holds her back. She claws with now numb fingers on Montessa's arms, though still possibly denting the metal skin lightly under the pressure. "Who told you to do that?! And why would you listen?!"

Solar Flare stands his ground, unphased by the reaction as he merely repeats his words. "It is classified—"

"I DONT CARE IF ITS CLASSIFIED!" Roxanne snaps, her claws threatening to go out. Her eyes flicker to a bright purple before it disappears, and she growls as though in raging hunger. "You took them somewhere that could be dangerous without Eclipse's permission at all—! The guy is missing and you take his kids away like that! What is wrong with you?!"

Profanities and scolding escape Roxanne's mouth, but Montessa blocks it all out once she and Solar Flare lock eyes, a look of knowing coming from Solar Flare suggesting...

..that Montessa was right.

She nearly lets go of Roxanne due to it, but she returns her hold in a tighter grip as Solar Flare dismisses himself, leaving the duo alone with their thoughts.

"Montessa!" Roxanne pushes herself away, stumbling backwards but she caught her footing. She hisses when the purple in her eyes return, but she shakes her head and its golden color returns. "Why bother holding me back—?!"

"He left us." Montessa mutters in a tone just as questioning as Roxanne's.

Roxanne sighs in frustration, the purple hue rising in her eyes once more. "Yeah, because you didnt let me go! You held me—"

"Eclipse left us." Montessa breaths out, her eyes shaking as they met Roxanne's. "Eclipse left."

Roxanne's eyes widen as they return to their original color, her ears lowering just as much as her tail had.

She wants to argue—to tell Montessa she was wrong and that Eclipse hadnt because it wasnt the time to leave, not when all of this was still happening, but Montessa's voice full of disbelief told Roxanne enough: even Montessa didnt wanna believe what she knew.

They stood in silence. A silence loud enough to deafen the air conditioner running, to make even white noises muted, to silence the voice whispering for them to destroy everyone in their way. Now, they were left with an unwanted responsibility:

How would they tell the others?

How do they tell the others to stop looking for a man who tore down his own missing posters?

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal. 

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that. 

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie. 

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods. 

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips. 

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight. 

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time. 

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday. 

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life. 

And on Sundays? 

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care. 

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness. 

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation. 

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat. 

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook. 

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts. 

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah. 

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady. 

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air. 

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. 

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking. 

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm." 

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours. 

Puts his basket down. 

Stands too close. 

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him. 

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar? 

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around. 

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine. 

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent? 

That's... kind of pathetic, actually. 

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About." 

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense. 

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely. 

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield. 

The same way you use sarcasm as one. 

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is. 

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster,  "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything. 

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you. 

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman. 

A widow. 

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries. 

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine. 

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate. 

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh. 

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine. 

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition. 

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent. 

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking. 

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question. 

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this. 

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why? 

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close. 

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are. 

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. 

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that. 

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you. 

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades. 

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction. 

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read. 

Neither of you moves. 

His eyes dart between both of your pupils. 

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling. 

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird. 

This whole morning has been weird. 

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it. 

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces. 

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets. 

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb. 

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face. 

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned? 

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes. 

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side. 

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker. 

You don't ask. Not your business. 

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall. 

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?" 

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what? 

Surprise? 

Interest? 

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number. 

Ah. Barnes & Noble. 

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care. 

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs. 

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket. 

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[bbydoll18xx]

A Glorious Sunrise

There’ll be happiness. Paige makes sure of it.

Paige Bueckers x Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.2k

Themes: angst with a happy ending, paige is flirty and i love her for it

A/N: hiii i've been MIA but i'm back and omg guys i lowkey kinda love this. this song has been my hyperfixation for the past two months and i've been dying to write a fic to happiness but i didn't want it to be paige-angst so this is what i came up with instead.

also i'm lowkey exposing myself with this fic, and i clearly need therapy sooo PLZ BE NICE

please enjoy and lemme know what you think ;)

~

A single tear slides down your cheek as you close the last box of your belongings, landing on the brown cardboard with a wet plop of harsh finality. You gaze around the room, which is now nearly empty, and a sob that you had been suppressing all day manages to break through your normally tough exterior. 

Seven years of love and laughter gone just like that.

And now, here you were, dividing all of your shit into boxes and contemplating if this feeling was even worth the seven years in heaven. 

The empty space where the bed once stood leaves a lump in your throat. Images of being pulled into a warm, strong chest every night bombard your consciousness, and you turn away, unable to stomach it any longer.

It was a simple story, really. 

You and Jake were high school sweethearts, turned college sweethearts. He had taken you to prom and twirled you around in a sparkly, pink dress. He had taken your virginity, and you had imagined your entire life together with bright, starry eyes. 

College was spent between your dorm rooms, crammed into twin beds and talking about kids and houses with white picket fences. You had moved in together after college, and the two of you were blissfully in love.

But last week, Jake had come home late at night with empty eyes and shaky hands, and he had quietly told you that he was done. 

And in the blissfulness of being in love, the words did not even register for a moment. 

You were still dancing when the music stopped. And the world went cold, the sunshine in your life suddenly burnt out like a candle that was blown out by a bitter wind. The smoke was engulfing your cold frame, curling around you in dark, taunting tendrils.

You shiver now, looking back on it all. Your sweatshirts were all packed already, and instinctively, you go to the closet to grab one of Jake’s. 

The realization hits you like a truck, and you stop in your tracks. What is his is no longer yours.

He is no longer yours. 

Fuck. 

No one had taught you what to do when a good man hurts you, so you were going to pick yourself up piece by piece.

~

“Baby, please just listen t’me,” Jake slurs, his voice coming through the speaker of your phone in loud, drunken drawls, causing you to wince. It was the first night in your new apartment, and you were already struggling with the fact that it was just you and the four walls that surrounded you. 

Your voice wavers as you try to remain level headed. “No. I’m not doing this anymore,” you whisper. The other line is silent for a moment, and you think he has given up. But the delicate swoon of a woman’s voice cuts through the phone, and your stomach lurches with both dread and anger. 

It had been a week, and here he was, filling the divide with random women. 

Well, two could play that game. 

It didn’t take long to fall back into old habits. As they say, old habits die screaming, and it had become nearly impossible for you to hold back from the distraction the steady stream of men and women provided. 

It was deeply unhealthy, and you knew it. Once they would leave, you’d seek solace in the steaming shower where the water both hid your tears and washed away the filth of last night’s activities that had lingered on your soft skin. 

No matter how hard you scrubbed, you could not manage to rid yourself of the bruises and the overwhelming shame that seeped out of every pore.

Your body, which was once worshipped with soft kisses and gentle touches, was quickly becoming a way to numb the pain of having the rug pulled out from under you. Dark marks litter your skin in swirling, chaotic patterns that remind you of how little worth you have.

And in the darkness, the cruelest words taunt your inner psyche.

‘Maybe this is all I'm good for anymore.’

~

Those very words echo in your mind as you stumble into your apartment building on an unseasonably warm morning in April. The doorman gives you a sly look as he notices last night's mascara caked into the waterline of your eyes, smudged from the long night and the rough sex that followed.

You duck your head, wanting to disappear, and you hurry through the lobby, wanting to get out of the sparkly dress that was still adorning your body.

You reach the elevator, pressing the button to go up impatiently. The doors open, and you let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Wait! Hold up, I’m coming,” a voice shouts, and you turn to look in the direction of the girl.

It was like a scene out of one of those ridiculous hallmark movies. Blonde hair gleams in the early morning sun, reflecting off of the large glass windows of the lobby. The girl’s blue eyes shine with amusement as you stare up at her, momentarily forgetting your desire to remain unnoticed. 

She steps into the enclosed space with you, and you let out a shaky breath. Her presence was intoxicating, and it was quickly becoming very apparent that you looked like a goddamn mess.

“Fun night?” She asks with a teasing lilt to her voice, and you blush.

“Not really,” you say blandly, surprised by your own candor. “But it was a good distraction.”

The girl studies you, her eyes raking over your collarbone where a large hickey now resided. 

“I’m Paige,” she says, and you tell her your name as the flush extends over your chest, settling into it.

“I’m in apartment 555. Let me know if you ever want to talk,” she winks, walking out of the elevator. “Or if you need a healthier distraction,” she adds over her shoulder right as the doors close. 

Your face blooms with color again, and your belly erupts in the feeling of excitement. 

Because in that moment, you had unconsciously decided to leave it all behind. 

For there was a glorious sunrise looming over the black hills that had risen in your heart, blanketing a warmth you hadn’t felt in months. And her name was apparently Paige. 

Paige was on the forefront of your mind all day, and you welcome the giddiness, inviting it into your heart like an old friend.

A new motivation pours into you as you walk into your apartment, the bare walls emulating the blandness you had been feeling since the breakup. Your eyes glance towards your storage closet, and without a second thought, you begin to decorate, the pieces of you that you once had to keep hidden were now proudly out on display. 

It was the first step to healing. And damn, did it feel good.

~

Healing is never a linear process. And as your thumb grazes over your phone screen, open to Tinder, your mind fights with your heart over falling back into bad habits. 

You huff, looking around to make sure no one watches you as you stand near the elevator waiting to go back home after the gym one afternoon. Your thumb swipes across a few profiles, almost instinctively, as you mindlessly scroll to find someone worthy of your time. 

You weren’t even going to fuck them this time, you tell yourself. You just needed a little attention to fill the void. 

If you repeat it enough times, surely it’ll start to ring true. 

“She’s cute. Why’d you swipe left?” A husky voice murmurs in your ear, and you jump, immediately closing out the app on your phone and whirl around to face the familiar sound.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” Paige chuckles, looking you up and down, and you flush.

She just had that effect on you.

“If she’s so cute, why don’t you date her?” You ask, almost defensively, feeling the heat of her gaze. Damn her and those eyes.

“Prefer to meet pretty girls in person,” she smirks, clearly noticing the blush on your cheeks. 

“Did you think about my offer?”

You fight a smile. “Maybe,” you shrug, wanting to keep your cards close to your chest. Even if you had been internally fawning over her the past few weeks, she did not need to know that. 

Her smile widens, and you swear you can actually see a twinkle in her eye. 

“And…?” She goads, leaning in closer to you as the elevator opens, and she leads you in with a hand ghosting across the small of your back. 

“I just got out of a really long relationship,” you start to explain, faltering as she steps even closer into your space. 

“Who said anything about a relationship?” Her eyes flicker down to your lips and then back to yours, tracking your face expertly. 

“I–” you begin, her breath fanning over your face distracting you from being able to put words together. You lean in, your eyes nearly fluttering closed before the elevator pings and the door opens.

You suck in a breath, the realization slamming into you.

Paige squeezes your hip, as you look back up at her wide eyes. 

“8 tonight. Alright?” 

You nod dumbly, enthralled by the trance she had put you in. The elevator doors close, and you’re met with your own reflection staring back at you, and in the silver chrome, you watch your smile come back to life. 

~

You arrive at her door that night, your palms slick, and you wipe them on your pants just in case she holds your hand tonight.

You were lying if you said you hadn’t spent the entire day fantasizing about Paige. You had thought about the way her hair was tucked up in a bun this morning, practically begging you to take it out and run your hands through the soft, golden locks. And you had thought about how her pink, plush lips had formed into a smirk, making you want to tell your funniest jokes just to see the curve of her smile widen. 

You had thought about her hands and the way they had grazed across your skin, setting every nerve ending in your body ablaze with a feeling you hadn’t felt in months. 

All of the people you had hooked up with in your sickening conquest to forget about your ex-boyfriend could not hold a candle to Paige.

And that fucking terrified you. But here you were, at her door, ready to face whatever the universe was going to throw at you. 

There’ll be happiness. You just knew it. 

You shake your head, scolding yourself for the internal gay ramblings, and you knock, waiting for that gorgeous face to appear on the other side. 

The door opens, and your breath hitches as Paige smiles at you, reaching for your hand to pull you inside. 

Thank god you had wiped them off. 

“Welcome to my crib,” she jokes, leading you to sit on her couch.

You scan the room, surprised at how well it was decorated before landing back on her. 

Paige had sat next to you, drawing her legs up in a way that felt strangely intimate. She crosses her hands dramatically. “So, tell me why you’ve been using Tinder to cope.”

You splutter, not expecting her to be so blunt. 

“Damn, you don’t need to roast me,” you giggle, a faux pout on your lips, drawing Paige’s attention to them.

“Is it cuz of your ex?” She asks, and you nod.

“Yeah. I–I guess I just wanted to feel like I had some sort of worth still.”

Paige stares at you with a somber look on her face. She reaches up to cup your cheek, running her thumb across the smooth skin of your jaw. 

“You do. Promise,” she whispers genuinely, and the simplicity of her words rip every single bit of cautiousness from your body. 

And you lean in and kiss her. 

Your lips move in perfect synchronicity, like two dance partners who could see inside each other's minds. You lean into her touch, her hand coming up to rest on your waist, as you nearly squirm onto her lap.

She moans as your mouth opens, letting her fall into you, as two becomes one.

It was perfect and poetic, just as new beginnings tend to be. 

Time slows as you sit with each other, exploring and indulging before you finally pull away, your chest rising and falling in quick, staccato breaths.

Paige places a kiss onto your cheek, brushing her thumb across your lips to sweep away the extra spit that had accumulated amidst the sudden passion. 

“Well, I’d say that was a pretty successful first session, huh?” She teases.

“When’s the next one?” You ask, a giggle bubbling up in your chest, as you lean back into Paige, who just laughs, pulling you in for another kiss.

You were going to be just fine.

Paige would make sure of it.

~

welllll what'd you think?? thanks so much for reading

xoxo katy

~

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[fear-is-truth]

Hi i dont know if requests are open or not feel free to ignore this if you are busy!

I was wondering if you could do Evans with an autistic reader? You have the best writing ever and am sure whatever you write will be amazing

I receptly got diagnosed with autism and am starting to get used to it but the hardest part of all haves been finding people who accepts me this way or finding representation and i thought it would be comforting to read your writing about something like this

Have a good days and take care!♡

⋆𐙚 ₊ the evans x autistic reader .ᐟ

ft. tate langdon ‧ kit walker ‧ frat!kyle spencer ‧ james patrick march ‧ cult leader!kai anderson ‧ peter maximoff ‧ colin zabel ‧ warren lipka

a/n: enjoy, pookie !!

⟢ 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐍.

tate would rely on how you explain your experiences and base his reactions on that. If you mention sensory sensitivities, he’d attempt to avoid triggers—but sometimes he fucks up.

he would appreciate your bluntness or literal way of speaking. especially when you’re talking about morbid stuff.

if you have hyperfixations or special interests, tate would listen to you super intently, because he loves seeing you passionate about something.

if anyone belittled you or made ignorant comments, tate wouldn’t even hesitate to lash out (verbally or worse) in your defense.

⟢ 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑.

he would approach your autism with patience and a strong desire to learn how to support you better.

he would genuinely value the way you see the world, often marveling at your unique insights or the connections you make. “i never would’ve thought of it that way. that’s incredible.”

kit would happily adapt to your routines or help you stick to them. if you liked having breakfast at the exact same time every day, he’d join you.

if you ever feel self-conscious about your traits, kit would be the first to remind you that they make you who you are and that he adore every part of you.

he’d be great at recognizing when you’re overwhelmed or anxious.

would fully support your interests, even if they’re niche or kinda obscure.

⟢ pre death .ᐟ 𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑.

kyle would never see your autism as a challenge; instead, he’d see it as part of what made you special. he would be endlessly supportive and sweet.

when you had a meltdown, kyle would stay super calm and be there for you in any way you needed. he’d hold you if you wanted or just sit nearby.

if anyone judged you or made rude comments, he would be the first to defend you.

he’d think your stimming was adorable. he’d play with your fidget toys or pick up new ones when he saw them in stores.

if you struggled with social interactions, kyle would subtly guide you without making you feel embarrassed. later in private, he’d quietly explain someone’s tone if it confused you.

if you were overwhelmed by sensory input, he would guide you to a quiet place or shield you from crowds.

⟢ 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇.

james is a stickler for his own routines but would seamlessly incorporate yours. if you needed structure, he’d find ways to create schedules that align with both your needs.

he would literally, in his pretentious fake brahms accent, tell you that he finds your mind “simply fascinating.”

being detail-oriented, he would quickly notice if certain stimuli upset you. the perfect lighting, temperature, or ambiance tailored to your liking.

if you liked eating the same thing every day, he’d have mrs evers serve it on the finest china, him saying, “consistency, my dear, is the backbone of sophistication.”

⟢ cult leader .ᐟ 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.

kai would scoff at the label, dismissing it as just another way society tries to put people in boxes. he’d say something condescending like, “you’re not autistic; you’re just you. stop letting woke leftists try to define you.”

but deep down, he’d be fascinated by the way your mind works. even though your honesty and blunt nature would annoy him, especially if it challenged his authority or poked holes in his ideas.

if you had a special interest or hyperfixation, kai would find a way to exploit it. he’d definitely rope you into doing something for him.

he would be visibly irritated with any stimming behaviours you had, like rocking or fidgeting. he’d snap at you, “can you stop that? it’s distracting.” over time, he might learn to tolerate it—or not.

during one of your sensory overloads or meltdowns, he’d get visibly frustrated, telling you that, “you need to get your shit together.” but eventually, kai would just leave you alone to work through it.

would intentionally push you into situations that he knows make you uncomfortable, framing it as a way to “toughen you up.”

