#i love them to the point of exploding them

[norrisainz33]

protect your peace || ls18

summary: you and lance keep your lives pretty private and so it's no surprise when you keep a really big secret from the world!

pairing: lance stroll x wife!latina!reader

fc& warnings: karol g and some hate comments, mentions of pregnancy and poorly translated spanish

requested: yes!! thank you for your patience xoxo

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

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user1: who cares

user2: omg pls let this be true lance and y/n would make sure good parents

user3: respectfully no one cares about y/n and lance

user4: y/n really did disappear hold on.. she hasn't been in the paddock since australia and she hasn't posted a photo dump since winter break

user5: hope its not them i truly don't care about y/nlance

ynstroll has posted to their story

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user4: so cutieful but i am noticing the crop here

yourbff: spoilleedddddd

ynstroll: hes always taken good care of me but ever since we found out he's gone above and beyond

yourbff: i mean AS HE SHOULD!!! you are the perfect, beautiful, gorgeous woman carrying his child

ynstroll: can you believe you're going to be an auntie?

yourbff: no! but i cant wait!!!

user1: yeah your husband is rich we get it

lance_stroll: i hope you enjoyed your day my beautiful girl!

ynstroll: i had the best time!! thank you for coordinating and for getting chloe to come with me. you are so incredibly thoughtful even when you're not here

lance_stroll: its been killing me that i can't be there with you

ynstroll: i know but you are busy scoring points for us my love! plus you'll be home for a summer break soon

user2: you've got a glow about you

flavy.barla: prettiest girl in the world

ynstroll: 😭🤍

user6: a rare y/n appearance! that spa must have really hit

lance_stroll has made a post

liked by astonmartinf1, yourbff, chloestroll, estebanocon, ynstroll, scottyjames31, pierregasly, and 875,324 others

lance_stroll: slowing down for a while 💙

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f1gossip: convenient cropping

chloestroll: sunshine for my sunshines

ynstroll: and it is much needed 🤍

user1: you’re usually pretty slow mate

estebanocon: enjoy mon ami

lance_stroll: 💙

user4: y/n front and center as she should be

ynstroll: always thankful for you and summer break 🤍

lance_stroll: one day summer break will be every day

ynstroll: looking forward to it

user3: will never understand why she chose you

flavy.barla had posted to her private story

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iamrebeccad: GORGEOUS

flavy.barla: no you

ynstroll: i love youuuuu 😭🤍

flavy.barla: i love you more my wonderful best friend 🤍

lance_stroll: thanks for celebrating with us flavy😘

flavy.barla: i wouldn’t have wanted to celebrate with anyone else!! i love you both so much and can’t wait to see what wonderful parents you two make 😘

estebanocon: 🥹❤️

flavy.barla: 🤍🤍🤍🤍

chloestroll: two of the prettiest girls in the entire world

flavy.barla: merci mon ange 🤍

ynstroll has posted to their private story

[only 3 more days until we meet our baby girl!!]

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flavy.barla: it’s actually criminal how beautiful you are

ynstroll: you’re the sweetest. i’m so thankful to have had you here with me through this all

flavy.barla: aww mon ange!! you are my best friend and i sincerely can’t imagine a world in which i wouldn’t be by your side 😭❤️

chloestroll: you’re glowing

ynstroll: i actually feel radiant but also i feel really ready to get ms girl out!!

chloestroll: i totally know the feeling. you’re almost there mama!

yourbff: MILF!!!!!!! wait who said that

ynstroll: must have been the wind!!

lance_stroll: i can’t wait to meet her!! i love her so much already my heart may explode

ynstroll: same!!! i’m so excited. i can’t wait to be her mommy and daddy 🤍

lance_stroll: you’re going to make the best mom in the whole world

ynstroll: i really hope so 😭

lance_stroll: i know so! you are the best mom to our puppy and the most caring and thoughtful person i’ve ever met. our little princess is in the best possible hands

ynstroll: i love you lance

lance_stroll: i love you more my beautiful wife

estebanocon: i’m so excited to be an uncle 🥹🤍

ynstroll: and i’m so excited for you to be an uncle!!!

iamrebeccad: carlos and i have been training for our auntie and uncle duties! house is officially baby proofed

ynstroll: no why am i actually crying my eyes out right now. you and carlos are going to be the best aunt and uncle ever! baby stroll is so so so lucky to have people like you guys in her court 🤍

lance_stroll has posted to his private story

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yourbff: i’m screaming i can’t wait i can’t wait i can’t wait!!!! im in the car right now on my way to the hospital!!!

lance_stroll: we just got here and she’s asking for you!! hurry up !!!!

yourbff: oh my god i’ll be there in 2 minutes

chloestroll: AHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! IM OMW!!!!!!

lance_stroll: i’m freaking out please hurry

chloestroll: you’ve got this my sweet baby brother!!! it’ll be ok!! i’m pulling up now.

estebanocon: sending you both all of my love! i can’t wait to see the little princess stroll 🤍

lance_stroll: merci estie 😘

flavy.barla: best news!! praying for a safe delivery for mama and the beautiful little girl 🤍

lance_stroll: thank you flavy! i’ll keep you up to date

iamrebeccad: make sure you take care of our girls 😘

lance_stroll: i will do my best!!!

alexandrasaintmleux: i’ve actually never been more excited for something ever in my life

lance_stroll: SAME

ynstroll has made a post

liked by lance_stroll, flavy.barla, yourbff, astonmartinf1, maxverstappen1, lando, estebanocon, and 876,239 others

ynstroll: the happiest we’ve ever been. welcome to the world little girl! your mommy and daddy love you more than life itself. gracias por elegirnos [thank you for choosing us] 🩷

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yourbff: brb crying in the club

ynstroll: me too

user1: hid the whole thing that’s wild

ynstroll: it’s called protecting our peace 😘 [liked by lance_stroll, estebanocon, yourbff, astonmartinf1, maxverstappen1, lando, flavy.barla, iamrebeccad, alexandrasaintmleux and more]

lance_stroll: the strength you have shown has been nothing short of inspiring. i am so thankful to be sharing this life with you and now our little girl 🩷

ynstroll: thankful for a husband like you 🩷

user4: getting a little parasocial rn no one look at me!!! i’m so excited for you both

astonmartinf1: welcome to the team princess stroll 💚

ynstroll: gotta get her in some am gear quick

user2: another milf and dilf have entered the villa

iamrebeccad: beautiful mama

ynstroll: beautiful auntie

user12: cutest family on the grid

flavy.barla: the best parents to the best little girl 🤍

ynstroll: love you big time auntie flavy 😘

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: thanks for reading! likes and reblogs are appreciated

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[lilirae00]

Hard Launch - Part 1

Paige x Azzi

Word count: 3k

Warnings: just fluff, enjoy :)

a/n & update: decided to make this a two-parter because I loved the idea of how they handle the launch, so part 2 coming up soon.

——

The Dallas Wings had just closed out one of their biggest wins of the season. The energy in the arena buzzed like electricity still trapped in the rafters. Paige was riding high off the adrenaline and her first career triple-double—twenty-two points, ten assists, eleven rebounds, and three steals—and now she was heading straight into the post-game press conference.

She should’ve been focused on the game breakdown. But all she could think about was the girl in the front row wearing her jersey.

Azzi.

Azzi had flown in earlier that morning, slipping into town just in time for tipoff. And now there she was—sitting courtside like a secret Paige couldn’t keep much longer. Her long legs crossed, curls pulled back in a half-ponytail, and Paige’s blue #5 jersey hanging oversized on her frame like it belonged there.

Which it did.

Paige had tried not to look too much during the game. Had tried not to stare. Had tried to stay composed when Azzi smiled at her after a tough finish at the rim. She didn’t want to give anything away.

But she was already too far gone.

Now, seated at the table with the mic in front of her, bright lights overhead and cameras rolling, Paige took a sip from her water bottle and shifted in her chair. Reporters peppered her with the usual questions—game strategy, her chemistry with her teammates, how she feels about her triple-double.

And then a different voice cut through.

“Paige, there’s been some buzz online recently—not just about Azzi Fudd sitting courtside again tonight in your jersey, but about a photo she posted a few weeks ago. Fans noticed the phone case she was holding said ‘Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend.’ Do you want to comment on your relationship with her?”

It hit like a full-body static shock.

Paige blinked. The words came before she could stop them.

“I mean… it’s not a secret,” she said, her voice a little softer than usual. “She’s… she’s someone really important to me.”

A few reporters smiled knowingly. Some just raised their brows and started typing.

“I guess if you’re asking if we’re together… yeah. We are,” Paige added with a nervous laugh. “And I’m lucky as hell.”

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable—just charged. And then came the next question, and the conference moved on like nothing happened.

But Paige’s heart was pounding like it had just sprinted a full-court press.

—-

She slipped out of the press room five minutes later, ditching the rest of her team’s entourage to head back toward the tunnel. Her hands were jammed in her pockets, and her hoodie was pulled up over her bun like a kid trying not to get caught skipping school.

When she rounded the corner and spotted Azzi waiting near the bench, that nervous beat inside her exploded.

Azzi was standing casually, still wearing the jersey, arms crossed and eyes locked right on her. Paige stopped short a few feet away.

“Hey,” she said.

Azzi tilted her head, lips curling into something equal parts amused and affectionate. “Hey.”

“Sooo… I might’ve… hard launched us.”

“In the press conference?” Azzi asked with a hint of surprise.

Paige nodded slowly. “Like… national media hard launched.”

Azzi walked forward, closing the distance between them. “What’d you say?”

“That you’re important to me.” Paige looked down, then back up. “That we’re together. And that I’m lucky.”

Azzi’s smile deepened. “You are.”

Paige let out a breathy laugh. “Don’t gas me up right now, I’m freaking out.”

“You’re fine.” Azzi reached up, gently pulling Paige’s hoodie back. “You looked hot tonight, by the way.”

“I scored twenty-two points,” Paige said, mostly to hide how much her cheeks were burning.

“And you still couldn’t stop looking at me,” Azzi teased.

“Not my fault you looked like a walking fantasy in my jersey.”

Azzi leaned in, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “I love you.”

Paige stilled. Not because it was the first time—it wasn’t—but because it always landed with the same quiet force.

“I love you too,” she said. “Even when you make me sweat bullets in front of a dozen reporters.”

Azzi laughed and took her hand. “Let ‘em sweat. You’ve got nothing to hide anymore.”

—-

They kicked off their shoes the second they walked into the apartment. Paige dropped her bag by the door and tugged off her hoodie, the post-game haze finally catching up to her. Azzi didn’t say much—just beelined to the couch, where she threw herself down, still wearing Paige’s Wings jersey and looking completely at home.

Paige walked past the kitchen. “You want tea?”

“Nope,” Azzi called, already pulling out her phone. “I want the internet.”

Paige groaned, spinning on her heel. “Please tell me you’re not checking Twitter.”

“I am absolutely checking Twitter,” Azzi said, already scrolling. “We’re trending.”

“Kill me.”

Azzi grinned. “Okay wait—listen to this one. ‘Paige Bueckers dropping “she’s someone really important to me” like she wasn’t about to break every sapphic heart in America.’ And—wait—‘Hard launched like a NASA rocket and I’m here for it.’”

Paige flopped down next to her and let her head fall into Azzi’s lap. “Why do I sound like I was about to propose?”

“Because you kind of did,” Azzi said, brushing fingers through her hair. “You were nervous. But it was adorable.”

“I was losing my mind,” Paige muttered into her thigh. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘important.’”

Azzi laughed. “You said you were ‘lucky as hell’”

“God.”

“You want a massage? I feel like that level of emotional panic requires some kind of body work.”

Paige grinned into her lap. “Maybe. But only if I can pretend I’m not seeing every post about us.”

Azzi kept scrolling with one hand while the other gently worked at the knots in Paige’s shoulders.

She continued to read the tweets out loud so Paige could hear.

@wnbafanatic: UMMM PAIGE BUECKERS JUST CASUALLY CAME OUT AND SAID AZZI IS HER GIRLFRIEND???

@wingsupdates: Paige saying she’s “lucky as hell” re: Azzi has me kicking my feet.

@queerhoops: We finally got the #Pazzi confirmation we needed and DESERVED. 🥹🏀💙

@barstoolcollege: Paige & Azzi might be the power couple of the decade.

@pazzi4life: Yeah okay, fork found in kitchen. We been known, Paige. 🥹

Paige sighed and turned over to sit up beside her. “Okay. Real talk?”

Azzi nodded, instantly setting her phone aside.

“I wasn’t scared to tell our parents when we did. Or our friends. Or the team. I mean, they already knew,” Paige said, pulling the blanket up over both their legs. “I was scared to tell… them.”

“The world?”

“Yeah. The internet. The fans. The media. All of it.”

Azzi watched her, quiet.

“I’ve spent my whole life being ‘Paige Bueckers,’ you know? This brand, this idea, this… golden girl. I didn’t know how people would take it if I let them see you. Us.”

“You didn’t want to break the illusion,” Azzi said gently.

“I didn’t want to give them something to tear apart.”

Azzi leaned closer. “I get it. It’s not nothing, coming out publicly. Especially in our position.”

Paige looked down at their hands. “I didn’t want anyone to ruin this.”

Azzi squeezed her fingers. “Then don’t let them. They don’t get to touch this unless we let them.”

Paige exhaled. “You’re so sure.”

“I am,” Azzi said. “Because I love you. And I’m not scared of people seeing that.”

Paige was quiet for a beat. “I think I am… but I’m done hiding more than I’m scared of being seen.”

Azzi smiled. “Then we’re good.”

They leaned into each other, kissing slowly, wrapped up in warmth and familiarity. The rest of the world faded out with each soft brush of lips, each lazy laugh between kisses. Eventually, Azzi tugged Paige down with her, their bodies curling together beneath the blanket.

Paige shifted so her hand brushed under the hem of the jersey Azzi was wearing. Azzi responded instantly, deepening the kiss, hands moving to Paige’s waist.

“I meant what I said,” Paige whispered into her mouth. “You’re mine.”

Azzi’s breath hitched. “Then show me.”

—-

Paige stirred awake to sunlight leaking through her bedroom curtains, warm and golden across the sheets. For a minute, she didn’t move—just let herself feel the weight of Azzi’s arm across her stomach, the soft rise and fall of her girlfriend’s breath at her shoulder.

Everything was still. Quiet. Safe.

And then it hit her.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes widening.

Azzi blinked awake beside her. “Mmm?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Paige turned her head slowly. “I said it. Out loud. On record. In a press conference. That we’re together.”

Azzi smiled into the pillow, eyes still mostly closed. “You did.”

Paige groaned and rolled onto her back, covering her face with both hands. “I hard launched us in front of the national media.”

Azzi laughed now, fully awake. “And it was kind of perfect.”

Paige peeked through her fingers. “Was it?”

Azzi propped herself up on one elbow. “Yeah. You were honest. Sweet. Brave.”

Paige went quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t trying to be brave. It just slipped out. But then afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the people who are gonna have opinions about it.”

Azzi’s smile softened. “You wanna talk about it?”

Paige exhaled, turning onto her side to face her. “It’s not that I didn’t want people to know. I just… we’re already so visible, you know? Everything we do gets watched, commented on, judged. Coming out—publicly—it feels like giving people even more to pick apart.”

Azzi nodded slowly, eyes full of understanding. “I get it. I felt the same way.”

“When you asked me if you could post the phone case selfie, you were so sure. Were you not worried?” Paige asked.

Azzi smiled. “I was, but I wanted you to know I was ready, even if you weren’t yet.”

Paige’s heart clenched a little at that. “You weren’t trying to speed up the launch?”

“No,” Azzi said immediately. “I just didn’t want you to think I was ashamed or hiding.”

“I never thought that,” Paige said softly. “I’ve just been scared. Not of being with you—never that. Just scared of what people might say. The fallout. The attention.”

Azzi reached out and laced their fingers together. “The people who love us already know. The rest will catch up or get over it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we still have us,” Azzi said. “And I think that’s enough.”

Paige nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I think it is too.”

Azzi leaned in to kiss her forehead. “You’ve got practice soon, rookie. Better get moving.”

Paige groaned again. “Think if I fake a sprained ankle, Coach’ll let me skip it?”

“Not a chance.”

—-

Practice was in full swing when Paige jogged into the gym, hair still damp from her shower and a faint flush clinging to her cheeks that had nothing to do with running drills.

Arike was the first to greet her.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Paige ‘lucky as hell’ Bueckers,” she teased, grinning from across the court.

Paige rolled her eyes. “Oh god. Not you too.”

“Rook, the entire internet is quoting you.”

Dijonai walked by and bumped her shoulder. “That was a hell of a hard launch.”

Lyss followed, looping her arm around Paige. “More like a detonation.”

Paige groaned. “Y’all are relentless.”