⟢ 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅.

peter would absolutely adore every aspect of you, including your autism. he’d constantly remind you how fascinating your mind is.

if you had a hyperfixation, peter would dive right into it with you. whether it was a niche video game, a tv show fandom, or collecting random objects, he’d get so into it just to make you happy. he’d joke, “so, when do i get to be the world’s second-best expert on this? after you, of course.”

peter wouldn’t be fazed by your bluntness or honesty—in fact, he’d find it super relatable because he’s just as blunt as you. “finally, someone who just tells it like it is. you’re my kinda person.”

if anyone mocked or misunderstood you, peter would use his superspeed to tie their shoelaces together or give them a wedgie.

⟢ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋.

whatever you were hyperfocused on, colin would be your biggest fan. whether it was a niche topic or a hobby, he’d ask questions and letting you infodump. if it was something like a favorite tv show fandom, he’d take the time to binge every season and try to impress you with his knowledge.

colin would pay attention to the little things that made you comfortable and surprise you with them. for instance if you liked soft fabrics or weighted blankets, he’d go the extra mile to find them for you.

⟢ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐊𝐀.

warren might occasionally fuck up and say the wrong thing, especially if he didn’t fully grasp your sensory needs. but he’d sincerely apologise and try to make it up to you.

he would get a kick out of your bluntness, especially since he’s not exactly a fan of sugarcoating himself.

disclaimer: i did a lil research on autism but i’m still not totally sure if i got it right >.<

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[thewinter-eden]

Blood Sugar Virus (final)

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT (FINAL)

Genre: Horror, zombies, strangers to lovers, angst, suspense, slow burn Pairing: Kang Yeosang x female!reader Warnings: based on the Wanteez Zombie episode, Happy Lemon Drop Day 😁 We’ve reached the final chapter which kind of breaks my heart way more than I thought it would. It IS an 11k word chapter though, so I hope that soothes the sting (it didn’t for me but hey). I genuinely loved writing this story and I cannot believe that my hyperfixation on it carried me all the way through. I hope you guys enjoy ❤️

Story Summary: You (stage name Sugar) are the co-captain of a horror acting group. You and your guys are the ones the companies hire when they want to stage a zombie, ghost, or any vaguely horrific and dystopian episode. So when you get hired by Ateez to develop a zombie program, it's just another routine that you've done a million times. Everything's going exactly according to script--until suddenly it isn't, and it starts getting a little too real.

🏆 Esteemed Moot: @ramadiiiisme

⭐️ Reader Spotlight: @mrsminseochoi

< last chapter | masterlist

You and Jimin are still as the guys around you jump to their feet and get ready to head out again. Neither of you can move well enough on your own, left to wait for someone to help you. It feels unbelievably infantile, being unable to carry your own weight and having to expect someone else to carry it for you, but either you let them take care of you or you get left behind—and none of them seem willing to leave you in the dirt.

Hongjoong rounds them up into a huddle, reorganizing Ateez to proceed from here.

“Did something happen?” Jimin whispers to you, his eyes wide. “Did he hurt you? I swear to god, I told him I’d kill him—these fucking assholes, it’s like every time I turn around—”

“Don’t talk about them like that.” You deliver a sharp elbow to his ribs. “They’ve kept you alive all night, and they’re good people. Incredibly good people. You gotta stop flying off the handle at them, Chim.”

“You were deliriously happy—literally—ten minutes ago and now you’re over here looking like you did when we got back from the GOT7 program.” Jimin squeezes your shoulder tightly, like he’s trying to punctuate the memory he’s recalling with reassurance that he doesn’t mean to hurt you with it. “If he hurt you, I want to know.”

The group is moving, getting Mingi up, heading for the two of you.

The only thing that hurts is the weight of the wall you’ve just slammed down around your heart. “He didn’t hurt me. I swear. He’s been killing himself to get me this far. Don’t worry, Chim, it’s all good.”

“Yeosang, you’ve got Sugar?” Hongjoong asks, pausing in conferring with Taegyeom when he notices that you’re still sitting on the ground.

“Yeah, I’ve got her.” Yeosang says from somewhere in the middle of the huddle of guys, and you see him shoulder through them to approach you.

The stabbing in your heart conflicts with the betrayal of butterflies in your stomach. “No, Yeosang needs a break.” You argue out loud. “He needs to rest for a bit.”

He’s still coming towards you, ignoring your protest, when Wooyoung appears beside him. “I want her.” He pushes past Yeosang. “That good with you, Noona?”

You’re nothing short of eager to have an option other than the man you want to be able to let go of. Instead of trusting your voice to convey your agreement, you lift your arms like a child begging to be picked up.

When Yeosang utters your name, displeased, you almost break. “I’m fine, I can get you.”

“You’re hurt.” You mutter, as though he needs a reminder. “I’ll go with Woo.”

The younger man crouches down to your level, wrapping his arms around you to bring you up to your feet. Blood washes from your head to your toes in a rush, and you sway dizzily in his hold. He keeps you steady, helping you step away from Jimin so that San can move in and pick up your best friend.

“How do you want to do this?” Wooyoung asks you. “If I carry you on my back, can you hold on? Or will that hurt your hip?”

You don’t want to think about the position that will put you in, having to open your hips to wrap your legs around him, but you can’t ignore the fact that it will be less strain on him than carrying you bridal style in his arms.

He could toss you over his shoulder like Hajoon did to Jimin, but you predict that if the blood rushes back into your head like that, you’re likely to throw up all over him.

“I can get on your back.” You say. “That should work.”

When he turns and crouches low for you to drape yourself over him, you see Yeosang. Standing nearby, watching, uncertain.

It should be no surprise to him that you would insist on giving him a rest from taking care of you, but you’re also fairly sure that you weren’t the most subtle about freaking out and bolting away from him.

His expression has blanked out, but you’ve seen him shuffle through enough emotions over the course of the night that you can recognize the underlying worry.

You went from relatively okay, to losing your mind, to fleeing from him like a stranger in a short span of time, and he’s worried.

That’s not your problem.

He is Kang Yeosang of Ateez, not your boyfriend.

Not a member of your team.

Not someone who’s emotions are your responsibility.

You climb onto Wooyoung’s back. It’s more comfortable than you had thought it would be, your arms fitting securely over his shoulders and his hands cupping you firmly at your thighs. Your hip isn’t too strained by the position, more at ease without your weight on it.

“You good?” He asks you.

“Yep.” You lay your chin over his shoulder. “You can readjust if you need to. I’m good.”

He bounces you once, lightly, getting a better grip on you, and then turns to Yeosang. “We’re good, hyung. Ready to go.”

The older man trades his gaze between you and Wooyoung, not responding.

“Yeosang, you’re up front with me. Seonghwa, take the rear.” Hongjoong says.

“Get me if you need to swap.” Yeosang tells Wooyoung, and then offers you a small smile. It’s such a fond, open expression that you feel your heart clench, unable to stop yourself from returning it. Then he turns and picks his way to the front with the captain, leaving you with Wooyoung, San, and Jimin in the middle of the pack.

Seonghwa slips past you to take up the rear, and then the company is moving.

Morning light is spreading through the trees, making it easy to find their footing without tripping over branches and roots or running through short bushes and brambles.

You’re warm and comfortable against Wooyoung, lulled almost into a drowsy state by the soft rhythm of his gait.

Next to you, San carries Jimin across his chest. The raw deterioration of your friend’s entire leg makes it painfully impossible to carry him in the same piggy back configuration, since gripping any portion of the damaged muscle would instantly aggravate it. However, if any of your group are capable of holding a person’s entire weight in his arms for an extended period of time, the statuesque structure of San makes him the perfect candidate.

“Now that I’ve got you where you can’t run away,” Wooyoung starts softly, keeping his voice low. “What just happened between you and Yeosang?”

Of course he has to get to the bottom of it. Of course you can’t be left alone to bemoan your tendency to self-sabotage. You play dumb. “What do you mean?”

You can practically feel him rolling his eyes. “All that ‘he’s not my boyfriend’ bullshit. He said something dumb again, didn’t he? We’ve told you, the man is socially stunted. You’re gonna have to learn to read between the lines with him.”

“As adorable as it is that you are faithfully committed to being his matchmaker, I think you should hold out for another opportunity,” you tease, giving his shoulder a playful pinch. You have to treat it like a joke. You have to laugh it off, or you’ll sink into heartbreak that you have no business feeling.

“She’s emotionally stunted.” Jimin supplies quietly. “They’re perfect for each other.”

That’s not helping. “Jimin, shut up.”

“Do you not like him?” Wooyoung asks. “It’s totally fair if you’ve decided that you’re not really into him—though that would make you certifiably insane—but it really seemed like it was mutual.”

You debate your answer. Maybe it would be easier to just say that he’s right, that you felt a disconnection somewhere and didn’t end up feeling quite as strongly for him as thought you did.

It’s too big a lie. Even with all your training and experience in acting, you don’t think you can be believed.

There’s nothing about Yeosang that doesn’t draw you closer to him and make you feel safe.

There’s nothing about your decision to take a step back that doesn’t feel like you’re losing something you can never get back.

“I don’t think we should be talking about this right now.” You say instead. “We should stay quiet.”

“You’re avoiding.” Jimin says flatly. “I’ve never seen you like you are with him. I think you’re overthinking. I know I’ve been kind of caustic tonight, but I think you’d be foolish to walk away from this.”

You can barely think past your numbing headache. You’re nowhere near present enough to stand at odds with Jimin. If you have this conversation now, you’ll admit to Too much. “Nothing happened. Everything’s fine.”

“So you do like him.” Wooyoung states evenly. “You don’t think he likes you?”

Frustration tightens your jaw. You have to stop yourself from snapping at him to shut him up.

He’s being kind.

He’s trying to help you.

He wants Yeosang happy, and for some reason, he thinks you’re the ticket.

Maybe explaining the truth of the situation will show them you’ve made the right decision. They can’t argue the facts. “I think we both got swept up. I think this can’t survive real life.”

Jimin utters a disbelieving laugh. “You think you’ll face something more difficult than this? If you can work through the zombie apocalypse and come out of it madly in love with each other, I’m pretty sure you can handle taxes and family planning.”

“I don’t think real life is going to be harder than this, I think it’s going to be more boring. It’s easy to feel strong emotions when everything’s on fire, but when it’s mundane? Normal? Boring? What then?”

You can’t keep him entertained all the time. You can’t keep up the thrill of living like you’ve experienced together tonight.

But Wooyoung just laughs softly. It’s not mocking, or belittling—it’s relieved. “Oh, sweet Sugar. Your man lives for the mundane. We get all the excitement we can take in our concerts and promotions. When we get time at home, he’s the epitome of normal. He goes to the gym. He eats good food. He takes his vitamins and supplements. He plays video games. We have to convince him to go out with us. If you think domestic life with him is gonna be anything other than quietly mundane, you’ve been misinformed.”

Jimin breathes deeply, like Wooyoung has just taken a huge weight off his shoulders. “God, see? It’s like you’re already primed to coexist. You both go to work, you come home ready to take a load off—and at least this guy will make sure you eat and sleep properly.”

It is a comfort. To know that you wouldn’t have been expected to spend your off days or weekends chasing every social engagement under the sun. But the fundamental problem still remains—he doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know who he thinks he likes.

And you’re already in deep, completely entranced by him. Even if you went on a number of dates to get to know each other, him deciding to either ghost you or inform you that he doesn’t think you want the same things would crush you.

You’re woefully poorly adjusted to the uncertainty of dating, the eggshells you walk to be on your best behavior and hope you won’t make an insurmountable mistake—your anxious heart wants unwavering commitment, not existential doubt.

It’s not Yeosang you’re rejecting, it’s the concept of dating.

You want your life to be full of certainties—lunch with your mom every so often, work every day, your cat every time you come home, peace inside the walls of your own home.

You’re a coward.

“He won’t want me when this is over.” You’ve said it. It’s out there. Your head is spinning and your limbs are on fire, but your heart is hanging out in the open.

“You won’t even give him the chance to find that out for himself?” Wooyoung argues. “He’s openly fixated on you, and you seem to like him just as much. That’s not fair.”

It may not be fair.

But you’re a coward.

“I don’t want to go through that again.” You whisper.

“So you’re never going to try?” Jimin questions. “You’re going to turn down every guy you like, just in case it one day stops working out?”

“I’m good alone. I’m safe alone.”

“Yeah, but you’re lonely.”

At Jimin’s deadpan response, your brain stutters. “I’m not lonely.”

“You are.” He says softly. “I can see it. We could all see it. You think we don’t know why you work yourself to the bone? Why you don’t give yourself any time to be alone? We could all see it.”

Silence resounds between you. The gentle crunch of leaves under their feet is the only sound besides the quiet murmuring of the guys ahead of you.

You are lonely.

Your routines keep you busy, and your work keeps you fulfilled in a professional capacity, and your friends and family filled almost every corner of your heart. But you can’t deny that the safety of your private apartment sometimes feels like emptiness. And the peace of your quiet life at home sometimes feels like abandonment.

But what’s left for you now?

Even if everything can go back to normal—you don’t have your job. You don’t have your family. You would be walking into your empty apartment with nothing but your cat and the memories of this horrible night and all it took from you.

Everything is uncertain now.

Everything you had to hold onto and protect yourself with is gone.

You’ll be starting from nothing.

“I’m not enough for him.” The broken whisper bares itself without your permission.

“I think you’re wrong.” Wooyoung says, just as softly.

You can’t believe him. You’ll be too driven by your pursuit of the career that you lost, too broken by the deaths of your friends, too guarded emotionally, not useful enough, not nurturing enough, not happy enough.

“The first time he met you, in our second program prep session in that coffee shop, he was inside his head all day.” Seonghwa’s voice floats into the conversation from behind you. “That night, we couldn’t find him for dinner—Yunho discovered him holed up in his bedroom, reading your orientation packet like he was studying for a test.”

Your heart flutters all over again, and it’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever felt. It shouldn’t matter so much to you that he cared so much about your program, but your body is filling with pride and excitement.

“The next day he was in the gym so early—like, the moment it opened.” San says. “We didn’t have a schedule, so we couldn’t figure out why he was up so early. But then on the way to our next meeting with you, he was reciting facts about the program. Like he’d memorized it overnight. He told us to behave, and to listen to you and Rosé, as though we were a bunch of little kids on a field trip.”

“It was weird,” Wooyoung agrees. “We were all kinda confused. He was all like, ‘she worked really hard on this, we should be respectful.’ And we were like, ‘well yeah, we all want to do this, stop being weird about it.’”

“We figured it out pretty quickly after that.” San says. “He was trying to be cool. But he kept asking things like what your drink order had been, if you had said anything about a dress code, if we thought he had said something dumb or embarrassing. Wooyoung cornered him by the third day, because we were all catching on. What did he say to you, Woo?”

“I mean, he was in denial for a bit, but I got it out of him.” Wooyoung says proudly. “He liked you. He asked me if I thought it would be inappropriate to ask you for your personal number. He called you pretty—which, duh—he said you seemed really nice and really smart, and he thought your stories were so cool and creative—like, completely raving about you. I was trying to poke at him, to see how deep he was; I said that I was gonna ask you out, and that I thought we had a connection.”

You give him a small laugh, shaking your head fondly against his shoulder. “We had such a great connection.”

“Oh, such a great connection,” Wooyoung teases back cheerfully. “But I had to let him have a chance, you know?”

“Oh sure, sure.”

“Anyway, he was…” he pauses, struggling to find the words. “He kinda looked like I’d sucker punched him, a little. I had to tell him I was kidding, because he would have backed off for me—that’s just who he is—but the guy was so disappointed.”

“Once we knew, he didn’t really try to hide it anymore.” Seonghwa says. “We’d come home from your prep sessions and he’d be all giggly and flustered, talking about all the times you’d spoken to him. You’d think he was in high school or something. He was dressing up for you, asking us to help him come up with things to say to you, getting all sensitive when we joked about how nice and pretty you are.”

Your heart is racing. “He was?”

“He was giddy.” San says flatly. “We were taking bets on how quickly he would embarrass himself in front of you. We told him to get through the program and fulfill our contract before trying to change the dynamic, and he said he already planned to do that, but he was thinking about places to take you. Should he take you to a movie? To dinner? Out for drinks? Get a reservation at an impossible-to-reserve restaurant?”

Seonghwa breaks in again. “I told him he should find the nicest place in town and impress you, but he said he thought you might feel like he was trying to throw status at you. He said he wanted it to be comfortable, not competitive, whatever that means. Anyway, he decided he wanted to find a place where you could just sit and talk and just spend time together—and he found this beautiful coffee shop—”

You feel horrible.

Monstrous.

Cruel.

What is wrong with you?

He’d put thought into making you comfortable and you had laughed at him.

Forget being too boring, you’ve insulted his consideration of you.

You’d been propositioned by wealthy clients who thought they could impress you with the nicest restaurant in town. If he had expected you to show up, dressed to the nines and sitting stiffly as a team of waiters buzzed around you like you were a couple of VIPs, you would have gone home and turned the page on him.