“Hey,” Arike said, smirking. “We’ve known about you two forever. You just made it public. We’ve been sitting on our hands not tagging Azzi in thirst tweets out of respect.”

“You’re welcome,” Dijonai added with a wink.

Lyss leaned in. “But for real… we’re proud of you.”

Paige looked around at her teammates—all smirking, playful, and totally in her corner.

“Thanks,” she said, meaning it.

And just like that, they were back to business. But Paige felt different. Lighter. Stronger. Seen.

And lucky as hell.

—-

Later that week, Paige and Azzi were getting ready for a charity gala. The apartment smelled like curling iron heat and perfume. Music played low in the background, a chill playlist on shuffle while the girls moved around each other—Azzi perched at the vanity in a silk champagne dress, Paige pacing near the closet in a deep navy suit that clung to her frame in all the right places.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in the floor,” Azzi teased, watching Paige pace.

Paige paused mid-step and met her eyes in the mirror. “You look so good it’s actually stressful.”

Azzi smirked as she added a dab of highlighter to her cheekbones. “We’re just going to a gala.”

“We’re going to a gala sponsored by my team, where we’ll walk a red carpet together, as a couple, for the first time,” Paige countered, adjusting her cuff links. “I think stress is valid.”

Azzi stood and walked over, smoothing down Paige’s lapel with practiced ease. “Then let me help you chill out.”

She leaned in and kissed her—softly, just a breath of pressure—and Paige visibly relaxed.

“You ready now?” Azzi asked.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. Let’s blow up the internet.”

—-

The car rolled up to the venue entrance, where a navy carpet stretched out under bright lights and a flurry of camera flashes. Other players and VIPs were already arriving in designer fits and sparkling gowns, but the energy shifted the moment Paige stepped out in her suit.

A few cameras flicked toward her—then froze when Azzi followed, hand sliding into Paige’s as they walked.

There was no hiding it tonight.

Photographers lit up like fireworks.

“Paige! Over here!”

“Azzi, give us a smile!”

“Ladies, together, please—look this way!”

Azzi felt Paige squeeze her hand.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Paige looked at her and smiled, “yeah let’s do this.”

Paige kept Azzi close, one hand securely on her waist as they posed together in front of the Dallas Wings media wall. When Azzi leaned in to say something, a photo caught Paige mid-laugh, head tilted, entirely smitten.

“Y’all are trending already,” muttered one of the Wings’ PR staff with a grin, holding up her phone.

As they made their way inside, Paige felt the nerves start to dissipate—not because the cameras stopped, but because Azzi was calm. Confident. Like this was just another date night. Like it was safe.

The event buzzed with Dallas media, corporate sponsors, and familiar WNBA faces. Paige and Azzi moved from group to group—greeting Wings staff, chatting with teammates and partners, posing for a few more photos inside.

“Paige, wow,” said the team’s marketing director as she shook her hand. “You clean up nice. And Azzi—so great to finally meet you in person. We’ve seen you at games, of course, but it’s nice to put a name to the face.”

Azzi smiled graciously. “Likewise.”

“You two look amazing together,” the woman added, almost in a hushed tone, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say it.

“Thanks,” Paige said, squeezing Azzi’s hand. “We feel amazing together.”

A few feet away, one of the event’s older donors—a man in a crisp gray suit—caught sight of them and leaned in toward a colleague. “Oh, that’s Bueckers’ friend. The UConn kid.”

Paige heard it.

Azzi did too.

And while Azzi gave the man a gracious nod as they walked past, Paige didn’t let it slide.

She slowed, turned slightly, and said loud enough to be heard: “Actually, this is my girlfriend. Not just a friend. I know the difference.”

The man stammered—something about meaning no offense—but Paige was already walking away, Azzi’s hand tucked tightly in hers.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Azzi said quietly.

“I wanted to,” Paige replied. “I’m not letting anyone downplay what we are. Not anymore.”

—-

They collapsed into the Uber like they were finally exhaling after holding it in all night. Paige tugged her tie loose while Azzi kicked off her heels and tucked them beside her on the seat, her bare feet sliding over the leather.

Azzi leaned back, dress pooled around her thighs, and opened her phone. The screen lit up instantly.

“Oh my god. We’re everywhere,” she said, scrolling through mentions. “Twitter. TikTok. WNBA Reddit. There’s a clip of you calling me your girlfriend with this dramatic music under it. The lesbians are unwell.”

Paige grinned and rested her head against the cool window, one arm casually draped across Azzi’s lap. “Good. Let ’em spiral.”

Azzi clicked over to her camera roll and scrolled until she landed on the photo—the one from the carpet where Paige had her arm wrapped tight around Azzi’s waist, both of them looking at each other instead of the camera, smiling like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

She held it up. “What about this one?”

Paige glanced over and immediately nodded. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

“We posting it?”

“Together?”

Azzi smiled. “Hardest of hard launches. No going back.”

Paige sat up and reached for her phone too. “Let’s do it.”

They sat side by side in the dark Uber, phones glowing between them as they each uploaded the photo.

Azzi typed first:

“Couldn’t be prouder to stand beside you, on and off the court 💙 #HardLaunch”

Paige stared at her screen for a beat, then typed:

“Took my shot & she said yes 🥹 #LuckyAsHell”

They looked at each other and tapped post at the same time.

Seconds later, their phones lit up in tandem—likes, comments, reposts already flowing in like a tidal wave. But for once, Paige didn’t care what any of them said.

Azzi leaned into her side. “How do you feel?”

Paige turned toward her and answered without hesitation. “Like I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life.”

Azzi’s lips curled. “Not even your triple double last week?”

“Not even close.”

She took Azzi’s hand, threading their fingers together.

“Tonight,” Paige said, eyes locked on her, voice low and warm, “you made me feel like the most complete version of myself. And it’s not because of the cameras or the suits or the headlines. It’s just… you. You make me feel like I don’t have to hide any part of me.”

Azzi swallowed, visibly moved.

Paige leaned in and kissed her—soft, but certain.

They pulled back only when the driver cleared his throat and announced, “You’re home.”

But in Paige’s head, the word didn’t mean the apartment.

It meant the girl sitting next to her.

[starstickerzzz]

Ight bet hold on,

1: complicated but mostly no

2: my dying grandma I’m currently leaving the hospital for the night

3: y e s

4: y e s s s

5: TAKEN !!

6: dramatically

7: edible cookie dough from da hopital cafe

8: I’m really good at skateboarding hatchet throwing (won a contest actually) and shooting hoops surprisingly

9: yessss bruh I straight up tear my fingers apart

10: bout a month ago I believe

11: my gf of five years 😏💝

12: I have severe insomnia I’ve stayed up longer

13: oh fuck yes I do!! 😋✨‼️‼️‼️💥💥💥

14: yeah all my loved ones who keep dying lol

15: Yee!!! Quite a few in my house but the one that’s officially mine is my leopard gecko and technically the fatass weirdly smart hamster named adolf hamster is mine now too since I’m the only one who takes care of him and plays and holds him so mi hermano said he’s mine now 💀

16: frustrated and exausted as fuvk also OW OW OW OW CHRONIC PAIN WHAT THE FUCK

17: …mayyyybbeee…

18: nope! :3

19: YESSSS AAAGHHH unless the universe exploded idk

20: gfs house also I had to use Alexa to figure out wtf that meant lol it said “to kiss and cuddle” so I hope that what u meant by that :b

21: try to keep my gammy , great gammy and aunt from killing eachother or themselves and try not to lose my shit despite the horrrors

22: my n da waif have considered adopting children when we get married and comfortable together n shit (asa foster victim who is great with kids it would be good I think) also I have a lot of emotionally adopted kids lolz

23: I’ve got a vertical libret and have been stabbed if that counts LMAOOO

24: art, creative writing,phycology, and general science and English I’d say (when I was in school)

25: absolutely quiet a few people fs

26: Wendy’s borger 😔💔

27: romantically? Yes I’ve had to reject a lot of people (mostly men) cuz for sum reason people crush on me a lot and it sucks cuz I’m a very taken lesbian and hate having to make people sad but I’m pretty good at being nice about it. In general? Never on purpose but probably ig??? Idk I’ve been through a lot so idk maybe

28: nope! Been with the best wife in the whole universe since like middle school so :D

29: I sure hope not but you’d have to ask @skelebab ig ? (Mi Bonita Estrella 😼✨)

30: so fucking much but mostly having to be my family’s constant therapist and dealing with my ggma in the hospital and everyone have insane angst with eachother and it being my problem all the time cuz im the only one who can help :”)

31: yuh

32: sunset colors !!

33: maybe a lil yeah but not as bad as you’d think considering my past so that’s cool

34: fucked up distorted trauma nightmare don’t wanna talk to much abt it tbh 💀

35: my grandma Anne yesterday

36: sometimes if but not a whole lot idk

37: for me probably forget if I can but I usually can’t do either very well

38: welllll…maybe second best? First getting out of residential hell was the best Fs but now shit sucks again but it’s not as bad as before as every other year was literally just violent amounts of constant trauma 😭😭😭

39: idk i think it was elementary school though if that even counts if not then middle school with da waif

40: hell naw

41: ur mom- I MEAN UHHHH…sushi, ramen, or Wendy’s tbh but I have arfid so foods hard to eat or like most of the time either way 😔💔

42: it can feel like that sometimes ig but im very atheist so ehhh

43: I can’t even remember I just passed the fuck out at some point on the couch after not sleeping at all for like 3 days 💀

44: ???no tf???

45: nahhh I go pretty out of my way to be kind asf unless you really really really hurt me or a loved one first in which case veryyyy

46: lost count tbh but I don’t start fights I’ve just learned how to finish them after so much violent bs

47: not in a spiritual way but I would call my gf that fs

48: fall weather in general or aesthetic ass grey days

49: no not reallly but it’s good for photography

50: helllllllll yeah that’s the plan!

51: if my gf did id probably die a bright red melty mess

52: the few people I truly give a shit about anymore and my hyperfixations

53: I’ve done that to many times to do it again unless I ran away or some shit but I’d probably go back to jade if I did

54: no

55: tell they ass hell naw

56: yes actually I have 2

57: a really zesty gay nurse guy from da hopital he was really cool

58: gammy

59: naw

60: yes yea yea yes yes yes yes ye s yesusysysyys

(U messed up the numbers btw but it’s chill)

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[izzih22]

Could you write one based off the song Girl Crush?

Girl Crush

Note: I tried y’all.

Paige has a girl crush.

The kind you don’t talk about.

The kind you lie to yourself about.

The kind that eats you alive, slow and soft, until you don’t know where your jealousy ends and your love begins.

She watches Azzi across the gym, the way people orbit her teammates, trainers, fans, even random girls they’ve only seen once at a team mixer. Azzi doesn’t notice the way they all look at her. She doesn’t see how they lean in too close, laugh too hard, always trying to steal a moment of her attention. But Paige does. Paige sees everything.

She sees the way Azzi tilts her head when she’s listening. The way she laughs with her whole body. The way she rests her hand on someone’s arm when she’s making a point.

Paige watches all of it, and she aches.

Not because she’s jealous of them.

Because she wants to be them.

She wants Azzi’s perfume to cling to her skin. Wants Azzi’s fingers to brush her hair back. Wants her lips. Her hoodie. Her breath against her neck at midnight when the rest of the world is quiet.

She wants the pieces of Azzi that no one else even realizes are precious.

⸻

She calls it a crush because it’s easier than the truth.

She says it’s nothing.

Best friends, that’s what they are. That’s what they’ve always been.

Except it’s a lie.

Because when Azzi calls her “Paigey” with that sleepy smile after practice, Paige’s stomach knots like it’s folding in on itself.

When Azzi falls asleep on her shoulder during film, Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the ceiling like if she closes her eyes, the warmth will stay.

When Azzi hugs someone else just a little too long, or laughs at a joke someone else made first, Paige feels something primal in her chest. Not anger. Not hate.

Just that slow, unbearable burn of God, why not me?

⸻

It gets worse when they go out.

Bars near campus are always crowded after a win. Everyone knows UConn. Everyone knows Azzi. And everyone wants a piece of her.

Paige watches from her place against the wall, half-sipping a drink she doesn’t even like. Azzi is glowing under the cheap neon, surrounded by people who don’t know her like Paige does. People who don’t know she hums when she brushes her teeth. That she likes crime documentaries but gets too scared to finish them alone. That she falls asleep best when someone plays with her curls.

They don’t know.

But they get her laugh. They get her smile.

And Paige gets silence.

⸻

“You okay?” Ice asks beside her, nudging her with an elbow.

“Fine.”

“You’ve been staring at Azzi like you’re gonna explode.”

Paige shrugs. “She’s popular.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Paige looks down at her drink. “I know.”

Ice quiets. Then: “Does she know?”

Paige’s voice is barely audible. “No.”

⸻

She goes home alone that night.

Azzi stays late, caught in conversation with a tall girl in a backwards hat who keeps touching her arm and leaning in close.

Paige turns away before she can see the end of it. Before she breaks.

She walks home in silence. Kicks off her shoes. Collapses onto her bed and stares at the ceiling, replaying Azzi’s laugh in her head. Imagining it for her. Rewriting it.

If I wore her perfume, would you notice?

If I did my hair the way she does, would you touch it?

If I smiled at you the way they all do would you see me?

She falls asleep with Azzi’s name in her mouth and her heart aching.

⸻

The next morning, Azzi finds her at the practice facility early. No one else is there yet. Just the two of them.

“Did you leave early last night?” Azzi asks, handing her a protein bar.

Paige nods. “Got tired.”

Azzi watches her. “You didn’t text.”

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

Azzi frowns. “Why would you say that?”

Paige can’t look at her. “You looked busy.”

Azzi blinks. “You mean with that girl?”

“I don’t know,” Paige says quietly. “You laugh like that with everyone.”

The silence stretches. Paige hates herself for saying it. For letting it slip.

But Azzi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Just watches her.

And then—

“You have no idea, do you?” Azzi says finally, her voice low.

Paige looks up.

“I laugh like that when you make me laugh,” Azzi says. “I stay late at parties hoping you’ll come back. I sit next to you on the bus because I can’t sleep unless I’m near you.”

Paige doesn’t breathe.

Azzi steps closer.

“You think you’re the one watching me?” Azzi whispers. “Paige, I’ve been watching you for years.”

And just like that, everything cracks open.

Azzi’s hand finds her cheek.

And Paige finally kisses the girl she’s been jealous of every other person for.

The girl she wanted to smell like. To laugh like. To be like.

But maybe she didn’t need to be someone else after all.

Maybe she just needed to be hers.

[revelboo]

I realised when I was looking at all of your Blokees that my “must have “ list has *exploded* in size. Apparently I now have a gargantuan list of favs because I love the way you write all of these characters! :D Which of course leads me to ask if it might be possible to check in with the Reader in Needs and Wants? Because, y’know, *gottacollectthemall* lol. <3

Hey, I’m all in favor for the why choose storylines 🤣

Needs and Wants Pt 7

Wheeljack x Reader, Misfire x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Tarn x Reader, Ratchet x Reader, Bluestreak x Reader

• Heart racing as one of them holds you and you feel almost like a little kid in his arms. Feel safe. How long has it been since someone’s held you like this? Just held you? Bluestreak, that’s what he’d said his name was and you rest your cheek against him, feeling a faint thrumming inside him, hearing the soft, mechanical sounds of his internal systems and that reminds you that he’s definitely not human. That you don’t know him despite your brain trying to insist you do and you gently push against his warm, living metal and he lets you go. “Sorry,” he murmurs, door wings flicking and looking so embarrassed you want to hug him again. Want to be held, to reach up and ghost your fingertips over his face. Trace the sharp point of the chevron on his helm.

• Well, that bot’s probably going to get murdered in his recharge by Tarn for that. Maybe the Autobot medic will take a crack at him, too, because that mech is scowling at Bluestreak like he wants to smack him. Repeatedly. “Have you seen this place?” Misfire asks, reaching out to snag your wrist while the others are distracted and tugging gently. And for a moment, he’s shocked that his servos overlap even when he’s mass displaced, because you’re that much smaller than them. Forcing a smile, he pulls you closer and gestures at the open space with his free hand. “Let me show you the best room.” His room, where he can flirt and coax without the others interfering.

• Venting and moving to intercept Misfire before he can drag you into his room, Wheeljack frowns at the taller Seeker. “Or we could just get to know each other out here,” he growls, vocal indicators blinking pink, because he’s sure that if Misfire drags you into his room, they’re not getting you back for a while. Doesn’t trust the Seeker not to try and coerce you into letting him interface with you. And you’re just blinking innocently, clearly overwhelmed to make him feel guilty. Because he’s getting the feeling, Maccadam didn’t warn you what to expect at all. That your matches might not be your own species.