You’re a horrible person.

“Why did he like me so much?” You ask timidly. “Was it the way I had to wrangle you guys like cats? Because I was pretty impressed with myself.” You’re praying it’s not that. You’re praying he didn’t notice you for the way you were organizing events and talking to staff to make sure all of the messy details got cleaned up and patiently enduring all of the various speed-bumps that you ended up running into—like when the trampoline place lost your appointment, or when the company didn’t have enough seats on the bus.

“Girl, he was on our asses for being out of control. He was lecturing us left and right for our craziness, telling us you shouldn’t have to be parenting us like wild children.” Wooyoung snorts. “Which is absurd, because we were perfect gentlemen.”

You don’t comment.

“He said he could tell you love your work. That you get all bubbly and excited when you talk about your stories. That you’re cute when you sing karaoke. That your dry sense of humor was the funniest thing—and yeah, Sugar, you’re funny, but you’re not that funny. Anyway, the point is, Yeosang thought you were interesting and kind and beautiful from the moment he met you. He didn’t develop an adrenalized crush on you tonight. Do you remember when Jongho threw you at that fake zombie? And Yeosang caught your hand and rescued you?” Seonghwa asks.

You do remember.

It’s one of the funniest things that’s ever happened to you in a program. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know if you saw it, but he was bright red. Like…as soon as he realized he was holding your hand he looked at me and he was blushing so hard. It was adorable. You were acting like a scared high school student and he was all flustered about holding your hand.”

He’d told you he wanted to ask you out. He’d told you he was interested in you before today—or yesterday.

But hearing this, hearing that all of the thoughtless and mundane things about you had been what had caught his eye in the first place, it has your entire body thrumming.

You’d been doing your job, enjoying casual hangouts with clients, and he’d liked you for you. Not for the psycho who runs into danger, or the nurturer who protected his brothers, or the provider who gave up too much of herself.

Even now as you think back, he’d been working with you, trying to restrain your urges, staying loyally next to you in the terrifying moments of danger, but it was the quiet moments that he drew closer to you.

When Jin bit you, when you distracted the hoard for Hongjoong, the zombie pile, the fight for Jimin, the zombies with Wooyoung and Hongjoong, the swarms of wasps—he’d been focused, concentrated, working.

But when he patched you up, when the lockdown happened, all the quiet moments in the office, after the plan to axe the barricade didn’t work out, when he rescued you from the classroom full of zombies, when you’d been scheming about the fire—those were the moments that he pulled you closer.

When the danger had passed, when a bit of normal returned, when you could sit and be yourself, that’s when he reached for you.

Maybe you’re wrong.

Maybe you can risk it.

Maybe you can last.

“He really cared that much?”

It’s Jimin who answers. “Babe, it sounds like this guy likes you in spite of tonight. Not because of it.”

“I laughed at him for his couples therapy comment,” Wooyoung remarks lightly. “But he was kinda right. He would have asked you out anyway, but now you guys know who you are under pressure. Most couples don’t get that before the first date.”

YEOSANG

“Is she okay?” Hongjoong bends low to crawl under a branch and peeks up at Yeosang. “She wasn’t looking good there for a minute.”

The younger man pushes the branch back and pauses to hold it for Yunho and Mingi to duck under. Jongho takes it from him and waits to hold it for Wooyoung, San, Seonghwa, and the two they carry with him.

“I don’t know,” he admits carefully, finding his place next to Hongjoong again. “She was going pretty strong until a little bit ago. I’m a little worried about the way she started losing clarity. Do you think that’s a sign of a bigger problem?”

Hongjoong shrugs cluelessly. “I’m not a medical professional. But I wouldn’t think she needs a bigger problem. She’s got like five bites, all of them muscle deep. That, paired with her being responsible for us while watching all of her friends die doesn’t make a very hospitable environment for a speedy recovery.”

That’s about what Yeosang had assumed on his own. “She’ll be fine. Just as long as we can get out of here and get some help.”

“What did you say to her?” Yunho whispers, urging Mingi a little faster. They crowd in behind Hongjoong and Yeosang, glancing cautiously at the soldiers who travel on the perimeter of the group.

“When?” Yeosang glances back to find both of the taller men peering at him with unbridled concern. His brow furrows, baffled. “What? What’s wrong?”

Mingi raises an eyebrow at him, adjusting his hold on Yunho’s shoulder. “Whatever you said that made her run to Jimin. You’d think you’d have gotten that foot out of your mouth by now.”

Yeosang’s face scrunches with offended confusion. “What? She wanted to check on him.”

“I can’t believe, after all this buildup, you’re fumbling this girl.” Yunho mutters. “She’s like actually your other half, and you can’t stop yourself from screwing it up.”

“Woah, hey, I didn’t say anything. She went to check on Jimin. Then she wanted me to take a break. I didn’t fumble anything.” Yeosang glares back at them, not at all enjoying the miffed expressions on their faces. “Mind your own business. Focus on walking.”

“Then why did she tell Jimin you’re not her boyfriend?”

At Yunho’s hissed words, Yeosang’s pace slows. His spine twists, looking back at Sugar as she clings to Wooyoung’s back. Her eyes meet his, and slide away.

His heart feels like a rock in his chest. “Because we haven’t actually had time to label anything while we’ve been running for our lives.” But his mind is sorting through the events of the past through minutes.

She’d started losing awareness, calling out for Namjoon. Then she’d seemed to come back to herself a little bit, only to continue to slip between reality and memories like she couldn’t distinguish between the two. She’d been fine, safe, holding him like he held her, until the moment she decided to move over to Jimin and tell him she didn’t want him to be the one to carry her.

He shakes his head. “She should be unconscious by now, with all the shit wearing on her. She needs her wounds treated and she needs to sleep.”

Yunho shrugs. “I don’t know, she seemed bothered by something. I think she was crying.”

“She’s in a shit load of pain, leave her alone.” Hongjoong mutters. But then he glances at Yeosang. “Back in the school, when she came to help me and Hwa, it seemed like she was thinking you wouldn’t stick around after all this. If I were you, I’d think very carefully about this crush you’ve got on her and figure out if you want to be serious about it or not. She just lost almost everyone she loves. She doesn’t need to be played with right now. Either commit to this or cut her loose. It’s not a game, Yeo. If you’re serious about her, just be there. Otherwise, let her go. All of us survived this, we can work through the aftermath together. All she has is Jimin.” He pats the younger man’s arm once and returns his focus to the path ahead.

The reflex to defend himself, to argue that he’s not playing with anybody’s emotions, dies abruptly by the time Hongjoong is finished. Unable to ignore the weight of that truth, that her circumstances are more serious than his desire to chase these invigorating feelings that he has, Yeosang follows along in pensive silence.

Everything his captain said was true.

She’d lost nearly everyone. She’s escaping with her life, and very little else.

His job may not look the same after tonight, but at least he and the rest of Ateez can figure out a way to reform as a group and continue to put out music wherever they land.

Her entire production team and management team, and stylists and coordinators and actors, all died tonight. She doesn’t have a team to go home with. She doesn’t have a job to go back to.

She and Jimin will have to face tomorrow by making ends meet and trying to start over from the bottom.

A flood of questions swarm his mind.

Not regarding his feelings for her—if he’s certain of anything, it’s that everything he’s been through with her has only confirmed what he thought from the beginning: she’s strong, smart, loyal to herself; she’s someone he can understand, relate to, connect with; even under the stress and pressure and fear, she continued to be the person he wanted to be next to, trusting her as she lead them through.

He believes he’d seen her moments of weakness and rashness for what they were—not the hopeless actions of a women who doesn’t want to be saved, but the scared resignation of someone who doesn’t know she should be. She proved that much when she saved herself.

Her selfless habits of loading herself down with responsibility, taking burdens from others to bear them herself, her belief that her purpose is to serve and not to live, all struck him as the behavior of someone who hadn’t been allowed to be human; to make mistakes; to need to be cared for in turn.

His only questions now are regarding what she needs to be able to continue to be the best version of herself.

Would his presence in her life hold her back?

Would he just be a distraction, inhibiting her from finding what she wants the most?

Would he just be a reminder of everything she lost?

Is he the best person to be by her side for whatever comes next?

Jimin knows her. He looks out for her. He knows what she needs and what he denies herself. She trusts him, and they don’t stop each other from reaching their dreams.

Would he just be getting in the way of the life she wants to build?

His mind goes back to the lockdown, when she’d told him that all she wanted was the chance to rest and enjoy life without the pressure of work and responsibilities. He’d known in that moment that if he could give her nothing else, he could make sure that she could have days like that.

Not just one, but so many that she forgets what it’s like to dream about it, like it’s something out of her reach.

He wants her to be able to take rest and relaxation for granted, to learn to be lazy sometimes and forgive herself for it.

He hasn’t known her for any longer than a week, but god, he wants to.

He wants to see her create a life for herself that she’s proud of, like she had when he met her. He wants to watch her create stories that make her giddy with confidence and excitement, to watch her become everything she can be, because he’s never seen anyone so perfectly made for a vocation like she is with her programs.

He wants to be there when everything feels like it’s falling apart, when she feels like giving up, when she has moments where she loses faith in herself—because he’s seen what she can do and what she can create, and he knows that she’s capable of so much more than she thinks she is.

He started this week with an inexplicable crush on a pretty girl, but now he feels like he’s found a partner. She’d responded to his affection in a way he never dreamed was possible, but she’d also trusted him implicitly. She hadn’t spent the night pushing him to the side so she could face the situation with the people she knew and felt comfortable with, she’d fallen into a rhythm of partnership. She’d trusted herself with him, and he’d trusted himself with her.

That wasn’t the thrill of infatuation.

That was compatibility. Communication. Faith.

He can’t dismiss that.

He can’t walk away from tonight without her, not after he’d discovered a sense of self next to her. Not after she took his breath away at every turn.

She’s scared.

She’s hurt.

She can conquer this, and the world, on her own two feet.

But he has no intention of letting her do it without him.

Not when he doesn’t want to do it without her.

SUGAR

“We’re gonna stop here.” Taegyeom brings you to a stop in a stretch of woods that faces the gas station. The lights are on at the pumps, but the store is dark. It’s not open yet in these wee hours of morning, and won’t be for a few more at least.

He directs your little group of survivors into a tight cluster of trees and tells you to find places to sit down again where you can lay low for the next few hours. Once satisfied that his charges are following his instructions without question, he turns to the soldiers and positions them at the best vantage points to keep watch.

Wooyoung crouches low to the ground to allow you to get off his back, moving his hands from beneath your thighs to your arms so he can anchor you when you land. Despite trying to be careful, your feet hit the ground with an impact that sends shocks of tingling pain from your heels to your hips.

Staggering dizzily, you let yourself lean against him and use his grip on your hands to ground yourself until the uncomfortable nerve sensation passes. “Ugh, I think I’m gonna puke.” You groan, tucking your chin to your chest as nausea swirls in your gut and heats your cheeks.

“Alright, alright, hold on, don’t puke on me.” Wooyoung says quickly, kindly, turning himself so he can catch you against his chest and spin you to face the bushes. “I’ve got you. If you’re gonna be sick, aim it over there. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

San slips by you, easing Jimin down against a tree and helping him arrange his legs. “You should try to sleep, hyung,” he says. “We’ve got a few hours to wait.”

“He’s right.” Seonghwa agrees, sitting in the middle of your friends and crossing his legs beneath him. “You both should try to rest. We’ll wake you up when it’s time.”

Hongjoong sits at the front, leaning against his own tree with a long groan. “God, what I wouldn’t give for my bed right now.”

“Anybody else starving?” Yunho drops like a rock to the ground next to Mingi. “I feel like I could eat a whole cow.”

“I want pasta.” Mingi mutters. “I’m dying for pasta.”

“You always want pasta.” Jongho grumbles. “I’m with Yunho.”

As the debate continues, you focus on trying to settle the violent upheaval pulsing between your slamming headache and your tight stomach. After a few seconds that crawl like a lifetime, your taut muscles start to relax. The fire fades from your face, your organs stop heaving. “I’m good.” You whisper when you can trust yourself to breathe again. Your body is calming. “I’m good now, Woo.”

“You sure?” He pulls your hair away from your shoulders and arranges it against your back. His face appears near yours, brow furrowing as he takes in the color of your cheeks. “Don’t force yourself, it’s okay.”

You shake your head, no longer buzzing beneath your skin like you’re one wrong move away from losing whatever’s left in your stomach. You can’t imagine there’s anything left in your system anyway. “No, I feel better. I just needed a minute to orient myself. You can put me down.”

Footsteps crunch through the leaves behind you, and Wooyoung’s hands still against your back.

He’s not helping you find a place to sit down, so you reach out your hands to catch yourself against the nearest tree, rewarded by the harsh bite of bark against your palms.

“Wooyoung.” Yeosang.

His soft voice comes from right behind you, sending a shiver down your spine. Even the low timbre of his tone sends your heart racing, even though anxious apprehension still crashes into your thoughts.

How did you go from cool and steady to craving his presence next to you with the desperation of addiction?

It’s not even just attraction swirling through your blood, coloring the way you see the world, but a sense of security that you didn’t realize you were missing until he’s beside you again.

Everything you had done tonight, with the exception of the turbulent early moments where they weren’t sure if they could trust you, you had done by his side.

You hadn’t realized how much courage you had drawn from having him with you.

“Give her a minute, hyung. She’s okay for now, I’ll sit with her.” Wooyoung keeps his hands on you, supporting your weight so you can turn yourself and slide down the trunk of the tree to land on your butt in the dirt.

Now that you’re facing them, you find Yeosang’s eyes on you. He stands next to Wooyoung, posture strong and sure, gaze hard as stone. He doesn’t even look at his younger brother. “Go sit with San, Wooyoung.” He’s not asking.

You can’t break eye contact. It occurs to you that you might have pushed him far enough away that whatever he’s now come to say to you is exactly what you’ve been afraid of. The look in his eyes terrifies you.

Wooyoung glances at you, worried. “I don’t know if she wants you to—”

Yeosang fixes him with a blank stare. “She speaks for herself. Go on, Woo.”

Your vision is weak as your eyes flash between them, catching the hesitation on Wooyoung’s face and the determination on Yeosang’s.

You owe him a conversation. Whatever it leads to.

A few minutes ago, you would have let Wooyoung run interference for you. You would have done everything you could to drive a wedge of professionalism between yourself and Yeosang to protect yourself, but your curiosity is defeating your fear.

You want to see how Yeosang treats you with freedom so near. You want to see how he’s going to react to how you pushed him away, how Wooyoung is trying to keep you from him. You want to see if you can find the steadiness of the man who stayed by your side all night, or if you’re going to get the sense that he doesn’t know what he wants. Or, worse, if he knows what he wants, and it isn’t you.

“It’s okay,” you tell your self-appointed protector. “Really, Woo.”

Wooyoung glances down at you, trying to read your face, searching for any sign that you’re just trying to keep the peace rather than actually feeling comfortable about being left with the man who has the power to break your heart.

When he sees only open, weary vulnerability, all pretenses at strength and courage long since disappeared, he kneels down next to you. “If you want to be left alone about all of this until after you’ve gotten a chance to rest and recover a little bit, just give me a signal. I’ll fight him off for you, okay?” He flashes you a cocky grin and smacks a kiss right to the apple of your cheek. “I’ve got your back, Noona.”

Laughing at his brazen closeness that is clearly meant to poke at Yeosang, you land a weak slap to his shoulder. “Get out of here, punk, you’re breathing on my face.”

He winks at you and scoots back, rising to face Yeosang again. “Don’t make me come back here and separate you two.”

Yeosang doesn’t seem to be in a playful mood. “You have five seconds.”

Wooyoung throws his hands up innocently and shuffles away to find San, stretching the stiffness out of his back as he goes.

You forgot to thank him for carrying you like a child this whole way, but it’s probably too dangerous to call him back now, especially since Yeosang looks like he’s actually five seconds away from putting him on his face.

When he turns back to you, the tension melts out of his expression.

It gives you whiplash, mind scrambling to make sense of the shift.

You’d braced yourself for confrontation, but now he’s looking at you with so much softness that you’re stuck between letting your guard down and keeping yourself firmly bolstered to face rejection or anger—or both.

Stepping towards you with careful movements, he takes a second to glance over your body, checking your hip, your arm, your neck. All of your bites are bandaged, but you’re sure they’ve all bled through.

You must look horrible. Hair matted and knotted, clothes torn and soaked with blood, face covered in scratches and probably sweat and grime—you suddenly wish it was dark again so he can’t see you so well.

Yeosang lowers himself to his knees in front of you. “Can I stay?” He asks softly. He’s watching you, eyes wide and focused, waiting for you to tell him to leave.

He knows you pushed him away. He knows you chose Wooyoung for more reasons than just to give him a rest. You can see it in his face. Either he’d heard some of what you’d said, or someone else had and told him about it.

Instead of wanting to keep him at arm’s length or further, you just feel horrible. You’d panicked about the possibility of him turning on you, but you had been the inconsistent one. You had been the one who was unfair to him.

Your brain is still screaming at you, begging you not to let yourself be dragged in and hurt again, but for once, you’re not listening. “Please stay.” You whisper.