• “You shouldn’t follow anyone into their private room,” Ratchet says, stepping up beside Wheeljack. Because Misfire might be bigger, but he doubts either of the Decepticons will cooperate to help him steal you. They don’t trust each other at all and that at least gives them the advantage. As obnoxiously oblivious as Wheeljack can be and as talkative as Bluestreak is, he can deal with them. Can share with them if he has to, though he’d rather have you to himself. Knows them and trusts them at least, but the Decepticons, cooperation isn’t their strong suit. Lips pressing into a thin line as Tarn lays a big hand on Misfire’s shoulder, Ratchet tenses.

• “Let go,” Tarn growls, eyeing the Autobots, because apparently, they’re willing to work together to get what they want. Something he doubts is going to happen when all he has to work with is Megatron’s loyal shadow and this idiot Seeker. Which means careful moves and that they’re all his enemies. Reaching out to smooth his servos against your arm when Misfire loudly clears his vents and lets go, he pretends to be checking that you’re not hurt. But really? Just needs to touch you, because you’re softer than he’d imagined. And those uncertain eyes stare up at him, so intimidated by them that you’re speechless.

• ‘Looks like you’re all figuring it out,’ Maccadam says, backing up toward a door, apparently leaving them to work it out among themselves. And you look almost panicked as you stare after him, your emotions crashing over Soundwave until he’s striding forward while the others argue, bending to hook an arm against your back, the other behind your knees and carrying you to his room to get you some breathing space, because he understands being so overwhelmed you’re paralyzed. Had been bombarded by voices he couldn’t shut out until someone had taken pity on him as a youngling and taken him in, taught him to focus, to learn to block out the noise. Hears your startled gasp as you stare up at him and Ratchet and Misfire both yell at him, but he ignores them.

Previous

Next-Struggle to get down, you don’t know him

Next-Let him carry you into his room, he feels safe

[borathae]

Boyfriends? | JJK x MYG

“Yoongi doesn’t do labels, while Jungkook loves labels. So one night, he asks Yoongi ‘what are we?’, hoping that the last four years together weren’t just casual for him.”

Pairing: Vampire!Yoongi x Vampire!Jungkook

Genre: established relationship!AU, Fluff, Slice of Life, slight suggestive themes

Warnings: just some anxious thoughts, this is a post sex cuddles scene, Koo being a little brat, Yoongi being a fond brat tamer, he tickles him hehe, snuggles & kisses, also! mention of blood drinking as part of his training to become a good vampire <3

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on an alternative fictional universe and does not correlate with any real life people. I do not support the shipping of the actual members.

Wordcount: 1.7k

a/n: i love sanguis!yoonkook so much :( omfg this hurt me because i just love them so much and my heart exploded :( istfg this break was so good for me, i have so many new ideas already heheh i can't wait to bring a very lore-y multi chaptered fic very soon hoohoh <3 but for now enjoy this lil yoonkoo fluff <3 also! whenever i write something for them just know that i am channeling hyyh!yoonkook 💔

Yoongi doesn’t define his sexuality. Neither his romantic attraction. He thinks that it is a rather stupid thing to do. He never truly understood the appeal of it nor felt it necessary to do.

“Why should I put a label on myself just so other people are satisfied?”

Because that is what it is for him. Satisfaction of other people. He should put himself into a box just so they can sleep better at night. Well, fuck them. Yoongi is way too old to live for strangers. He knows what he likes and other people can get fucked. They’ll find out who he likes when he allows it.

Jungkook defines his sexuality. And his romantic attraction. For most of his life, he felt like he didn’t belong. Into society, into groups, into life. So learning control and finally being able to be part of something again, Jungkook also feels it important to define who he is.

“I can finally be part of a group. I’m so happy.”

Because that’s what he is these days. Happy. A very happy bisexual man who doesn’t care about the gender of his lovers and who falls for personality.

And so it happens that “I hate labels”-Yoongi and “I love my label”-Jungkook are dating. At least Jungkook thinks that they are. They never really defined it – put a label on it so to speak.

But it must be that they are dating. After all, they are sharing a blanket as they are relaxing in front of the fireplace. They each only wear boxers and a tanktop which in itself is such an intimate look to share. The rug under their bodies is soft and heaps of pillows surround them.

Yoongi is using a few of them to keep himself propped up as he writes anecdotes in the book he is reading. Jungkook is lying on his tummy, watching the flames dance. Music is playing. Lofi hip-hop. Sometimes, he feels Yoongi’s fingertips dance down his back. It makes him shiver every time it happens. Jungkook feels exhausted, but he can’t fall asleep.

He flips his head to the other side, looking up at Yoongi.

The latter notices and gives him a glance. He runs his fingers through Jungkook’s hair, making him shudder in a good way.

“How is your head doing?” he asks.

“Heavy.”

“But no pain?”

He shakes it, “no, just so heavy. Hyung, it’s so heavy a-and I’m so tired.”

“Relax, bub. That’s normal.”

Yoongi is Jungkook’s mentor. Before Yoongi, Jungkook was unable to exist within the human world because he would have ripped through anything that breathed. With Yoongi’s help, he learned how to be normal again and because the road to perfection wasn’t finished yet, they used tonight to train.

“You are ready for the next step in mastering your urges”, Yoongi told him and then monitored Jungkook as he drank from a blood bag filled with human blood.

Up until this point, they merely trained with animal blood. At first Jungkook was very confused, “but I thought that I shouldn’t drink human blood? At all. Never.”

To which Yoongi assured him, “completely staying away from it, will only do the opposite. You need to learn how to handle it, so that if you accidentally drink it, you don’t become violent.”

With Yoongi’s reassurance, Jungkook choked down the blood deliciously and if it wasn’t for the older vampire, he would have lost control.

But he didn’t. Yoongi took his mind off of it in the typical, amazing way Yoongi often takes Jungkook’s mind off the bloodlust. And Jungkook wanted it. It felt so good. Quite frankly, he didn’t want it to stop.

Yoongi pulls his hand back and continues to scribble in his book. Jungkook is thinking. Yoongi calls him bub and bun and Kookie, but does it mean anything? Yoongi allows him to cuddle into him, but does he want the same? Yoongi fucks him, but does the sex even mean anything to him?

It has been two years since the world became peaceful and four years since they met and not once has this relationship been defined. Yoongi doesn’t call Jungkook his boyfriend. He calls him “my boy” or “my Kookie.” But never my boyfriend. What is he is just a good friend to him? What if Yoongi doesn’t want to put a label on them?

“Yoongi?”

“Yes, bub?”

“Are we dating?”

Yoongi lowers the book, “what do you mean?”

“Am I your boyfriend?”

Yoongi widens his eyes, blinking them in confusion.

“Why are you asking that all of a sudden?”

“Just feeling anxious.”

“Jungkookie, hey”, Yoongi softens his voice, “just relax. You’re okay, everything will be okay.”

“Please don’t avoid my question”, Jungkook insists anxiously. Is this it? Four years of intimacy, of building trust and bonding and it never meant the same to Yoongi?

“Of course you’re my boyfriend.”

Jungkook’s chest instantly stops tightening. His body tingles.

“You silly boy, do you seriously think I’m like this with someone I’m not dating?”

“You’re a really kind person.”

Yoongi chuckles, eyes soft in adoration. He pinches Jungkook’s cheek.

“You little bun, that’s not the same.”

“We never made it official.”

“I didn’t think it necessary. I thought it was pretty clear that we are dating once this”, he gestures between them, “became regular.”

“I guess, but I was thinking. About labels and how you hate them and yeah. I got scared that we aren’t official for you.”

“We are.” Yoongi pushes the pillows aside and lies down to face Jungkook. He tugs a strand of hair behind his ear. “If I’m not showing it enough for you, you have to tell me. I’m not good with reading signs or getting hidden messages. You gotta tell me directly what you want.”

“I know.”

“So? Do you want me to show it more?”

“No, you’re showing me that you love me. I think I just needed to hear it tonight.”

“I understand. You can tell me if you need that. You know me, I’m not gonna recite love poems to you on my own.”

Jungkook chuckles, “I know you, hyung. I think it’s cute.”

Yoongi grimaces. “If you say so.”

“I do. You are so cute.”

Yoongi chuckles, “you’re aware that I rearranged your insides just moments prior?”

“I know.” Jungkook closes his eyes and settles into the pillow. “Only cute people can do that.”

Yoongi laughs, “okay, okay you’re being an idiot. I get it”, he says, leaning in to kiss the shell of Jungkook’s ear.

Jungkook relaxes his muscles, enjoying the soft tingles rising all over his skin as Yoongi kisses every inch of his upper back. His face next. Jungkook rolls to his back so Yoongi can reach it better. Their eyes meet. Yoongi cups his cheek and kisses him. Jungkook seriously thinks that it feels so much better now that he knows it’s official. Every second, every moment, every touch exists to strengthen their relationship as boyfriends. Seriously, if Jungkook’s heart was still beating, it would race like crazy.

He giggles. Yoongi smiles.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I’m happy.”

Yoongi kisses him with a smile before he begins littering his face with kisses.

“I’m happy too, bub.”

“Oh, Yoongi”, Jungkook lets out and unable to control the surge of happiness, he shoots up to take Yoongi into the tightest hug human- and vampirekind has ever seen.

“Okay. This is happening”, Yoongi chuckles, letting it happen without hugging him back. It’s not because he doesn’t want to, but simply because Jungkook is squeezing his arms against his sides.

“I love you so much”, Jungkook giggles, shaking Yoongi from left and right.

“I love you too, but please stop that”, Yoongi laughs, head thrown back and bouncing around.

“No. You’re my stim toy”, Jungkook says and squeezes him tighter, making a cute sound for it.

“Whatever that is”, Yoongi laughs, taking the squeezing until it starts hurting. Then he begins to fight back. Softly of course, finally using his strength to shove Jungkook’s arms open.

“How are you doing that?” Jungkook gasps, trying with all his might to bear hug Yoongi again, but it is useless.

“I’m the strongest, remember?”

Jungkook’s back hits the rug, his wrists get pinned by one hand. Yoongi looks at him as if he wanted to take him to euphoria and back. Just for a second because then pure mischief burns in his eyes. Jungkook feels said mischief very soon as Yoongi begins tickling his sensitive side.

“No! Stop! Hyung please stop”, Jungkook squeals, laughing so loudly it bounces off the walls. He tries to fight his wrists free, kicking his feet helplessly. But it is useless. Yoongi is stronger and he is hellbent on getting Jungkook back for always being a little brat.

“Hyung I’m sorry”, Jungkook laughs, crying tears.

“Not enough”, Yoongi coos, changing sides.

“Ah! Please I’m gonna pee myself, stop! Please”, Jungkook squeals, laughing oh so much that his mouth truly cannot open any further.

“Mhm, alright”, Yoongi rasps and stops. He lets go of his wrists, sliding his hands to the smallest part of his waist to hold him. Somehow in their tickle match, Yoongi slid between Jungkook’s legs. They are thrown over his lap, resting their weight on him.

Jungkook recovers with little gasps and gulps. The first thing he does is wipe the tears from his blushy cheeks then he pouts at Yoongi.

“This was totally not necessary and very mean.”

Yoongi chuckles, “for all the bratting you did this week? It’s a mild punishment.”

Jungkook pouts harder, “I can’t help it. Besides, you’re too sensitive. I’m not even bratting.”

“Careful”, Yoongi squeezes Jungkook’s waist. The latter squeals and writhes.

“Sorry.”

“Better.” Yoongi smiles, bending down. His hands run along Jungkook’s torso until he has to rest them on each side of his head. “You’re so fucking pliable.”

“Hyung…” Jungkook sighs, melting into a puddle.

Like this. Underneath Yoongi and with his head foggy in feel good emotions, Jungkook gets kissed. He wraps his limbs around Yoongi and deepens the kiss. This might be one of the best nights of his life. He is his boyfriend. And now he is making out with him. This is the best night ever.

[thursfys]

Ok ok so I have some personal headcanons bout Eddie and Volt along with their interactions with the homeowner/you I have to share otherwise I will explode-

-----------------------

Volt

-----------------------

I'm probably reaching here but along with the obvious Frankensteins monster and Jekyll and Hyde theming, I've noticed Volt has a bit of vampire coding? That pale and almost unnatural, otherworldly beauty he possess and that cheeky, effervescent charm kinda tipped me into the vampire camp for him. Also, it makes the funny energy vampire joke so yeah.

His ears are pointed at the tip and he has a killer set of fangs to boot; his left (forward perspective right) one is slightly longer than it should be and peaks out a tad when smirking, even without a full toothy smile.

Playing more off of that, I think Volt can absorb or even pass on some extra electricity to Eddie if the need arises. Ed having some nervous jitters from an excess amount of power? Walk over and bite him to siphon it off! Ed feeling worn out and drained? Walk over and bite him to give him some energy! Volt doesn't do it that often as Eddie is exceptionally stubborn (+ embarrassed) and will tuck his head into his neck and flare the collar of his shirt to prevent the loving nibbles. He knows he can't pass any power to you without, ahem, dire consequences, but he still gives occasional nibbles as a show of affection.

On a different note, you know how he turns blue when pissed off in the their hate ending? I don't think it stops just there, nonono, I think Volt can go full on supernova glow stick if you fully managed to unleash his wrath. The only reason he probably didn't go full concentrated power of the sun mode was out of grief and self control. If something were to happen to both Eddie and you, well, I don't think it'd end well for whoever or whatever hurt you both. (This was inspired by that one meme of the glowing dude sitting in a diner-)

Now that you're part of the couples lives, that overprotectiveness that Volt feels for Eddie has been doubled and passed over to you too. Any shenanigans around the house that the other inhabitants might involve you with are under supervision of Volt and Eddie, but mostly Volt. He follows from room to room through the wires, carefully observing interactions with those he knows are trouble incarnate like the Hanks or Scandalabra. If he sees any form on discomfort etch itself across your face, the lights in the room flicker violently and dangerously; the bulbs rattle like the tail of a viper and the conductive wiring glow red hot as a warning to the offending object.

-----------------------

Eddie

-----------------------

Again reaching really far for this, but I think he used to look more like Volt before he made him. Still himself but maybe longer hair, with more streaks of white hair that resembled Volts. I guess a better way to describe it would be that the ends of Eddies hair as it is now used to have Volts hair at the end. V has always been there but I think it's not just in a metaphorical sense but physical as well.

Even though the wire is fixed now, he still has a habit of rubbing the part of his chest where it is. He can't say if it's because he was so used to it's ache that he still traces the spot or from a deep, unfounded anxiety that it could come back. He'll paw at the spot if he's starting to feel overwhelmed and overworked, it'll be one of his only tells that he's fraying himself.

Eddie gifted Volt his copper bracelets as a way to ask him out and gifted a small set of rings to the homeowner as a symbol of his love for them too. I think he enjoys metal working even with the pain he feels in his hands and wrists from his arthritis, bending and twisting the copper into beautiful shapes. Some of the other objects noticed the rings on your fingers and now Eddie has a side hustle much to his chagrin (he enjoys it but some of the requests made are so ridiculous it makes him want to toss a bar of metal at em)

Again on the overprotectiveness, Eddie can be just as bad as Volt but instead of watching and waiting, Ed will book it from the Breaker Box to snatch you up and escort you back to your room. The vicious side eye he gives the offending dateable as he walks away with you tucked away in his arms is enough to drop the temperature in the room by 10 degrees (he and Hector have an agreement-)

-----------------------

Both <3

-----------------------

This is a more bit of a self serving hc, but I think Eddie has the better singing voice between the two while Volt is the dancer. Eddie's singing voice is a touch deeper than his speaking voice, that chest deep rumble translating to a gorgeous serenade that is reserved for you and Volt alone, despite begging him to perform for the club. Volt on the other hand is as graceful as a professional ballerina and just as flexible too, moving as swiftly as a bolt of lightning.

Volt, unfortunately, is just as tone deaf as Johnny Splash, causing him to feel a kindred connection to the poor shower which is why he's still allowed into the Breaker Box. Though Eddie has put his foot down slightly and limited Johnny's "performances" to 3-4 times a week.

Eddie has two left feet and can't dance even when putting in a proper effort; last time he tried he managed to trip himself up and smashed his head against one of the tables. The bar was closed for 2 days for him to recover physically and emotionally.

They've also taken to sponsoring Beverly's bar to help her get some more traffic from the upstairs inhabitants, and in turn she has taken to supplying drinks part time or even taking over the bar temporarily whenever Eddie is out of commission (ie strapped to their shared bed and forced to relax for the night)

Volt has taken up a bit of Eddie's workaholic nature now that he's being forced to relax, nearly pushing himself to exhaustion some nights and having to be forcefully dragged to bed like a grumpy toddler by you. The best way to keep either of them from trying to get up to open the bar is to lay on em, whether it be you or one another, the warmth and pressure keeps the complaints to a minimum and prevents them for working themselves to the wire.