What are you doing?

Going against everything you’d disciplined yourself to do just because you learned that he’d had a crush on you a week ago?

Letting him in because after tonight, you don’t think you’ll ever meet anyone who makes you feel the way he does?

Yeah, apparently.

Yeosang turns himself to sit beside you, leaning his back against the tree with a heavy sigh. He scoops one of your hands off your lap and holds it tightly in his, resting it against his thigh as he stretches out his legs to lay alongside yours.

The confrontation doesn’t come.

Everything about the moment is so grounding, his shoulder pressed against yours, your palms warm and fingers intertwined, that all you want to do is put your head on his shoulder and give into the sleepiness tugging at the loose threads of your consciousness.

He’s just sitting there, breathing next to you. So why does it feel like you’ve finally found the safety you’ve been craving all night?

Yeosang tilts his head back against the tree, blinking up at the last of the stars that are still visible in the faint glow of morning. “I’m gonna stay with you,” he says simply. “For whatever happens next.”

It takes you a second to figure out why those words, in that voice, have touched your ears before, rooting themselves into your head with resolute finality. The memory comes back with a rush of heat. It’s what he said to you right before he kissed you for the first time, so many hours ago in that hallway.

I’m staying with you.

You don’t have to care about me, but I care about you too much to pretend that I don’t.

Your hand twitches in his, fear and uncertainty rearing their ugly heads when your heart flutters in response to his words. “How do you know?” Your voice is timid, broken by embarrassment, hoping that there’s anything he can say that will calm the trepidation in your soul.

He doesn’t even look at you. “Do you want to stay with me?” Easy. Firm. Level. Like he already knows your answer. Like your terminal inability to hold your tongue around him has given him all the confidence he needs to confront your fears and quiet them.

To you, his question isn’t even a question.

It requires no thought.

He is solid and stable against you, the embodiment of comfort and refuge.

“Yes.” It’s the easiest thing you’ve ever said. Yes. Yes, you want him. Yes, you want to stay with him. Yes, he’s the one you would risk everything for.

And you would, if he gave you that chance.

He sucks in a slow breath. Despite knowing what you would say, to hear it out loud is absurdly thrilling. “That’s all it takes,” he tells you. “I’m not going to pretend that you and I are strangers, talking about exploring going on a first date and hoping it works out. Tonight—last night—took us farther than that. I know you better than that. And I know that I want you next to me for whatever comes next.”

The things you learned about him from his brothers ricochet through your thoughts—how he’d been silly and exhilarated with blossoming feelings for you, making the guys laugh and enjoy his boyish excitement and nervousness, how he’d gone to them with trivial uncertainties, like if he’d said something dumb or if they thought you might be interested in him too.

That’s not the man sitting next to you, not where it matters. He’s sure. Steady. He knows you and your thoughts and your fears now better than any of the other guys’ clueless perceptions of you. He knows you return his feelings. He knows you’re scared of them. He has your hand in his like that’s where it belongs, and goddammit if you don’t believe him.

“Yeosang,” you turn your head to look at him, drinking in his profile, memorizing the lines of his face, cementing the exact shape of that little mark in your mind until you can see it with your eyes closed.

“Hmm,” he meets your eyes, and there’s nothing but quiet assurance there.

What are you even afraid of?

“I’m sorry I made fun of your coffee date idea. It was sweet. I would have loved to get coffee with you.” It should have been said with fondness and promise, but knowing how much thought he had put into choosing that date for you, your voice is only filled with remorse.

A smile cracks across his face. His thumb sweeps over the top of your hand. “How about you let me make you coffee instead?”

Your eyebrows lift. It sounds so domestic, like you’re making plans for tomorrow morning as though you’ve been doing it for years. “Can you even make coffee?”

Damn your inability to have a vulnerable conversation.

But he doesn’t seem annoyed, rather blinking once in pause. “I’ll learn to make coffee, and then I’ll make some for you.”

You snort. “I can make it.” That’s a lie. “Actually, all I have is instant coffee.”

His head falls back against the tree like he’s in pain. “Oh my God.”

“No, wait, I’m out of instant. I can offer you a glass of milk and some stale Oreos.” You really need to reevaluate your pantry situation if you’re going to be sharing meals in the future.

Yeosang groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sugar.”

You just shrug. Most of your food expenses are vending machine lunches eaten over well-worn scripts.

“First thing, when we’re out of here, I’m taking you shopping.” He tells you.

“You know, usually when guys say that, they don’t mean grocery shopping.” You remark lightly.

That gets a chuckle out of him. “You need groceries. Lots of them. Real ones, not packaged in tin cans.”

Something occurs to you with a disappointing start. “You know, I don’t think I’m actually gonna get paid for this program.” Shit, you don’t have any money. You’re gonna have to sign up to teach acting classes just to make rent—which is something you’ve done far too many times to count.

Maybe there’s a weekend seminar coming up that needs teachers.

“I’m taking you shopping.” He repeats with inflection.

“Now hold on, I’m not your charity case. I’m not letting you pay for stuff, I can handle my own living expenses.” You frown at him, flooded with feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment at your inferior financial situation, but he just shakes his head at you.

“You’re not my charity case, but you do need groceries, and I’m going to personally make sure you get them.”

You want to argue with him, but you do need groceries and you can’t properly afford them at the moment. It’s better than giving Jimin more reasons to call you his sugar baby, and at least if Yeosang is offering, you can find a way to make it up to him. “Fine, but don’t get used to it.”

“Okay,” He says, with not an ounce of conviction. He meets your unimpressed stare with an innocent smile. “And you’re definitely getting paid for this program. Like I said, zombies were in the contract. You did nothing but deliver.”

“Oh my god.” It’s your turn for an exasperated groan. “That’s only assuming we don’t have to flee the country.”

“Not to bank on a bunch of evil people dying horrible deaths, but there’s still hope.” Yeosang shrugs, and when you drive your elbow into his ribs he groans dramatically and slumps over.

“Oh god, Yeo—” For a minute you think you might have actually hurt him until you realize that he’s shaking with laughter, not pain. You elbow him again. “Don’t do that, Jesus, you scared me.”

He just pulls himself upright, still laughing. “Sorry.”

You’ve never heard anyone sound decidedly less sorry.

Soft conversation hums from the other guys throughout the group. Hongjoong and Seonghwa are still talking about meals, deciding if they want breakfast or dinner foods. Jongho and Jimin are debating chartering KQ’s private jet (Jongho’s argument) versus sneaking onto a cargo ship (Jimin’s argument) to get away from the government. Wooyoung and San are snoring quietly, slumped against each other, completely knocked out.

It’s not everyone. There are so many people missing, so many cracks in your heart as you count heads and scan faces.

So few of you had survived that stupid program.

But the ones who are here are okay. They’re safe. They’re happy, as much as they can be. If nothing else, they’re capable of being happy and whole and normal when this is over.

You made it.

You survived.

Your soul is bleeding with the ripping away of your family, but you’re not in this alone. You didn’t lose Jimin. You didn’t lose these people, who somehow came out of this wretched experience with the two of you in tow, like they’ve adopted you into their family and have no intention of leaving you behind with the memory of this hell.

This could have been so much worse.

You have one more question. Only one more —one that you don’t think can be answered. Not right now.

But your heart aches with the pressure of it. “What if I’m just a reminder of all of this?” The words fall off your tongue with debilitating weight. Because you will remind him of tonight. He’ll never forget what happened tonight.

None of you ever will.

“All I see when I look at you is my future.” Yeosang meets your wide eyes, glancing at the shocked flush on your cheeks with a satisfied smile. “I get to be cheesy, I’m a songwriter. But I mean that, by the way. This will always be in our past. I can live with that if my future is with you.”

It should be cheesy.

It should be the sappiest line anyone’s ever given you.

But you’re searching yourself, eyes pricking with tears, chest thick with warmth, and all you find are the same words inside you. If your future is him, you can bear tonight.

It’s allowed to be the sappiest shit you’ve ever felt, because you almost didn’t live long enough to hear it.

“You’re right, you are cheesy.” You say, even though tears are slipping down your cheeks in direct opposition of your cool response.

He brushes them away with gentle finger tips, and then his lips are warm against your cheek. “It’s gonna be okay.” He kisses your face again, the words whispered softly in your ear. “I promise, it’s all going to be okay.”

You have to drop your face, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion and the utter safety of his presence that completely encompasses you. You press your lips to his bare shoulder, wishing you knew how to tell him all the things that are bursting inside of you.

His arms wrap around your waist, the way they always seem to. He lifts you gently to sit between his legs, letting you lean back against his chest instead of the gritty, scraping texture of the bark. “Try to rest, Sugar.” He says against the curve of your throat. “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Wrapped securely in the heat of his embrace, his heart pounding steadily against your back, you’ve never fallen asleep so quickly in your life.

A hand cupping your face startles you awake. The sun is high above you, warming your skin, shining bright light of day down on the forest around you.

Yeosang says your name, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. “Sugar, they’re back. Are you with me?” His hands move to rub up and down your arms as you slowly come back to yourself.

You feel like you’ve slept for hours. Stiffness throbs in your joints, your butt numb and aching from sitting on the hard ground for so long. The fog of exhaustion has lightened a little, and your eyes actually focus when you drag them around the movement happening in your group.

Wooyoung and San are awake now, on their feet, hurrying towards the edge of the tree cluster you’re hiding in. Mingi is sitting with Jimin, both of them craning their necks to see what’s happening.

Taegyeom is calm as he passes where you sit, rifle slung comfortably across his chest as he strolls by.

“What?” You sit up abruptly, clocking the excitement on Hongjoong’s face. “What’s happening?”

Yeosang puts his hands to your back to give himself room to get his feet under him, and he lifts you with him as he stands. “Woosung is back.” He tells you, keeping one arm strongly around your back until you get your bearings.

Looking into his face, you find him watching you with mixed curiosity and concern.

“He’s back? Is he okay? Is it…” You don’t dare to hope.

Your thoughts are scrambling to remember the plan, desperate to put the distant sequence of events in order.

They were supposed to come find you if they survived—but was that only in the event of everything else going completely up in flames? Or are they running? Are they hurrying back to you to escort you out of the country?

You can’t remember.

“Are they hurt?” You ask, trying to see through the trees. “What about the other two? Hajoon and Dojoon?”

“It’s all of them.” Seonghwa says, coming to stand with you. “Like, the Black Berets and all the enlisted men.”

Practically trembling with excitement, you turn back to Yeosang, gripping his arms where they fall around your waist. “What about the service station? It’s open now, right? Did we get any calls out?”

He’s nodding, pulling you closer, settling your weight against him when your bad leg buckles.

“Hongjoong and I went over there about an hour ago, as soon as they opened.” Seonghwa says. “We called everyone we could think of—they’re on their way and should be here soon. We just told them we got lost out here and needed help, and not to talk to anybody. They’re coming.”

They called for help.

People out there know you’re alive.

They’re coming for you.

“Oh my god.” You clutch tighter at Yeosang’s arm, both legs now weak beneath you. While you’re still trying to process the information, the fact that you’re so close to getting out of here, you hear the throngs of footsteps approaching your position.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang asks you quietly. “Can you stand? I can put you on my back.”

You’re shaking your head, too scattered by the conflicting hope of victory and the anxiety of bad news. If you have to pack up and start running, you’re going to need help.

But you have to hear the news on your own two feet. You have to face this, whatever this is.

“Not yet.” You let him support you, but no more than that. “Not yet, I’m okay.”

He helps you move closer to the outskirts of your little huddle until you’re standing next to Wooyoung and San, in full view of the entire army trodding in your direction, with Woosung in the lead.

“What’s the situation, hyung?” Taegyeom asks.

“What happened?” Wooyoung demands. “Is it over? Are they following you?”

“We had a front row seat to an utter shit show, that’s what happened.” Woosung utters with a weary sigh, coming to a stop in the middle of your group. “Those guys showed up shortly after you radioed it in, but by then it was too late. That whole field turned into a zombie outbreak. Those fucking parasites were everywhere.”

Hongjoong looks panic stricken. “Are they still out here? Are they loose in the forest? Holy fuck, it’s the end of the world.”

Seonghwa and Yunho are immediately restless, eyes on the ground, kicking at leaves and branches and bushes, as though the giant insects are going to burst out of the ground at any second.

You’re not so sure it’s not a possibility, yourself, until your gaze sweeps around the troops.

The soldiers are milling around wearily, falling into the grass with no apparent concern for an impending zombie apocalypse.

“They started popping out of the burning bodies and attacking the officers. When the reinforcements showed up, they were nothing but a buffet. Delivered like Door Dash right into the hands of those hungry fuckers.” Dojoon says. “I’ve never seen anything so disgusting.”

Hongjoong presses a hand to his chest and falls back against a tree trunk with a heavy sigh. “I’m going to hell for how relieved that makes me feel.”

“Speak for yourself.” Jongho mutters. “Adi-fuckin-os.”

Yunho smacks him right in the chest. “Don’t say that, dipshit, people died.”

“Bad people.” Jongho corrects him. “Bad people died.”

While a large part of you is weighing the same dilemma of unbelievable relief and somewhat heavy remorse as a result, you’re a little sick of letting yourself be a slave to guilt over things you can’t control. “They’re all dead?” You can’t believe it. You don’t want to believe it—not if there’s bad news to go with the good.

Yeosang’s arms tighten around you. Even now, he refuses to let you go.

“They’re all hamburger.” Woosung corrects you. “We spent the rest of the time blasting those goddamn bugs to smithereens, waiting around for them to come out of the dead ones. We burned the bodies. Of the officers and the parasites. They’re all but ash now.” He casts a sweeping gaze over your faces, ensuring that the same number of you made it here that escaped the school yard. “I hope you guys are ready to put on the show of your lives. It’s time to go public and go home. And remember—last night was the best night of your lives.”

Silence falls over your group.

They’re all but ash now.

It’s time to go home.

Best night of your lives.

It’s over.

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung breathes. “We’re going home.”

Woosung sits on a fallen tree, peeling his gloves off. “If you convince the world that nothing happened here, and if you convince everyone you know that you weren’t almost eaten alive.” He glances at Hongjoong. “You have a lot of work ahead of you.”

Hongjoong is already digging his phone out of his pocket. “We’ll start right now. I don’t want to give anybody any time to wonder what to do with us.”

Woosung hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got some of these guys bringing your vans up here. There won’t be any sign you were ever there.”

“Jimin,” you whisper, eyes flashing to where he’s still sitting with Mingi. He’s hunched over, palms pressed to his eyes, visibly trembling. You lurch towards him. “Yeo, please,” you don’t even have to finish your sentence.

He brings you to Jimin and helps you sit, crouching next to you.

“Chim,” you put your arms around your best friend and feel him throw himself against you, ragged sobs soaking into your shoulder. “Chim, we made it. It’s over.”

The forest around you comes alive with noise.

Wooyoung and San whooping with excitement. Yunho and Seonghwa laughing like all the tension and stress is just pouring out of them. Hongjoong frantically mumbling about posts and selfies and statements to release to the fans, voice trembling with exhilaration. Jongho barraging the Black Berets for more details, gleefully wringing them for information about the downfall of the men who did this to you.

“We’re going home.” Jimin rasps against you, laughter breaking through his sobs. “Oh my God, Sugar, we’re going home.”

“Yeo!” Wooyoung flies towards you with a shout, clearly intending to tackle his brother in a hug.

Yeosang glances at you, eyebrows lifted in question.

You’re smiling, blinking back tears, nodding for him to go. You’re okay. You’re all okay. All you want to do is see them celebrate.

You survived.

It’s over.

He touches your back, returns your smile with a toothy grin of his own, and then he’s gone, swept into San and Wooyoung’s arms.

“God, Sugar, I thought we were gonna die out here.” Jimin squeaks. He finally lifts his head, scrubbing at his face, and laughs at the sky. “Fuck last night and fuck those goddamn zombies.”

You don’t have time to join in the catharsis of cursing out the absolute hell you’ve just escaped, because Wooyoung and San have moved on to their next target, and now Jimin is crushed between them, helpless to do anything but cry with laughter as they squeeze him from either side.

You’re inadvertently pushed out of the group hug, but you don’t even care.

You don’t care about anything.

Hands catch you under your arms, and then you’re dragged up to face Seonghwa. He yanks you into a hug that knocks the air out of your lungs. “Thank you,” he says in a rush. “We couldn’t have done this without you. Shit, I’m so grateful for you, Sugar.”

You snort gracelessly into his chest. “You mean my zombie program that got us into this mess?”

He squeezes you tighter. “Girl, don’t even start. We’re all going for breakfast. I can’t wait for you to meet our team and everybody. God, we’re okay.”

Hongjoong appears next to you, looping an arm around you to join the hug. “Hell yeah, just as soon as we do an impromptu photo shoot. I need your help staging all of this, Sugar.”

You nod, easing yourself out of Seonghwa’s arms. “We can play the injuries off as horror makeup and prosthetics. If we make it fun and silly and talk about your upcoming episode, then we can go get you cleaned up and into fresh clothes and you can put out some more detailed content.”