Lastly I think they have decent friendships with all the objects that rely on their shared power, except Freddy (drains a lot of their power but he tries to make it up to them with snacks) and Lux (keeps turning himself and his lamps on at night to "enhance" his live streams, Eddie is contemplating unplugging all of them and locking em up in the Breaker Box storage closet). They tried to have a conversation with Lux about it but had to cut it short before either of them blew a fuse from anger, Eddie moreso than Volt.

-----------------------

That's my brain rot for the night, I hope y'all enjoy it!

//DO NOT USE MY WORK FOR GENERATIVE AI I WILL THROW HANDS//

[gav-san]

“No Takebacks" 6

Masterlist here

No Takebacks Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist Here

"The Good Doctor" Word Count: 1.5 K+

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

They come for you in the night. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just efficient, brutal, and absolutely personal.

You don’t see who tipped them off—maybe a contact turned sour, maybe someone you out-negotiated in a port full of liars and limp excuses—but they’re waiting when you close the ledgers, just outside the flickering lamplight of your rented room.

You fight. Of course you do. You get a few good hits in, too. Break one man’s nose with the heavy corner of a ledger. Stab another with a very fine (and now bent) fountain pen.

But in the end, numbers win.

They bag your head. Tie your wrists. Drag you across the stone like you’re an animal.

And then they beat you.

Hard.

Not enough to kill you—yet—but enough to make you spit blood and stars. You’re on your side, struggling to breathe through cracked ribs and ringing ears, when a boot presses against your back.

“That’s what you get for working with pirates,” someone spits.

You cough once, painfully. “That’s what you get… for using the same rag on your blade and your boots.”

A pause.

Then another boot slams into your ribs. Your breath shatters.

“You’ve got jokes, rat.”

You smile. Blood sticks to your teeth. “You’ve got gingivitis.”

The third hit nearly blacks you out.

You wake up—barely—tied to a post in a rotting warehouse. Every inch of you aches. Your head throbs like a war drum. You can taste iron. You’re dizzy, broken, bleeding. And furious.

Because their rope work is sloppy, their hideout smells. And not one of them had the decency to rinse the blood off their hands before wiping it on their pants.

Slobs.

You mutter, hoarse and shaking, “If I die here… I’m going to haunt your linens.”

They don’t even laugh. Just grunt. Watch. One of them kicks over a basin of water like he’s making a point.

You glare up through one blackening eye. “That was your last clean water source.”

Another hit. This one to the face.

You slump. You don’t scream.

But the next time they reach for you, you don’t flinch either. You just whisper, “You missed a spot.”

And you smile.

Because you know someone is coming.

And when the Red Force does come? When that red-haired captain storms the warehouse like a damn hurricane with Benn at his back and a sword in his hand.

You’ll survive this.

And they won’t.

Because if there’s one thing you know about the Red Force, it’s that they are alarmingly territorial over the woman they’ve unofficially declared their den mother, emotional support adult, and reluctant HR department.

You once confiscated three swords, a barrel of gunpowder, and a love letter written in blood before breakfast; and they still act like you’re the only reason the ship hasn’t sunk or exploded from sheer dumbass energy.

So when someone threatens you? Oh, they don’t take that personally. They take that as a group project.

He does come.

You hear him before you see him; distant shouting, a panicked clatter of boots on rotted floorboards, the unmistakable crash of someone’s skull meeting a wall at speed. Your captors freeze. One drops his weapon. Another bolts. The rest scramble like rats who’ve just realized the ship is on fire.

The door slams open.

Framed in broken light, soaked with rain and fury, stands Shanks.

Not smiling. Not joking. Not charming.

Just dangerous.

Sword drawn. Hair soaked to his jaw. One red cape hanging half-off his shoulder like a warning.

You’ve never seen him like this before. And in your haze of blood and exhaustion, you almost laugh.

Because now he wears clean sandals.

His eyes lock on you. His grin doesn’t come. His jaw clenches instead.

And then the room erupts.

You don’t catch all of it, too dazed, too broken. But you hear screaming. Wood splitting. Someone begging.

And then it’s quiet.

Sandaled feet—clean ones, you note fuzzily—thud closer. You tilt your chin, stubborn to the last, even as your ribs scream.

He kneels. Gentle. One hand brushes the blood from your cheek like it’s sacred.

“Don’t,” you rasp, voice barely there. “Don’t make a stupid joke. I swear.”

He doesn’t.

He just stares at you like you’re the only person in the world and his world is burning.

“You’re late,” you add hoarsely. “I got hit five times. And one of them… had terrible hygiene.”

Now he smiles. Barely. A sliver of warmth under the storm. “I got the one who smelled like fish paste.”

You nod, dizzy. “Good. He stepped on my coat.”

Benn appears behind him with a blade dripping and a medic kit in hand. “We found them all. No survivors.”

“Even the one who used the dirty rag?” you croak.

“Especially that one,” Benn confirms.

Shanks cuts your ropes with a single flick of his sword. You collapse forward into him, and his arms catch you like you were always supposed to fall that way.

He doesn’t let go.

Not for a long, long time.

And when you finally regain enough strength to speak again, you mutter, “This doesn’t mean I’m joining your crew.”

His chest shakes with quiet laughter.

“I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “But you’re still mine.”

When you wake up fully—patched, stitched, and pumped full of something you’re fairly certain came from Benn’s private stash, you’re aboard the Red Force again. Not by choice. 

Sigh.

This time, though, your bunk is spotless.

Sheets fresh. Towels folded. Someone actually swept.

You sit up slowly, groaning, and stare at the immaculate corner shelf where your belongings have been gently placed. Your satchel’s even been dusted.

You narrow your eyes.

“Who cleaned in here?” you croak.

From the doorway, Yasopp pokes his head in. “Oh—Hongo did an inspection. Said we had to sanitize everything before bringing you aboard.”

You blink. “Who?”

Yasopp grins like it’s good gossip. “Our new doctor. Joined while you were, uh… temporarily unconscious.”

You pause. “You got a doctor.”

“Yeah! Real serious guy. Sharp as a scalpel. Scared Lucky Roux into washing his hands.”

You stare at him in dead silence.

“You cleaned… for Hongo.”

Yasopp nods proudly. “Deck’s spotless. Galley smells like vinegar. We found the source of that mystery smell under the helm—it was a shoe. We burned it.”

Your eye twitches.

You threatened to burn this ship. You weaponized bleach. You introduced them to the concept of mop rotation and towel hooks and basic fungal prevention protocols.

And they ignored you.

But one doctor joins, with a clipboard and a glare, and suddenly they’re all model citizens in a floating clinic.

You lie back on the clean pillow, offended to your core.

Moments later, Benn leans into the room, eyebrow raised. “You’re awake. How’re you feeling?”

“Betrayed.”

He blinks. “You were nearly beaten to death. We rescued you.”

“Yes. And you cleaned for the new guy.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“…You want us to dirty it up again?”

You look at him like you might start stabbing people with thermometers.

“No,” you say icily. “I want my respect retroactively applied.”

From the hallway, you hear Shanks call cheerfully, “Tell her I wore underwear today!”

You scream into your pillow.

This crew will be the death of you.

Probably by mildew.

You meet Hongo two hours later.

He enters the infirmary without knocking, clipboard in hand, long coat perfectly pressed, surgical gloves already on.

He takes one look at you, propped up on clean sheets, arms crossed, judgment radiating, and says, “Vitals first. Complaints later.”

You blink.

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just strides in and begins checking your pulse with calm, efficient fingers like you’re one of many stubborn patients he’ll be dealing with before lunch.

“You’re the one who cleaned the galley,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

“You burned the sock nest in the helm closet.”

“Yes.”

“You made them install working bathrooms.”

He finally looks at you. Calm, unflinching. “Of course I did. I’m not running a floating plague ship.”

You stare at him.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of kinship.

Begrudging. Unspoken. Based entirely on hygiene, order, and your mutual hatred of pirate filth.

“...You got Lucky Roux to wash his hands,” you murmur.

“I threatened to shave his eyebrows.”

You nod. Slowly. “Respect.”

“Yours are next if you don’t eat more than three crackers a day.”

“…Yes sir.”

By the week’s end, you’re not friends, but you’ve reached an understanding.

You don’t insult his medicine cabinet, and he doesn’t question the disinfectant holster you wear like a gun belt.