Hongjoong is taking notes on the phone, already putting together concepts for solo and unit selfies. “Jeez, I don’t know if I remember my Instagram login. We’ll have to get our phones too. As soon as the vans are here we can do more.”

“We can do lives later, but they’ll notice we’ve still got scratches on our faces.” Seonghwa worries.

You wave off his concerns. “I have amateur makeup skills. I can cover up the scratches if I get a kit from one of our vans. As long as you cover the big bites with clothes, I can make sure no one notices.”

“Some of our fans are scary good at analyzing our content.” Hongjoong says, frowning. “What if they see the makeup?”

“Jimin can manipulate the footage so it looks grainy or choppy, like you’re filming on bad internet. We can cover you until they heal up.” You promise, touching his shoulder reassuringly.

His features loosen and a smile breaks over his face. “Okay. Good.” He turns away from you. “Wooyoung! San! Come over here and pretend you hope to get eaten by zombies again!”

While he trods off to orchestrate the first of your public cover-up, you scan the crowd. The forest is packed with soldiers, your friends dispersed throughout them at random. Jongho is still sitting with Woosung and Hajoon, Taegyeom and Yunho have gone to greet the arrival of the vans as they roar up the road towards the service station.

You can’t believe it’s over.

You’re gonna have to buy a new phone to call your mother.

As soon as you have a phone, any phone, you can arrange for a mobile triage unit to set up at your company to treat all of you discreetly, since they won’t publicize your company until after the episode is released. Nobody should be watching your building, as long as you can make it happen quickly enough.

Oh god, you’re gonna have to write a new zombie program for them to have an actual episode to release.

Fuck your life.

It’s going to be in your building, in the middle of the city, far away from the military, as short as possible, and intentionally the worst program you’ve ever written.

You hope they laugh all the way through it.

Your name reaches your ears and you turn, finding Yeosang pushing through the crowd to get back to you.

He collides with you with an exhilarated laugh, stealing you right out of Seonghwa’s arms. “I promise I’ll still take you to Vienna and Venice and wherever else you want to go but can we stay home for a bit first?” He teases, swaying you together.

Home.

You’re going home.

You can’t even give him an answer.

You tug him down and meld your lips to his, right there in front of everybody. Yeosang drags you against his chest, meeting your kiss with every ounce of fervor that you give him.

Seonghwa gives a shout of surprise, and somewhere you hear Wooyoung hooting at you, but you don’t care.

When you can breathe again, Yeosang rests his forehead against yours and smiles down at you. “Is that a yes?”

You kiss him again, soft and sweet, and he melts against you.

Your heart is singing.

Life may suck as soon as this moment is over, when you have to get work crafting the most important story you’ll ever write, a story that has to save your lives, but for right now, you’re completely alive.

“Let’s go home.”

< last chapter | masterlist

tag list :

[doodles-bi-tea]

radio ga ga

Mickey’s a bit of a fanboy. Paparazzi is too.

pairing: lt. mickey “fanboy” garcia x fellow wso reader [second person, no y/n – callsign: paparazzi]

warnings: probably inaccurate pilot/in-sky jargon, profanity, alcohol consumption, no beta / real editing, ambiguous ending…

word count: 1,974

a/n: I thought my overly-top-gun-obsessed days were long behind me (in the days of 2022/2023) but one of my two film classes said “NO! go back to hyperfixating on lewis pullman and danny ramirez in the midst of your james mcavoy obsession.” and here we are, folks.

[good god I went through a whole tizzy trying to figure out what exactly I wanted the reader’s callsign to be. “paparazzi?” no, that’s plural! “paparazzo?” grammatically correct, but solely masculine. “paparazza?” feminine-aligning in the native language but not everyone is solely feminine (myself included). I gave up and just went with the grammatically incorrect “paparazzi” because then it doesn’t have to be a gender thing – I already have enough trouble figuring out what gender I am, I don’t need this to send me down another rabbit hole. ... ANYWAY that was my little rant about the callsign. I have a whole list, because, let’s face it: are you really a top gun fan if you’ve never thought about what your own callsign might be?]

4/14/25 update: UM as of posting this, this was actually started a really long time ago and I kinda gave up on the ending so either it’s bittersweet and ends here or I can write a part two if anyone really wants it lmao… but i’m back to obsessing over romance games and mythic quest again so that’s a thing! I literally just finished my s1-s3 rewatch and started s4 right before I saw jessie ennis' story about how it got cancelled bro 💔💔

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“Comms check. This is Paparazzi, filling in for Harvard, behind Yale. Yale, Fanboy, Payback, do you copy? Over.”

“Payback here, I can hear you loud and clear. Over.”

“Yale reporting for duty. Over.”

There’s a pause.

[paparazzi] “Fanboy, do you copy?”

[fanboy] “No, Paparazzi, I do not copy.”

[paparazzi] “Payback, tell Fanboy to check his comms.”

[fanboy] “Checking ‘em right now.”

[payback] “Fanboy, you can’t hear us?”

[fanboy] “Nope.”

Another pause.

[paparazzi] “He’s fucking with us, isn’t he?”

[payback] “...Yeah.”

You turn your head to the left to look at Payback and Fanboy’s F/A-18, flying parallel to your and Yale’s own aircraft. He’s already looking back at you.

“Sorry, Paparazzi. The opportunity was too good to pass up.” Fanboy’s laugh crackles over the radio as you flip him the bird.

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“What a gentleman.” You scoff, knocking your knuckles on the back of Mickey’s blue-streaked helmet.

He clearly wasn’t expecting it from the way his neck gives way at the contact. You two walk side by side on the tarmac after the exercise with Reuben [Payback] and Logan [Yale].

“I hadn’t realized this conversation was suddenly about Bob.” He chuckles, before trying to knock your own helmet out of your hands by smacking it.

Your grip falters slightly but instead moves the helmet to rest against the side of your stomach furthest from Mickey.

“My tone would be different if it were actually about Bob. Not that I expect you to know the difference between jokes and seriousness.”

“I do, too! You play too much.” He says dismissively, as if actually offended at your comment.

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“I play too much? Are you hearing yourself right now?” You laugh incredulously into your mask.

Fanboy’s F-35 flies somewhere slightly behind yours. You, Bob, Halo, and he are engaged in a pretty routine individual speed drill. Being WSO’s, you don’t get as much flying time as your respective partners, but still need the practice just as much.

“No, actually, I can’t. It’s pretty hard, since, we’re, you know, in planes right now?”

You roll your eyes behind your tinted visor – not like he can see it anyway.

“Break right!” Bob’s voice rings clear over the radio.

You see him, at the front of the line, start to turn, soon followed by Halo, who flies directly in front of you. Your gloved hands move along the plane’s controls to follow the two of them.

“Leaving me on heard? Real cool of you, Pap.”

Beneath your mask, your lips press themselves into a thin line. You bite your tongue for the time being, knowing you all need to finish the drill on time or Mav (and Hangman) would be on your asses about it. Fanboy’s taunts can wait.

“Break left!” Bob instructs. “We need to speed up a little, guys. Increase after the turn.”

All four of you follow suit. Turning left, then pushing the thrusters. Pulling G’s makes your body ache a little, your head feel like it’s under a weighted blanket (not in a good way!), and your stomach turn ever-so-slightly. Your mind goes blank, thoughts drowned out by the engines’ rumbling.

“Mark!” Halo calls, breaking you out of your trance. “We got two minutes, forty-seven seconds. Better than last time.”

The four of you slow and align into a horizontal line rather than a vertical one, now flying side by side.

“Good run, guys.” Bob says into the radio.

You can’t see his face, but you can tell he’s smiling when he says it.

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You’re packing up your duffel bag in the common room, waving goodbye to Cassie [Halo] as she leaves, when Mickey exits the mens’ lockers and enters the room. You try ignoring him at first, but he initiates conversation regardless.

“What happened up there, Pap? Did pulling G’s fog your brain up so much you couldn’t come up with a decent response?” He sets his own bag down on the pool table as he folds one of his shirts.

“Stop saying ‘Pap’ like it’s a good nickname.”

“Doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“It sounds like a… fuckin’ pap smear or something.”

“That…” He tucks the shirt into his bag. “Oh.”

You roll your eyes for the “who-knows-how-many”-th time of the day and harshly zip your bag closed. The heels of your shoes resounded muffled clicks on the carpet as you went to leave.

“Hey, wait, I, uh, I know I’ve been particularly annoying today,” Mickey stutters over his words as he throws his bag over his shoulder and runs to catch up. “But do you wanna go to The Hard Deck?”

“So you’re aware of it?” You scoff, continuing to walk towards the door – click clack, click clack.

He chuckles sheepishly, now walking at your side. “Maybe a little. But really, you wanna come with me?”

“And why should I?”

“Because… Uh…”

You hum hesitantly. He hums eagerly back. There’s a moment of silence before he breaks.

“I’ll pay?”

The footfalls finally stop as you both reach the door.

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And that’s how you end up four beers deep at The Hard Deck, sitting across from Mickey at a small table on the outside patio overlooking the beach. The sun’s gone down a long time ago, the brisk, salty air is chilling the tips of your nose and fingertips, and your beer bottles are empty. You and Mickey sit in a quiet, slightly-drunk stupor together. Looking at the ocean together only furthers the warm feeling that pools in your stomach from all the alcohol.

“I’m gonna go pay now, be right back,” Mickey’s words slur together slightly as he stands up and takes his wallet out of his pocket.

You hum in acknowledgement and slump down, arms folded over the table and head resting on top. The door opens, then shuts, as you hear Mickey go inside. The cold air prompts you to close your eyes – for just a second. Or, at least, what feels like a second.

When you open them, you’re met with Mickey’s curious and playful gaze. His face is still relatively far away from yours but you make eye contact because he’s leaned down to look at you. It’s almost as if you’ve grazed hands or held onto an embrace for too long. He smiles, in a surprisingly meek fashion, before gently nudging your arm.

“Wake up, soñolienta.” [“Wake up, sleepy.”]

You hum, before sitting up. The beer bottles are all cleared from the table and the bar is mostly empty, like the patio had always been. Penny stands behind the bar, wiping the counter. Jimmy sits across from a young man at a table on the side, talking while drying now-clean glasses. A few random customers are dispersed around the edges of the room but whatever party had been in the room earlier was clearly over.

“Thanks, Mick.”

“No problem,” he responds softly before going back to sit down in his chair on the opposite side of the table.

There’s a comfortable pause.

You rest your chin on your hands. “You’re actually kinda nice when you choose to stop being so damn annoying.”

“You too.”

You both laugh, another bout of warm silence – contrasting the chill of the sea air – following soon after. Your eyes lazily trace the surroundings. Where the sky meets the sea; Where the sea meets the sand; Where the sand meets the patio. The sand bleeds onto the sun-bleached wood. The patio meets the rest of the building, its sliding-glass doors, and the warm-toned LED globe lights that are suspended on the overhang (you and Bob had gotten into a pretty interesting conversation about lights with Penny, the two of you eventually convincing her to buy LEDs instead of using the old incandescent bulbs she previously used). The few speakers that are attached to the underside of the roof’s overhang play some random radio station. The tune doesn’t sound familiar, until the first song ends and a new one starts.

“Hey, I like this song,” You mumble absentmindedly.

Mickey perks up upon your mention of the music – he pauses to listen with you.

“Is this Djo?”

A surprised smile sneaks its way onto your lips.

“You know Djo?”

“Duh,” He teases. “Who doesn’t?”

“I’m just surprised. I don’t know what kind of music you listen to, besides the stuff you post on your Instagram stories,” You chuckle. “Which is mostly rap or really random hype music.” [shoutout to the danny ramirez instagram follower gang, his stories make me giggle bc he’s just such a boy and always posting about the miami canes and random selfies and stuff – I feel like a lot of danny’s personality bleeds into his characters (joaquin torres especially) so I tied this in with mickey…]

“I gotta keep up appearances, you know? Can’t be posting random pop and alt when people want the manly…” He motions around aimlessly with his hands while he looks for the words. “Hype stuff. I don’t know.”

“Sounds to me like you just don’t want to admit you have any semblance of decent music taste.”

“That is not true.”

“You’re a dork.”

“Says you, dork.”

“I can tell a lot of thought went into that. Great comeback.”

“Too bad you couldn’t come up with one when we were in the air.” He raises his eyebrows and cocks his head slightly in your direction with a toothy grin.

“Whatever. Just let me enjoy the radio in peace.”

Another eye roll added to the count. And yet, you can’t help the slight upturn of your lips as you look away in an attempt to seem aloof – key word being ‘attempt;’ it doesn’t work.

“I actually really like ‘Go for It,’” Mickey suddenly says.

His admission is another pleasant surprise.

“Damn, maybe you are a real fan.”

“It’s all in the name, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the way your heart leaps into your throat at the nickname, a slightly flustered scoff working its way past your lips. The beer still sits in your stomach, but instead of providing warmth, it now feels stagnant. You glance over at Mickey as he checks his phone for a moment.

Was he always this cute? Or is it just the way he stands out against the night sky under the yellowing light? The way the outer edges of his eyes are threatening to press together as a content smile sits on his closed lips? It could just be the fact that his mouth is closed, for all you know. You don’t know, but it’s making you rethink everything. It’s… not a great feeling.

He must notice your smile drop as you space out, staring blankly in his direction, because he turns his phone off and looks back at you.

“You okay, Pap?”

Shaken from your daze, your jaw goes slack for a moment before you press your lips together and turn away. Your ears barely register the nickname.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, just… thinking.”

Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “About what?”

“You.” Is what you want to say.

The name of the song he mentioned seems to mock you. ‘Go for It?’ Yeah, right. You’d settle for biting your tongue instead of dying of embarrassment right here on the beach.

“Just work stuff,” You shrug it off – it’s technically not a lie if you’re thinking about your co-worker.

Mickey hums in understanding. “I get that. I feel like work follows me off-base, home, more often than I’d like.”

You glance back at him now. His face is to the ocean, so you only see his side profile, similar to when he was on his phone. Any semblance of the smile he usually wears is completely gone. His sobriety is… sobering, to say the least. It’s not often he drops the jokester persona. It almost tugs at your heartstrings a little bit.

“You wanna talk about it?” You tread lightly.

Mickey pauses. “Nah, it’s okay. Just tired right now, I think. Just… ‘work stuff.’”

You both chuckle halfheartedly at that. The sea air grows stale as the silence grows.

“I should, uh, get home,” He suddenly clears his throat and throws his hoodie on.

A sense of panic arises in you as he finishes tugging the grey material down his torso. Say something or let him leave.

Say something? Or let him leave?

[schemmentisimpasours]

Chapter 2- Simping for Schemmenti

The First Date

Summary: Listen I forgot that I'm making reader and Ava non biological sisters but I fixed it in this chapter. Ava helps you get ready for your first date with Melissa. Lots of kisses but no smut for now. Slightly edited but truly I write fan fic to not have to edit shit.

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Chapter One - Chapter Three

Masterlist

Ava and you had spent all day lounging in Tara’s house her appointed dogsitters anytime that she was away. It was your sanctuary away from the world and even Ava kept her social media to a minimum within the four walls of the house instead spending time with you. It was the only time that she would indulge you in one of your hyperfixations. This time it was legos. She was working on a new Wicked set while you had been slowing making your way through the Hocus Pocus house.

It was only after you guys have taken a break for lunch that you checked your phone and started to get worried. Staring up at you was three different texts from Melissa.

“Are you going to check the messages or are we just going to stand here all day?” Ava asked, “We only got a couple hours before your date maybe she needs something.”

“Or is cancelling and saying that it was all a mistake and we should just be friends.”

“Girl I know you blind sometimes but that woman was eye fucking you in the pool and literally wouldn’t let you out of your sight the rest of the night. Woman gave you a goddamn goodnight kiss that last for over three minutes before she finally left. So if you don’t read those texts right now I will and I will answer for you.”

Before Ava could grab your phone you opened it to read the texts:

Melissa 10:30 am- I didn’t know when was the appropriate time to text before a date but I hope you slept well.

Melissa 11:30 am- Also remembered that you often don’t have your phone on you at your sister’s house but I wanted to let you know I am still very excited about our date tonight.

Melissa 1:00 pm- I hope you aren’t picky but I remembered you said you really liked ravioli so that is what I am making

“You got that woman so wrapped around your finger. Please text her so we can go get ready for the date,” Ava said waltzing over to her own phone, “We need to fix your hair and everything.”

Y/N 1:30pm- Hello, I did sleep very well even with all of Ava’s snoring I persevered. I am very excited about our date and that you remembered my love of ravioli. Only a couple more hours just pick me up at my sister’s house… but text so I can avoid Ava following me.

“She better the hell not! She better come pick you up at the door like a real date should.”

You rolled your eyes pushing Ava jokingly before heading upstairs to the guest room you and Ava were sharing. You went into the shower first promising Ava that you wouldn’t take forever if she promised not to pick out your outfit for you. You kept your promise making sure your hair was washed and then neatly put into braids so that it dried into large curls. When you stepped into the room Ava had already selected outfits for you but they fit the images that you had in your mind perfectly. You had a choice between two different types of graphic t-shirts that you had turned into crop tops. She paired them with a choice of high waisted leggings or your favorite pair of joggers. Over top was your black and red checkerred flannel that had been Tara’s growing up. To large to have ever fit it was always was a comfort item that kept you comfortable and safe when you were anxious.

“No cleavage or skimpy bottoms?” You asked eyebrow quirked.

“That is not the first date style for Schemmenti or you. The time will come for me to shine. For right now you need this,” Ava smiled pointing to the flannel.

It didn’t take long to get ready and with a couple of hours left you begrudgingly help Ava set up for her TikTok live. She pulled you in front of the camera showing of your date of choice outfit and you were pestered with requests to do any TikTok challenge with Ava. You declined choosing to let Ava live in her spotlight moment and monitored the chat from the sidelines. At 6pm exactly there was a ring on the doorbell.

Ava frantically shut down her live and chased you to the front door, “I told you that she would come to the door!”

You both got there breathless flinging open the door to an already laughing Melissa. As soon as you locked eyes with her you were in a trance. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun with one single curl coming down around the right side of her face. An oversized denim jacket was pulled around a simple green tank top that showed off even more cleavage than she presented at school. Topped off with simple black leggings and doc boots (without the usual heel) she was gorgeous.

“You two really this loud all the time?” Melissa asked leaning against the doorframe making your heart beat wildly.

“No” you said as Ava responded with a “Yes” making you roll your eyes.

“Now you gotta treat her right okay Red. I don’t care if she isn’t home at midnight as long as you blowing her brains out if ya get me.”

“Ava!” You groaned, “Please stop and go back to TikTok or literally anything else.”

“Just be glad Tara isn’t here you know me and her would be drilling you with questions,” Ava smirked, “But there is always next time… however I could call her if you want. See if she can spare thirty minutes for her sister’s first date.”

“Leaving! Now!” You screamed shutting the door in her face which only caused Ava to laugh hysterically before promising that she was still calling Tara anyways.

Melissa was still laughing when she grabbed your hand and led you towards her car, “I can see why you told me to text now but I just had to come and get you from the front door. Maybe I am a little old fashion.”

“Sisters are so damn embarrasing sometimes,” You smiled, “But I gotta love her she has good intentions.”

“Ava is your sister?”

“In a sense. Been living together since we were kids,” You said but paused as you reached for the door and Melissa opened it for you instead.

“I told you, old fashioned,” Melissa said making your heart flutter as she made sure to shut the door once you were safely in the car.

Once she was settled into the driver’s seat she stretched out her hand which you took quickly. She rubbed the back of your palm and you swore that she could hear how quickly your heart was beating.

“You look amazing,” Melissa told you giving you one more glance before turning back to the road, “I swore Ava would have put you in some outrageous get up but you look gorgeous.”

You blushed quickly looking down at your lap, “You look even better.”

The older woman brought your hand up to give it a quick kiss before resuming the drive to her place. It only took about ten minutes before you were pulling into her driveway. Melissa’s house was nothing new to you as many game night between you, her, and Barbara had taken place inside of its walls but you took note of the different flowers and potted plants that she had crowded her porch with.

She helped you out of the car still holding onto your hand as she pulled you into the kitchen where remnants of Melissa’s cooking still covered a small portion of the island. Next to the mess was a lego box for the rose botanical set. You looked at it quizically while Melissa went to plate up food.

“You hate real flowers,” Melissa said pointing to the box of legos, “But you love those things. I remember all the ones you told Janine you wanted to buy and I figured maybe we can do it together after dinner. I couldn’t not get you flowers for a date but these definitely seemed more… you.”

Your smile broadened and you grabbed for the box studying the details in the pieces, “This is amazing Mel. Thank you so much.”

When the plates were made Melissa ushered you to the dining room where you ate and talked while sharing a bottle of wine. It was simple. Easy. Not like any other date that you had been on before. Throughout eating Melissa kept one hand on your thigh or rubbing up and down your arm. Anything she could do to touch you she did. You felt her fingers everywhere burning through your clothes.

Once dinner was done you washed the dishes against Melissa’s protest who only conceded when you promised that she could dry them for you. It was quick progress working together and when the final dish was put away you wrapped your arms around Melissa trapping her against the counter. She smirked before grabbing your arms and lifting you onto the opposite island slotting herself between your thighs.

You gulped as she leaned into you pressing a quick kiss in between your breasts over your shirt before pulling the up the lego set and showing it to you, “Lego time hun.”

She giggled as she pulled you gently off the counter and pulled you to the cleared off dining room table. She asked you to put music on and opened the box spreading out the various bags. Both of you went to work sorting and finding the various pieces. Melissa glasses were on the edge of her nose her tongue slightly sticking out. She put more of the pieces together while you stared at her concentrating. When was the last time you had any date that wanted to do something that you loved and enjoyed.

“Hun you put on the last piece,” Melissa said extending it towards you.

You placed it quickly and sat back to admire your work. Melissa moved it to the center of the table before leaning down to kiss your forehead, “I can see why you do these. It was actually pretty fun and now they won’t die on ya.”

“So much better and so thoughtful. Thank you again,” You smiled at her.

“Well Ava texted that she better not see you back before midnight so I figured if you haven't gotten sick of me yet maybe we can watch a movie on the couch.”

“That sounds amazing. What do you want to watch?”

“Anything hun, I ain’t picky as long as I get to be with you. Just give me a minute to get some popcorn and drinks for us,” Melissa said giving you one final kiss before moving to the kitchen.

Once she was inside the kitchen sure that you were in the living room trying to search through her streaming services did she start the popcorn and call Barb.

“Melissa oh how lovely to hear from you. How did the date with Y/N go?” She asked almost immediately after Mel had dialed.

“Still on it. We had dinner and built some legos..”

“Those little blocky things she loves oh how cute.”

“Barb! Listen here. Focus for a minute. I don't know how I am going to get through this movie when all I can think about is how much I resemble a horny teenage boy right now.”

Barb’s shrill laughter filled the phone, “Really a horny teenage boy?”

“I am struggling!”

“Listen Mel, you have never been one to sleep with someone on the first date. You find it crude and undermining to the person it is happening to. You really care about Y/N. Be a little horny make out. I am not saying to not have a little fun but stick to what you know. Not what you think you should do because she is younger and it is probably normal for her generation…”

“Hanging up now. Not helpful,” Melissa remarked before ending the call and grabbing the popcorn. However not one to stay mad at Barb when she called back she answered, “Called to remind me how old I am?”

“No. To invite you and Y/N to a double date with me and Gerald tomorrow. Game night at our house. I think it will be fun.”

“I’ll ask her and let you know. Now goodnight Barb.”

“Don’t do something I wouldn’t do,” She said before Melissa hung up.

“That leaves me with basically nothing,” She scoffed making her way to the couch.

You were already curled up in the corner remote in hand the selection in front of you. Melissa’s favorite movie was pulled up which made her smile even more as she plopped down next to you.

“I told you to pick any movie you didn’t have to choose this.”

“And miss you quoting every single line I had to.”

Melissa grinned, “Well if you insist. Now get over here and come cuddle me.”

You curled into her pulling the blanket around you both. Melissa wrapped an arm around you before placing a kiss on your forehead.

“You like physical contact a lot,” You mused as she began to stroke your hair. At your comment she stopped and you could feel her tense underneath you, “It isn't a bad thing. I like being touched by you.”

Calmed by your words Melissa resumed running her fingers through your curls, “I loved it as a child. Growing up in a big family someone is always touching someone… mostly in fights but you get my drift. Plus being Italian we are always for hugs and kisses. Then I got married… and I lost that sense of touch. More often than not Joe would never touch me unless he was forcing me to have sex or beating me for something I didn't do. After the divorce I had such horrible panic attacks the only way to calm me down was Barb hugging me. She is the only person I let touch me till you came along. You changed everything.”

“You came in and just brought all of this joy and humor that soon I was laughing with you like an old friend. And you didn't notice but you would casually lay your hand on me to show me something or pull my hand to take me on an adventure. Whenever I was stressed in the slightest when the panic would start your hand would be on my lower back grounding me. You knew without me telling you that I needed you. That is how Barb really knew I liked you. You were bringing me out of my shell. ”

You smiled up at her remembering all of these small moments, “You never touched me back though.”

“Now I'm making up for lost time!” Melissa said leaning down to kiss you.

The kiss was soft and lingered and soon Melissa was pulling you onto her lap. She had you pulled tight against her as your kiss deepened and she swiped her tongue across your lips for access. You gave it freely and went to put your fingers in her hair when you remember the bun. You groaned louder than you thought causing Melissa to pull away.

“Hair… it’s in a bun,” You commented.

She smirked before reaching for the elastic and snapping it off. She flung it across the room letting the waves cascaded around her, “Better?”

You nodded pulling her into you. She kissed down your neck for a few moments before settling right above your collarbone. She gave it a small bite and you immediately curled your fingers into her hair letting out a small moan. This only seemed to encourage her to kiss and bite the spot repeatedly until you were sure a hickey would form.

When she seemed to be happy with her work she kissed her way back up to your lips and you met her hungrily. You pulled at her hair and she moaned her whole body shaking. After what seemed like a lifetime she pulled away and rested her forehead against yours.

“Y/N,” she said in a cracked voice, “If we don't stop right now my horny teenage boy side is going to come out.”

You laughed going to move off her lap but she held you firmly in place. She looked at you seriously, “Don’t think for one second that I don't want to…but I also… I want to properly woo you.”

You leaned to kiss her quickly one more time, “I'm prepared to be wooed.”

She seemed to relax and released her grip on your hips. Once of her lap she placed a pillow where you had been and patted it for you to lay your head down on. As you settled back down her fingers were soon running through your head gently massaging your scalp.

You tried as hard as you could but soon you were asleep in Melissa’s lap. Melissa continued to play with your hair snapping a picture of your sleeping form and sending it to Barb.

Mel:I thought she couldn't get cuter but look at her.

Barb: You are falling for her

Mel: I already fell and hit my head at the bottom. I'm in so deep Barb.

Barb: Take it one day at a time MelBell. It will all work out. Goodnight. See you for game night tomorrow.

Shaking her head in frustration that she forgot to ask you. But she couldn't wake you now. Not when you looked so peaceful. So she sat there past the movie ending and began to scroll through her phone reading books until well past her normal bed time.

Melissa was about to give in to sleeping on the couch know full well she was going to wake up with a horrible kink in her neck when you began to stir. You yawned rubbing your eyes.

“You stopped playing with my hair,” You murmured, “Is the movie over?”

“Oh hun the movie ended hours ago.”

You looked around you at how dark your surroundings had gotten, “Oh shit. I'm sorry. I can call and uber or something to take me home.”

“Stay,” Melissa urged, “Barb invited us to double date game night at her house tomorrow. Which you know starts early and I figured we could maybe go to do something during the day or if you really want to go home I can drive you.”

“I would love to stay,” You smiled cutting off her rambling, “But she does know double date game night just means Gerald is now forced to play with us right?”

Melissa laughed helping you up from the couch, “Poor Gerald hates to see us coming. Now come on. I'll grab you some clothes and you can sleep with me. I promise I'll be the perfect gentleman.

“Awe a horny teenage boy and a gentleman, my dream,” You jokes causing Melissa to laugh.

Once inside her room you paused to take in your surroundings. Everything screamed Melissa from the pictures of her and Barb on multiple adventures to old kid drawings. The top of her dresser was mess with hair products, makeup, and old crumpled papers. Her bed was made but hastily and on her nightstand was a framed picture of you, Barb, and Melissa at the last game night. Sprawled out on the couch drinks in hand board game forgotten but smiles across all of your faces. Melissa was looking at you a twinkle in her eye as you clutched her thigh for support.

“My favorite picture of all of us together,” She smiled, “Pretty sure we didn't play a single game that night.”

“Not at all,” you smiled.

Melissa handed you a large oversized graphic tee, “I am a hot box at night so I figured you would want something light and comfortable.”

“Thanks,” you said reaching for it, “Do you happen to have any shorts…”

“I do but are you sure you want something so restricting?”

You blushed looking from her to the shirt, “I do wear underwear unless I'm on my period.”

“Oh,” Melissa replied and you watched as her eyes darkened, “You don't have to wear shorts.. like I said perfect gentleman.”

You raised and eyebrow and she put her hands up, “Scouts honor.”

You laughed placing a cheek kiss on Melissa before you headed to her master bathroom to change. Melissa sunk against her dresser trying to push her horny teenager to the side. She has calmed herself down when you emerged holding your clothes in your hand. The shirt stopped mid thigh and it took everything in Melissa to not reach and pull it immediately off you.

“What side of the bed?” You asked oblivious to her struggles.

“Left,” Melissa managed to croak out before heading to the bathroom to get changed.

While waiting for Melissa you texted Ava your plans for tomorrow asking if she was okay to watch the dogs by herself. She assured you she was and told you to keep having fun before sending you multiple kiss emojis for a goodnight. You sent one final reply before storing your pillow on the other nightstand that was full of books Melissa was reading.

She returned shortly after crawling under the covers. She yawned and rubbed her eyes before turning to you, “Successful first date?”

“Very much so but you look exhausted,” You said pointing to the light, “Turn that off and come here so I can cuddle you.”

Melissa let out one more yawn before shutting the light off and giving you one last kiss goodnight. She hadn't slept well the night before worried about how she was going to impress you and the events of the day were rapidly catching up to her. As soon as you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her into you she was fast asleep.

[anawrites3]

i’ve been hyperfixating on sladick and love your writing sooo much and my mind is going crazy just putting their asses in Situations™️ so here you go and maybe these spark some inspiration or sumn 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ (also can you tell I love a good relationship reveal moment… we don’t have enough in the fandom)

- dick giving a post-mission briefing in front of the entire justice league and yet it’s slade that’s the first to figure out he actually got hit during the battle. he either secretly got dosed with something or is hiding an injury. i keep imagining slade having to increasingly loudly call his name until dick finally stops walking away. “kid… nightwing… GRAYSON.”

- dick and a meta collared slade are stuck in a confined solitary space and are slowly losing oxygen while their deaths are being live-streamed to the justice league or the batfamily directly. i imagined it two different ways too, where it’s either an established relationship reveal or it being their first and last confession.

- a/b/o au where slade is the father of dick’s baby yet he refuses to tell anyone who the dad really is. imagine how fucking funny it would be if dick has their child in a jl meeting and they put up a picture of slade due to his recent criminal activity and the kid just pipes up and points at the screen, “DADA,” and it’s just silent. or even the baby refusing to stop crying until slade offers to hold it and THAT’S when the pin drops.

anyways thanks for even reading this and i hope you have a great day <3

Thank you so much!! All three of them are so freaking good ghdkshaj thank you for sharing them with me!! Unfortunatelly I'm on hiatus right now because life is going crazy so I won't be able to write anything off these in the nearest future BUT!!! I wanna write them so badly so I'll try to get to them as soon as I get off the hiatus, even just a little small something!

I love relationship reveal too, they're so tasty. And Slade being the only one to notice that Dick is hurt? While Dick's family and the Greatest Detective himself don't see anything?? So good. So freaking good. I imagine him standing up and walking over to where Dick is standing, in front of the whole League and saying "What the hell do you think you're doing?" And Dick tries to play dumb, that he has no idea what Slade's talking about but Slade's having none of that. So good!

And the one with losing oxygen!!! Top tier whump and I need to write more of those. I already can see them seating next to each other, their shoulders and tights touching as they talk quietly, confessing to each other.

The baby one is so amazing too, I'm kissing your brain, its so good. But instead of the photo, imagine how funny it would be if Dick had the kiddo with him because their nanny got sick or something and the league arrests Slade lmao Like they lead him into the interrogation room, handcuffed and the baby starts screaming DADDY!!

OR OR- EVEN BETTER, Dick is trying to keep it professional but the baby won't stop crying and he's like *sigh* alright alright and he hands the baby to Slade without the word and while everyone around is freaking out because why the hell would you hand your baby to Deathstroke??? Slade is calmly rocking the baby in his arms, still handcuffed. SO GOOD

I definitely wanna write those or at least one of them because they're all so good. I'll make sure to tag you and credit your ideas when I do!! Thank you again for sharing those with me!!

[cultkinkcoven]

I normally don't send asks but, as a fellow Lucifer devotee, his radical acceptance is what drew me to him to begin with. Same with other entities like La Santissima Muerte.

People like to pretend like bad people don't exist, or like the very people we alienate from society and things that *could* help them, aren't the ones who then isolate, and overtime become worse. Who when they don't have access to healthy therapy, and spaces, have a higher likelihood of being groomed into becoming predators.

Pedophilic OCD is a very real thing. But so are people who struggle with paraphilias who never hurt another person or actually want to in any REAL way.

There are people out there who are so afraid of a lack of empathy to get the help that they need to get, that they don't even CONSIDER going for methods that would genuinely help: i.e therapy, or even things as far as (chemical) castration.

What is POCD (pedophilia OCD)? Signs, symptoms, and treatment

I AM **NOT** a pedophile. But I am a victim of CSA & COSCA. And it has left me with the most fucked up intrusive thoughts and flashbacks at times that come from my brain trying to retraumatise itself. I am lucky enough to be loved by my God, Lucifer, regardless and privileged enough to have access to therapy to stop me from going crazy and absolutely hating myself or potentially killing myself.

Imagining what could have happened to me, if I truly believed I was the SAME as my abusers and predators due to just... blatant misinformation being spread by people would be horrible. And also, doesn't lead to anyone getting better!

Even the worst criminals, at the end of the day, deserve empathy. Because society breeds these monsters (ACTUAL predators) more often than it knows what to do with. By helping these people get help, we can potentially reduce the amount of ACTUAL children and endangered parties/victims/whatever of getting hurt.

I wonder what might have happened to me if the people in my life had gotten help instead of had it lurk and fester and grow in the darkness!!!! I wish they would have so maybe I, or others, wouldn't have gotten hurt.

And obviously we cannot account for everyone. Absolute fuckos with no regard whatsoever for children/endangered parties will always exist, unfortunately, but open communication would allow for them to be easier to root out and be dealt with in a reasonable and LEGAL manner.

I struggle with it a lot still. The feeling of not wanting to exist in my own skin because of what I went through, and knowing that people like that exist. Radical empathy is the only thing that's come even close to stopping it. And it's also what allowed me to see that so many of my intrusive thoughts were driven by fear and shame of becoming the very thing that hurt me. Like it's some stain you can't get off of yourself when it's on there. That's not what it is. Humans can get help. Can change. Can develop empathy. Etc.

And hyperfixation, even if it is negative and unwanted, CAN lead to it developing into something worse like a fetish. We have so many studies that show this. This is why SO many child predators were often victims of CSA.

Reading your initial post made me cry. Thanks a lot for posting it and staying true to yourself. Sorry for a long ass message.

Thank you for writing this, I don't even know how to respond but thank you.

That post was written for you and people who have similar experiences to you and I am so so relieved that it provided you with some comfort. That's always the goal after all, to comfort the disturbed and disturb the (too) comfortable.

This response affirms to me that the primary goal of my post has been achieved, so that makes all the other nonsense worth it.

[briliantlymad]

Smth smth it's all about letting go but im not gonna lie I feel like wanting to write an anakin not going off the rails having a mental breakdown through palpatines manipulation. Palpy is like. I can teach you force techniques you don't know about and anakin is just like???? You're not a medical professional tho??? You don't have the force chancellor palpatine I think you've had too much wine tonight at the opera. Let's get you to bed.

But he's also not going to take any chances because if there is some force technique he's going to learn it himself. and instead of spending time with palpy he's searching up the jedi library and making his way through all kinds of other dubious sources. What's mastery over death if he's good enough at healing that it never gets to that point?

Council be like: Where's knight skywalker he's gotta go protect this planet with the 501st.

And anakin Walks into the council room manic vibrating out of his skin after having 10 cans of energy drinks: do you know what I need to do to knit someone's skin back together? Do you think I could intern with the healers for a few hours? I think I've figured out how to make the human body regenerate entire organs but it's the useless stuff like the appendix. Can I have access to some sith books I know yall have locked away in the vaults??

And the council :

Just. He's still sleep deprived, hes definitely losing his marbles a little cus his new hyperfixation is healing techniques, bros learning anatomy till 5 am in the morning and healing troopers through sheer force of will by the end of the next battle. Learns how to control the flow of the blood so he can stop bleeding from major arteries while one of the medics stitches people up.

Anyway he's basically so pumped up about his newfound knowledge he forgets about palpatine completely until palply gets impatient and pokes at him hoping to push anakin over the edge but all it does is make anakin run to the council, cus how the fuck does Palpatine know about his visions and nightmares anyway???????

The council goes to confront him. Only this time, anakin doesn't give into his urge to defend palpy cus he doesn't need him anymore.

Mace gets house arrest as a sentence for killing palpy without trial but he's like: jokes on you mfs I like the temple and I didn't wanna leave this place anyway.

Padmè gives birth, it's a pretty safe delivery, she gives birth at an actual well equipped med centre, the twins were a surprise but anakin doesn't get to use his skills which he mopes a little about but then he's too distracted by his kids' big eyes

And they all lived happily ever after ♥️♥️♥️

[fishhateme]

So... LinkedIn au part three, anyone?

i should be writing a philosophy essay that i've already gotten an extension on but i am instead back on my linkedin mutuals bullshit, genuinely this is detrimental to my education but shhh

btw here's part two and part one if you wanna catch up (and part four if you wanna keep reading!)

The first thing Max notices about the third floor of the applied physics department is that the hallways aren’t necessarily too narrow, they just feel claustrophobic because someone haphazardly left piles of photocopies in random corners.

Watching his step as to not knock anything over, he tried to make his way around the old, outdated building. He wondered if Daniel was the culprit of all these piles of photocopies.

Maybe this was all a big mistake. He still had time to turn around and leave, really. 

He knew he wouldn’t. Go big, or go home. 

The day after the convention, after exactly 18 hours of stressing over whether sending a DM or not over LinkedIn (again, pathetic, who’d send a DM over LinkedIn), he sent a quick message to Daniel’s profile. Just a quick, ‘Hey, are you still sleeping off that hangover? Haha :D’ He bit his lip, then, nervously. Was the smiley face too much? Did it seem mocking without it? Was it too forward for a first contact, should he just start with a simple, friendly ‘hi’ and hope Daniel still remembered their short chat before Lando cut them off saying they had to go before the roads got jammed? Maybe a more formal, serious ‘hello’, or was Max being too cold again? Max ended up sending the original DM instead of paying attention to his team meeting, immediately closing the app (since when had he downloaded LinkedIn for mobile?) and focusing on whatever Marko was saying, trying to take notes for the new prototype that the shareholders would surely hate.

God, he needed a new job.

And probably needed to stop trying to use LinkedIn as a substitute for Grindr, too, but hey, one step at a time. 

When he came out of the meeting two hours later, he was so irritable and cranky that he snapped when Lando suggested afterwork drinks, and a cruel little voice in the back of his head told him he was starting to turn into Jos. Instead of taking a bath with a toaster oven, Max decided to placate that particular thought with a beer and some sports highlights on his couch, in the peace and comfort of his own home instead of one of Lando’s overpriced pubs.

It was only then that he checked his phone, his breath staggering like an anxious teenager’s when he realized Daniel had replied almost instantly, which meant he’d inadvertently ignored a perfectly good opportunity for a conversation with the hot Aussie for… what, almost four hours, now? 

‘Haha, I had to take an Ibuprofen and come straight to work, I ain’t letting my students skip class just because’

‘It’s my duty as their professor to torture them as much as I possibly can’

‘Although I have to admit my TA read like half the lecture today’

‘Poor Georgie wasn’t happy’

‘He doesn’t have that teaching dog in him’

Max remembers frowning at the flurry of messages, as if he could almost feel the nervous energy coming through the screen. So Daniel was a… quintuple texter. Straight away. Good to know. 

(A part of Max wondered what it’d be like to wake up to five or so morning texts, just some goofy, cringey sentences detailing what so-and-so from the university did today. Nothing that mattered to Max, really, except it would matter, because it came from him) (Jesus, get it together, mate) One thing led to another, and it only took Daniel three full days to invite Max to his office after hours, to have a chat and maybe go for a drink afterwards, just as two academics wanting to hyperfixate over airflow dynamics - which seemed to be more of Daniel’s kind of hangout, but then again the older man clearly missed the industry, so Max would humour him.

An opportunity to spend time together, however dull, would always be welcome, because fuck, he was lonely, and he didn’t feel like thirdwheeling Lando and his new Spanish fling. 

However, now that he was here, on the third floor of the applied physics department, he didn’t really… see any office that had Daniel’s name? 

Max felt like he must’ve looked kind of stupid as he walked around lost, or maybe he looked like a graduate student looking for where to break in to his thesis supervisor’s office to smear the walls with neon paint or something equally as outrageous, but thankfully there weren’t many people around, and they all seemed old, and tired, and didn’t really look his way. 

Fun work environment!

He was seriously debating whether or not to turn back, head home, and block Daniel, by the time he saw a dishevelled blonde man come out of what seemed to be a broom closet, smiling and nodding along to what someone inside was saying. He looked middle aged but clearly worn down (was there a carbon monoxide leak inside the department or was that just what academia… did to people?), his corduroy suit jacket with its neat little elbow pads making him look like a caricature of a college professor. 

The guy said something Max couldn’t quite make out, and promptly left, closing the broom closet’s door. After he’d walked away, Max hesitantly approached the closed door, and upon further inspection, he realized there was a little sticker of a honey badger on the wooden door. He’d ignored the door previously, but maybe that was it? Max knocked, sceptical, and a familiar voice immediately called from the inside of what was surely, please not an office. 

“Yeah, Seb? I got it, I promise, refillable water bottles instead of disposable ones, I’ll tell the kiddos next time I see them, mate”

When Max opened the door to what was evidently, in some sense of the word, an office, Daniel didn’t even look up.

The Aussie was too focused on grading a pile of papers he had on his crammed desk, messily writing full paragraphs on the end of the papers that Max thought looked unintelligible, but hey, that was a problem for the students, not him.

“Yeah, yeah mate, save the turtles and the, uh, the bees and the tigers and the crocodiles, I got it, I swear I got it, but could you please-” Max could pinpoint the exact moment Daniel realized it wasn’t ‘Seb’, whoever that was, because Daniel barely looked up, then did a double take as his eyes widened, then stopped talking altogether, sheepishly smiling “Oh, there’s the future Nobel Prize, sorry, mate. There’s this… colleague? Guy I used to work with that got me this job? Friend? Probably friend, I’ve met his kids, uh, anyway. I’m rambling, sorry. He’s just… Anyway. Glad to see you came! I was beginning to think you stood me up”

Max would’ve argued that he had of course come early and it was the stupid faculty’s fault for not labelling their offices correctly, and that Daniel had of course not been clear enough when he gave Max directions because this little room didn’t seem to be properly sized for an office and that Daniel should of course tell this to whoever was responsible because surely there had been a mistake, but the Nobel comment shut him right up. “Eh, well, it is very lovely for you to say that, but I do not think… I mean, of course I want to further science, but…” Daniel laughed at that, and even though he was sober now, it was that same honking laugh that Max remembered. “Oh, come on, mate, no need to be humble! I did my homework. That paper that you published, on the environmental temperatures needed to reach inviscidity in subsonic flow was fantastic! And to publish at 17, on a postgraduate level, jeez!” Max felt truly embarrassed now, not that fussy, excited kind of flustered where everything was wonderful and exciting and awfully, painfully human and imperfect because you had fallen in love with a stranger, but a more sinking dread at the realization that Daniel knew him for his work. 

“Uh… well, I didn’t do it on my own, of course I co-authored it with my father…” he stammered out, much too self-aware of the way he dragged the syllables, the raspiness of his voice as he looked at the wall full of flyers and posters instead of at Daniel. 

Daniel must’ve realized, clearly, because he hummed, slightly. “Sorry, I’m fangirling. I just hadn’t done any work on incompressible aerodynamics until I was, like, 21. I was a little intimidated when I realized I’d be meeting a genius in my humble office”

“I’m not a genius, Daniel, of course”

Daniel smiled then, something tight in his expression, before he, too, looked away at the walls, something pensive in his eyes.

“So? You like it?” “Uh… I think it has, er… a lot of personality for such a small place” At that, Daniel smiled again, more earnest, more toothy, if that was possible. 

“Yeah, well. You know how it is. Hierarchy and all that, even professors have cliques, I guess. Only it’s a bit weirder when your version of Regina George is pushing sixty and instead of wearing pink on Wednesdays he talks about his horses in Banbury, uh, every single day of the week"

Max chuckled at that, smiling so hard his eyes went crinkly at the edges. He knew he was probably staring at Daniel as if he’d hung up the sun, and they were strangers, really, but Daniel was staring right back, his gaze fond. 

A moment passed. The stillness of the quiet, tiny office enveloped them, the last rays of sunshine filtering through the broken blinds, tiny particles of dust floating lazily as they stared, only them, only them. 

Until Max felt something digging into his back, hard as it pushed him from behind and forced him to hold onto the desk, grunting. 

A voice came from behind him, “Uh, Professor Ricciardo, should I swing by later? I brought the photocopies you asked for next week’s lecture”

Daniel smiled then, shaking his head as he chuckled to himself, biting his lower lip. Clearly, he couldn’t believe their luck, either, and a shimmer of frustration shone through, but it was only for a fleeting moment before the ever-present grin came back on.

“Come on in, Georgie, let me introduce you to Mr. Max Emilian! He’ll be the one kicking your ass when you graduate and start looking for a job, come on” 

Max chuckled, and turned to squeeze himself against the wall so that this George guy could come in, and that was the end of that. 

[mrmistakemakeroywg]

how i see "The helper" episode . (i have diagnosed adhd and autism fyi: everyone is different so take what i say with that context <3 not all autistic people are like me so please understand this is more based on my experience personally)

Really weird post i know but hear me out. When i watch "The helper " i immediatly think about having meltdowns as a little kid or just any age in general wether online or irl.

^ Like if you`re looking at it like i am, you can understand why id say it feels like hes having a meltdown / breakdown because something that makes sense to him most of the time, now makes no sense at all to him / freaks him out |

| (Being unable to help people because they do not need his help which he is not used to , thus making him react way worse then most people would sense it is something very special to him Like how people will have specific special intrests or hyperfixations etc) personally i freak out and get meltdowns when my pc is broken or needs fixed and i cannot draw whatsoever for long peroids of time. )

and how you / i would immediatly feel ashamed , nervous and guilty afterwards , or just generally exhausted or depending on the person feel like a burden on the people around you.

(also for this next part yes i know this is implied to be sylvia`s idea but it still makes me wanna tear up because it hits home way too hard) and other people will immediatly treat you as a "trouble maker" that has to be dealt with , punished or pushed aside even tho its something you cant help and sometimes cant even understand .

the dialogue espeically is a gut punch for me.

"ohh.. So this is the guy you want out of town "

" i get it " he`s hurt , and ashamed of himself. and its probably a stretch but i feel like this has happened before because of how he says " i get it . " then he tries to turn it into a positive as per usual to his character writing , thats how much he loves helping people.

its his special intrest / hyperfixation <3333 so of course he can try to turn it into something fun . and the rest of the episode goes on as he Does what they asked him to. and they immediately reward him for throwing himself out of their way .

(this genuinely makes me so mad i`m sorry fuck those towns people man you could`ve just talked to him instead GRAHHHH) and how he gets super happy after FINALLY pleasing them.

hes so silly :33

also this last bit makes me angry a little

"son"

"thanks" ( im going to eat your soul stfu /halfjoke )

"happy i could help!! "

"that makes two of us " (BONUS) ALSO I WANT TO MENTION the scene where he tries to " stop " lord hater. I feel like this is him being pushed to his absolute limit to a point he tried to do something very out of character just for the comfort and relief of "doing something good" like hes reverting to the basics of "being a good guy " just to get that comfort of helping someone again.

it reminds me of that Version of himself in "the wanders" where the piece of himself that holds his trauma / what made him want to help everyone is still not inside of him yet, and he goes on a rant about how he is going to stop lord hater

"wander are you okay ?? " "im MORE then okay "

"IMMMM PERFECT !"

"Now come trusty steed , its time to stop that HEARTLESS evil doer LORD HATER ONCE AND FOR ALL !! "

"wait what-" "stop ?"

"YES! i am a good guy , and he is a bad guy. " "AND I STOP HIM ! "

------------------- HELPPPPP.... seriously tho sorry for the long rant about this episode but it genuinely hit home so hard that i have cried multipule times unironicly because of it. Reminder that im veiwing this through my own experience of growing up on the spectrum (adhd + autism specifically) not everyone on the spectrum will be the same as me when it comes to this episode. I had to get this out of my system because it was eating at my brain sorry yall 💔💔💔

if i made any typos or worded anything weird its becuase its harder for me to write long posts plus as of writing its 01:17 on my computor clock.

[av1xtg]

It's so funny to me that it's so obvious when I get a new hyperfixation because everything everywhere for example tis blog suddenly turns to what ever hyperfixation I have. . .

NOW I WANNA TALK ABOUT HUSK AND MY HEADCANONS FOR HIM BECAUSE THAT SILLY GRUMPY OLD-MAN CAT IS TAKING OVER MY BRAIN (contains a bit of huskerdust and bad grammar because english is not my first language but I have no respect for it so /j)

So I fully headcanon that husk has the most un organised and dirty room for some reason, like he never even bothered decorating it.

He hates baths and oils and stuff like that because it's really hard to take off from his wings and fur.

He refused to wash his hands with water and he cleaned his hands like cats do before eating food or serving drinks so charlie forced him to at least use wet wipes (idk how to write tht but hope you understand it)

He loves old fashioned love songs, usually mumbles some lyrics he still remebers while working and the others like to hear his singing.

The fluffies fluff ever, he doesn't really use any products (only dry shampoo from time to time) AND STILL HIS FUR IS EXTREMLY FLUFFY.

He got extremly bad body dismorfia when he arrived at hell.

The others tease him alot whenever he does any cat sounds.

Instead of a glass of water on his nightstand he had a bottle of whiskey or any other alcohol.

If he's in the mood (and charlie asks nicely + a day off) he might do some magic tricks to entretain the other guests.

Whenever he speaks spanish he always calls evryone pendejo (as a mexican that is also my favorite curse word I gotta add that). Like him and vaggie are fighting and she desn't know he speaks apanish so she starts insuting him in spanish and he goes "CALLATE LA PINCHE BOCA PENDEJA TUERTA" (traduction: SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING ONE EYED WOMAN) and she shuts up because she didn't expect that. (Now they speak in spanish together sometimes)

One time Sr. Pentious gave him catnipp because angeldust dared him to and husk went WILD. Like everyone was laughing nd half th hotel was filled with cat scratchs while husk followed Sr.Pentious who was escaping with the catnip in hand from him kind of wild.

He wants hugs and he won't admitt it.

Used to be a bit to proud as an overlord which is also half the reason why he lost to alastor.

Fucker cries a lot and won't admitt it because he already stablished to everyone that "I don' give a shit about anything and fuck y'all" and now he just can't.

He falls asleep a lot during work because he is drunk.

He owns a phone but uses it like a grandma, he puts on the glasses to read and everything

He once had a very bad night and got EXTREMELY DRUNK and ended up doing a karaoke with charlie and Sr Pentious.

Alastor would ocationaly take him to the Overlords meetings as his "body guard" and he would get extrembly embarrased because everyone recognised him and he knew they all thought of him as a failure for being an Overord who lost his own soul to Alastor and was now forced to obey him.

Thanks to loser,baby I think Husk may be a pet names man (affectionatelly both romantic and just with friends)

Husk reminds me a bit of "No surprises" by radiohead (i don't really know how to explain it but yeah)

I think his relationship with angel (romantically speaking) would be really gentle like, cuddles, hugs, little kisses, cause he wants to show that romantic relationships don't always need to have sex included (angel appretiates that)

I feel like they told each other their felling for the other but bth came to the conclution that maybe they are not in the best mental state to get into a relationship at the moment so they asked charlie and vaggie to help a bit.

I have more but this is getting a bit long so I'll make a part two!!!!!!!

(Have some photos of the silly 70 yr old grumpy cat-man)

[wetcatspellcaster]

Veilguard Thoughts

(my sort-of review, more of a ramble, below the cut in case of spoilers)

I had particularly low expectations for this game, as it felt to me like it was rushed out to try and hit the BG3 crowd and get them to pay £70 at the point where their hyperfixation was failing them. It felt like a very commercially-motivated decision, and I tried to modify my expectations accordingly.

I then started playing... and had to modify my expectations again.

But with two lowering of expectations completed... I genuinely enjoyed this game! I had fun! Sort of! if I squint!!

Thoughts!

I am not a competent gamer, so I like combat that feels fun and engaging without being challenging or a chore (cough, BG3 Act 3, cough), but without being lazy either. I played as a mage in Veilguard and I felt like this hit a sweet spot - moments where I was stressed kind-of invested, no moments when I was bored. The graphics for mage (for spellblade particularly) were awesome and badass, and I loved to new mode of engaging with the mage class in orb and dagger.

I understand the frustration with a lot of lore being retconned, ignored, or wilfully erased or moved away from. Some parts I understood: I do think Veilguard tries to make a move away from grimdark, not out of disloyalty to the franchise and it's roots, but bc grimdark is a very different prospect now than when Origins released. it's a genre that gets a lot more criticism and bad press, and that some people feel genuinely uncomfortable perpetuating as a results. While Origins is my favourite dragon age game, there's a lot of insane things you need to just let slide to enjoy it - like the fact that multiple origins begin with some kind of rape and sexual assault if you're playing as a woman. I don't think retconning that stuff is anything other than being politically savvy, and a little more sensitive to how fantasy has changed.

(I also think this is why they've moved away from the chantry conflict to be honest. Like the optics of Christian religions in fantasy has also changed, and let's be honest, Dragon Age had already fucked THAT, multiple times.)

I did however, like everyone, find it a bit disheartening to see how little Keep decisions mattered. Why is there no Keiran with Morrigan? why can't Mythal move to an inquisitor who drank the Well of Sorrows instead? why is my Inquisitor defending Solas when she ended the game hating him? Why is Hawke being in the Fade meaningless? I know this is just echoing what people have already said, but it was sad to see the 'conclusion' to the franchise (that probably isn't the end, let's be honest, not now that people paid £70 for an underwritten game) was even less satisfying in terms of choice and agency than ME3

This game deliberately skewed itself to read as a 'better DA2', than a 'worse, rushed inquistion'. IDK, it just makes me feel a bit grossed out, and manipulated. I mean, we know DA2 can be made in crunch, lads!!!!! :)))

Criticisms!

EVERYTHING is underwritten. The game is woefully short. If I can complete all the sidequests in a game, then something is wrong. The romances, the character arcs, the main quest, the dialogues. Everything was sparse, with the bare bones of a plot, that (in the case of companions quests) was rarely seen through to a full and satisfying conclusion. And I *know* that's not the writers fault, necessarily, but that doesn't mean it couldn't be done better.

There's so much potential, but I found that most of the companions could be boiled down to one or two traits, and while I can see people headcanoning reasons for this in real time, it's just... underwriting, or bad writing. Extremely telling to me that both Emmrich and Davrin were my favourite companions... because they had their own companions. That meant that they had multiple story hooks - their professions, their relationships, and then their little guys. They got three things, when most people only got two.

This was particularly egrerious for me with Taash, because they started out amazing, and I ended up being extremely disappointed as I watched both them and their mother being reduced down to flat one-dimension caricatures and a tired queer narrative of 'my parents hate me'. Only, this time, it's 'my immigrant parents hate me'. when you couple the reductive approach to Taash with bioware's inability to write the Qunari well or without falling into Orientalism??? they're suddenly an evil repressive queer phobic religion after being supportive of trans characters in inquisition???? you're telling me Shathann, a woman who was forced into a more feminine role by circumstance but considered herself more genderless/masculine as a scholar, wouldn't be on board with non-binary identity? just galling tbh.

The romances are underwritten. And they are badly written, to me. Luckily I know we'll have fic, but in Inquisition, each romance was 90 minutes worth of content. In Veilguard, Lucanis's romance is the longest... at 18 minutes. It just seems stupid and strange to me - if this game is chasing on BG3's coat-tails, why don't they know everyone is fucking horny?

While I liked the decision to give companions more banter together and flesh out their interpersonal relationships, I felt that the balance was off... probably bc it's cheaper to have two actors share a piece of scripted dialogue, than voice a decision tree. It meant that to me Rook often felt like a bystander in their own story, or excluded from their own found family. HR Manager-core, as it were.

General uselessness of the Lords of Fortune coupled with the Orientalism of the Lords of Fortune.... big sad.

I think the choice between Lace and Davrin is highly!!!! suspect!! do you go with fantasy racism (kill off the only dwarf, thus meaning all your dwarf companions are dead in the game, including the one who represented to future for her people) or the real racism (kill off the black man). I really wish this decision was more reactive, and perhaps based in faction strength or character bond, not just a pre-set choice.

I'll never care about solas, the way trick weekes wants me to care about solas. pretty dumb decision, to make a whole game contingent on this fact.

The ending and epilogue screens were underwhelming, and left the game feeling incomplete to me.

Joys!

To end on a more positive note...

everyone is hot. I honestly think everyone is hot. No other dragon age game had a cast of characters whom i all found attractive. This is unheard of. This is why I know all the fic will be fucking stellar.

And you know who else is hot? Rook. Genuinely one of my favourite DA protagonists! Maybe bc of the faction thing, or just the chemistry of the VA I chose. I just felt like she was pretty fucking hot tbh, and that more people in-game should be taking notice of it. Everyone should stop having conversations with each other and start desiring Rook carnally.

Weisshaupt was genuinely an amazing sequence and questline. In fact, I loved that this game featured Grey Wardens more heavily, and I loved all the lore about Wardens that was introduced.

Assan!! <3 Manfred!!! <3

Bellara and Neve kissing with tongue!!! No, I will not elaborate!!!

(I think that Bellara and Neve were two characters who did have strong stories, and that they should kiss about it.)

Elgarnan and Ghilanain.... never before has a dragon age game known what it's like to have a charismatic villain. This time, we got two. Ghilanain was my favourite, bc I'm fucking gay, but even interactions with Elgarnan and his boss battle felt engaging. I honestly don't think a dragon age game has ever had a good villain before, and these guys were both fucking cool.

[kakushimiko]

VOX MACHINA IDEAS THAT I PROBABLY WON'T WRITE, LOG 04

(I meant it when I say that 99% of my ideas gravitate around Percy, not that any of you are complaining anyway lmao)

Au where Percy, after being rescued by the fishermen when he escaped, manages to convince them to take him to Wildemount to contact the other branch of de Rolos in the other continent, but after some incidents with pirates/slavers and other tribulations, Percy gets lost and ends up in the Blooming Grove with Caduceus (maybe some god was watching over him for once?), he warmly welcomes Percy, happy to finally have some company after being so lonely for years.

Percy stays with Caduceus for like a year, taking his time to heal both physical and mentally, Caduceus teaches him about nature and how dead doesn’t have to be such a sad thing, while Percy teaches Caduceus about technology and how to do some fixing in the grove. They become very close, like brothers/platonic soulmates. Caduceus maybe even teaches Percy some of his peculiar healing magic? Percy may even start to learn some of the Wildmother lessons?

When Orthax comes to try to make a deal/possess Percy, Caduceus is not taking any shit from a fucking smoke demon stalking his little bro, that demon is not going to undo all his hard work so he exorcizes Orthax so hard that not even a speak of ash is left in the Grove.

Eventually a sign is given to Percy in the form of a dream that it is time to leave the Grove. After some sad days preparing for the trip, Percy and Caduceus say goodbye, promising that they will see each other again one day.

VM finds a slightly different Percy, less brooding, and more eccentric lol, kind of obsess with the beauty of the “dark side” of nature (as a coping mechanism) thanks to Caduceus teachings , like nature that handles the decay part of the life cycle, such as fungi and such, which would prompt even more BFF moments with Keyleth, but also make him hate the Briarwoods even more since vampires and necromancers go againts the natural cycle of life and death.

Percy is a little more trusting and emotional open to the team earlier on. He would still have some anger issues, but he’s seeking justice for his family and people instead of destructive revenge.

(I know, I know, Percy is OOC here, but I see a Percy that got to properly heal from his trauma and not be influenced by a literal demon would behave like he does when they went to the Feywild, a young man with shiny eyes, fascinated with the mysteries of the world again, and totally info dumping about his hyperfixations to his friends, more emotionally in tune with himself and not just repressing his emotions until he explodes in rage... most of the time, and I think it would be interesting to see how VM would interact with a mentally stable but still eccentric Percy)

TL,DR Caduceus gives Percy the therapy he always so desperately needed.

...

(also, to be honest, I started writing this one, but I stopped because I don't know how to write Caduceus, so far I just watched some of the more popular segments of him, but I don't want to start C2 until I finish with VM, so I need to read a few dozens of fics of him until I understand his personality, but I'm leaving the idea here because I would like to read au fics of Percy&Caduceus having adventures and how other authors would imagine how their dynamics could work)

[hellslayersomething]

I feel like I should write out some proper thoughts about my opinions on Veilguard, or at least an outline for the much longer essay that is currently calcifying in my heart. It's a mixed bag of a reaction, and I'm not going to compliment sandwiching any of it--this is all just stream of consciousness, so I'm probably going to snag on the negative and spiral down that pretty quickly. Spoilers, obviously:

I liked the battle system. For the first time in a DA game, it actually felt satisfying to play and had its own identity. I do wish the Pokemon element aspect was a little better balanced among the companions, but overall it was great.

That said, considering the length of the game, they needed way more enemy diversity, especially with the bosses. Eventually I was just fighting dragons, and every dragon had essentially the same moveset, one of those moves being "the dragon trips over her own dick and face-plants on top of Rook", which sure doesn't make the fights feel epic. Even very unique characters, like the Gloom Howler, were just reskinned basic demons when it came time to fight them.

The decision to tie companion approval to companion levels was a mistake. A massive and extremely obvious mistake. No wonder there are no disagreements or tension among the group--the game can't let you lose affinity with your team members, because then it would have to account for you leveling them down. The gameplay design here strangled the narrative design in its crib.

Speaking of narrative design: while I appreciate that the modular approach to companion arcs was experimental, it was extremely weird of them to take that approach in the only DA game where all companions are required. The story doesn't have to be written to account for the fact that you might not recruit some of them or they might die early--so why didn't they write one story about Rook and their seven friends instead of one story about Rook and also there are seven smaller, unrelated stories of extremely varying quality shoved in next to it?

The hyperfixation on the companion quests paired with their complete compartmentalization from each other means that each companion basically has nothing going on outside of their own quest and very few opportunities to engage with other characters' quests.

I was so starved for conflict in this game that I went from Solas-neutral to Solas-positive because he was the only character who the game allowed to be a bitch to me, and I respect him for that.

I do like all the horrid little sons the game gives me. I think I would appreciate them more if there was anything bad or tense happening in the story on a personal level that required some comic relief, but I am a sucker for a funky little guy none the less, and Manfred, Assan, and Spite are the perfect trifecta of funky little guys, as far as I'm concerned.

"We're only going to do character cameos if it's important to the plot." *does what they did with Isabela* Okay, devs.

"We aren't importing player choices but we won't override your decisions either." *several codex entries overriding player decisions later* Okay, devs.

I like the companions, generally. I see their potential. Fanfic will do right by them. Harding, in my mind, is the weakest of the bunch, just truly having no personality to speak of and talking like she was written by a Boomer who thinks that Millennials are still teenagers. (Everyone responsible for her uttering the phrase "Awkward..." like she's a character in 2011 quirky girl sitcom should be tried at the fucking Hague, istg.) And while I like Bellara, it was extremely frustrating to have a character that's just "Merrill, again, but with the edges sanded off". Taash and Emmerich are also glaringly the last additions in the writing process, each belonging to one of the two most underbaked factions and neither of them being tied to any of the game's few "big choices". There's promise in this cast, but I don't think any of them came close to realizing their potential.

Davrin and Emmerich's companion quests felt appropriately scoped to the size of the questlines, had good emotionality, good antagonists, and expanded on the lore of Thedas in ways we hadn't seen yet.

Lucanis's companion quest had potential, but it was too unfocused with three antagonists, too much attention to the boring Venatori shit, and not enough examination on Illario's motives or Lucanis's relationships with either Spite or Illario.

Harding's companion quest was fine, I guess (the people are starving for dwarf lore), but Harding could have been swapped out with literally any other dwarven character who wasn't Sandal and nothing would have been different. (Also weird that the whole quest was basically about Sandal while simultaneously fully removing Sandal from the narrative.)

Bellara and Neve's companion quests were just nothing. Just a whole lot of nothing. And Neve's also suffered from what I like to call "machete editing", where it is glaring obviously where things were cut, changed, moved around, and added at the last minute.

I say, from the bottom of my non-binary heart: Taash's companion quest is total ass. Real nice of Mae to come out of hiding and risk being found and executed by the Venatori to give Taash a Queer Theory 101 class, though, I fucking guess.

Is Lucanis's romance bugged? Apparently I'm not the only one who had that thought while I was playing it, so now I'm wondering. Like, there's no way they made it Like That on purpose, right?

Why and how are the Venatori still a force in Thedas, never mind a force with numbers so great (in spite of lacking a central leader) that they were able to simultaneously occupy the two largest cities in Thedas?

They literally didn't even try with the Antaam. The Venatori are at least theoretically still working to try to restore Tevinter to its former imperial might. The Antaam are just invading countries for literally no reason except ill-defined power grabs. Given the racial coding of Qunari, this writing choice sure is...something. (And that something is racist.)

That said, the revelation that the Butcher did a military tour in Europe and fell in love with the culture and just wants to drink wine and visit art museums now is fucking hilarious.

What the absolute FUCK did they do the Crows. I like the Crow characters from Tevinter Nights/the comics, and Zevran is my favorite character in the whole damn franchise, but they completely whitewashed both TN's mafia take on them and their original portrayal in DA:O. But it also doesn't really retcon anything, making it instead seem like the human trafficking and torture and sexual abuse that Zevran suffered at the Crows' hands A) only happened to him individually, and B) are fine, actually??? Even the very few times that characters express reservations about working with Lucanis because he's an assassin, if you play as a Crow, those concerns get immediately backpedaled, so the Crows end up being so ironed out that the game doesn't even let characters say of the Crows, "Murder is bad," lest it hurt a Crow Rook's feelings. That is how conflict-averse the writing is.

So I guess everyone in southern Thedas is...dead now? Several characters survived long enough to get a mention from the Inquisitor, but by the end, it sounds like Orlais, Ferelden, and most of the Free Marches are pretty much donezo. When Epler said the events in southern Thedas didn't matter, I didn't expect that to mean they were going to nuke the damn place. Even having generally enjoyed VG (in spite of all my criticisms here) that, uh...doesn't leave me enthused about the future of the franchise, ngl.

The layoffs of several writers (and other Bioware employees) before the game's release was obviously heinous. But after that secret ending, I'm now of the mind that of the writers that remain, at least a few of them need to be demoted. Like literally what the fuck was that. That was the dumbest plot point to ever appear in a Dragon Age game, and that is a high bar to clear. If you're not going to acknowledge our past choices, then keep Loghain's name out of your fucking mouths.