You catch him once installing a rotating sanitation chart. You stand beside him silently for a full minute before muttering, “I tried. They laughed at me.”

“They still laugh at me,” he replies. “But they flush now.”

You look at him with the quiet awe of someone who’s met a survivor.

“...You’re doing God’s work.”

“No,” he says dryly. “I’m doing a sailor’s job with a captain who thinks rum is a food group.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

Then Shanks walks by barefoot and tries to wink at you.

Hongo hurls a bar of soap at his head.

You decide you might actually like him.

[estellan0vella]

It's a Fine, Fine Life: H.H Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader

WC: 17.3K

CWs: Staged Violence, Youth Caregiver, Mild Emotional Burnout, a child being a menace, Hyunjin being a pabo

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The front door to the Alpha Phi frat house explodes open with a thunderous bang that makes the wall vibrate, and Hyunjin barrels through it like a man possessed, a stack of papers clutched in one arm and a rolled-up script in the other. His face is practically split in half by the size of his grin, cheeks flushed pink with excitement, eyes sparkling with the fervour of a man who just saw God.

“I HAVE ARRIVED WITH THE BEST FUCKING NEWS YOU’VE HEARD ALL WEEK.”

In the living room, the TV screen glows with the bright cartoon fires of Overcooked, four avatars running in manic little circles around a cluttered kitchen. Changbin, Minho, Jeongin, and Seungmin are currently yelling instructions at each other while desperately trying to serve dishes on time.

On the couch, Chan has Jisung curled in his lap and Jisung is wearing one of Chan’s oversized black hoodies, sleeves swallowed by his fingers, a drafted article open on his phone as he reads aloud occasionally and nudges Chan with his elbow.

“Babe, tell me if this line’s too direct, ‘Either way, someone’s lying.’ Is that like too on the nose?”

“No, baby. That’s the whole fucking point.”

Jisung hums. “Okay, but I kinda wanna soften it. Like poetic or some shit.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You’re writing an exposé on financial fraud. Not a sonnet.”

Hyunjin leaps over the back of the couch and lands between them, nearly kneeing Chan in the stomach. “GUYS. LISTEN TO ME.”

“FUCK,” Chan grunts, steadying Jisung, who flails slightly. “Hyun, I swear to god-”

“Guess what just got posted on the drama board?” 

Jisung squints. “A cease and desist letter?”

Hyunjin scowls. “No. The CASTING. For the MUSICAL.”

“Wait,” Minho mutters, twisting to glance back. “Why the fuck are you vibrating like that?”

“Because I’m walking on clouds! Riding unicorns! Dancing with fairies! I’m fucking radiant right now.”

“Why?” Seungmin asks flatly.

Hyunjin practically throws the script down. “It’s Oliver! And I got the role I wanted. I’m the love interest of my crush. This is fate. It’s karma. It’s divine fucking intervention.”

Felix looks over. “Wait, wait, remind me again. Who’s your crush? You change it like once a month, man.”

Hyunjin clutches his chest and sighs so deeply it sounds painful. “L/N Y/N. The prettiest girl on Miroh campus.”

Jeongin tilts his head. “Isn’t she the girl from your freshman jazz elective? The one you literally never spoke to?”

Hyunjin flings a slipper at him. “Shut the fuck up, Jeongin. That was because I was shy, not uninterested.”

Changbin snorts. “Wait, hold on. Is she the one with the kid?”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin nods quickly. “Minsu. He’s three. She brings him everywhere. She’s his legal guardian or something. Raises him by herself.”

Jisung raises a hand slowly, blinking. “Not to kill the vibe or whatever, but I saw the 1968 Oliver! movie when I was like, ten. And I don’t remember there being a major romance subplot?”

“I’m Bill Sikes!” Hyunjin announces proudly. “And Y/N is Nancy. The lovers of the story.”

Chan, Jisung, and Felix exchange a look. Jisung mouths what the fuck? Felix mouths back does he know the plot? and Chan mouths clearly not.

Minho claps once. “Holy shit! Good for you, man.”

Changbin grins. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

Jeongin nods eagerly. “You get to be romantic with your actual crush, onstage. That’s wild.”

“Hyun,” Felix says carefully, sitting forward, elbows on knees. “Honeybuns. Have you read the script yet? Or like, the book? Or seen the movie?”

“There’s a book?” 

Jisung gasps. “YES.”

Hyunjin frowns. “Okay, so what happens?”

Chan opens his mouth, closes it, then finally says, “Uh, so near the end, Bill Sikes beats Nancy to death. Like with a metal pipe or something.”

The script falls out of Hyunjin’s hands like it’s been cursed. His mouth opens in silent horror.

“You’re fucking lying,” he whispers.

Chan, Jisung, and Felix shake their heads slowly, mournfully, like they’re announcing the death of a beloved pet.

“Nope,” Felix mutters. “Straight up kills her behind London Bridge. Just absolutely wrecks her.”

Minho, Changbin, and Jeongin all pale.

“What the actual fuck?” Changbin hisses.

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

Felix already has his phone out. “Hold on. I can show you.”

He finds the clip from the 1968 movie and turns the volume all the way up. The scene starts innocently enough, Oliver hugging Nancy on the bridge, and then Bill Sikes storms in, grabs both of them, and flings Oliver to the side. Nancy fights back, brave and desperate, but he drags her behind the stairs and beats her.

Hyunjin covers his mouth. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “I have to kill the love of my life.”

“You’re acting,” Minho says.

“That’s not the fucking point!” Hyunjin shrieks.

“Okay,” Jisung says, raising a finger, “let us, the knowledgeable ones, break this down for you.”

“Yeah,” Felix adds. “Nancy’s first song is called It’s a Fine Life, and it literally goes ‘Though you sometimes do come by, the occasional black eye, you can always cover one, while he blacks the other one, but you don’t dare cry.’ Like. She’s hiding abuse.”

“She’s a sex worker,” Chan adds. “And she’s in love with her abuser. Or at least, dependent on him. You spend her next solo screaming run, bitch, run!”

Jisung nods solemnly. “Then, after he murders her, Sikes tries to escape over rooftops. He rigs a rope to swing between buildings, gets shot, and accidentally hangs himself. Just fucking dangles there.”

Hyunjin stares at them in horror. “So, not only do I beat a woman to death, I die in the dumbest way imaginable?”

“Yup,” Jisung says.

Chan claps him on the shoulder. “Not the romance arc you thought it was, buddy.”

“Bill may have had feelings,” Felix says, “but his actions? Abusive as fuck. Manipulative. Possessive. Not love.”

Everyone turns to stare at him.

“What?” Felix shrugs. “I had to do an essay on this in Year Ten.”

Chan sighs. “Bill is her lover. Her abuser. Her pimp. All rolled into one.”

“What the actual fuck? I thought this was going to be like, a Victorian La La Land thing. Not a snuff show”

Minho sits up straight. “Okay. Fuck this. We’re watching the whole fucking movie.”

Hyunjin slumps on the floor, dazed by the devastating knowledge that his dream romance role is in fact a cautionary tale about abuse and murder.

And he hasn’t even gotten to act one.

The rehearsal room smells like fresh coffee, printer paper, and the faint sweat of anxiety. It’s the first day, and the vibe in the room is a strange mix of nervous tension and barely restrained excitement. 

Hyunjin walks in, sipping from a tall travel mug, like he wasn’t up until 2 a.m. the night before watching the entirety of the 1968 Oliver! film while screaming into his fists. He’s dressed like someone who didn’t plan to make an entrance but ended up doing it anyway, black hoodie that hangs off his tall frame, blue baggy jeans that fall over his thick-soled black platform boots with just enough chaotic sway, and that short, spiky crop of black hair left to fall however the hell it wants. 

His eyes scan the room quickly, clocking the other cast members chatting in clusters. Hyunjin doesn't care about any of it because his gaze finds you instantly, and suddenly, everything else is static.

You're sitting on the floor off to the side, legs tucked underneath you on a folded blanket. A light blue ribbed knit cardigan wraps around your frame, the long sleeves covering your wrists except where they slip up slightly as you turn a page. It’s tied at the front with a thin bow, the neckline dipping in a soft V that reveals a fitted white tank top beneath. Your skirt brushes your mid-thighs as the chunky chain necklace with the little heart pendant glints in the light every time you move. Your ponytail bounces slightly when you nod along to whatever the tiny human in your lap is saying.

That tiny human, of course, is Minsu. Your three-year-old brother is curled in your lap, totally engrossed in his Optimus Prime, Bumblebee and Megatron figures battling each other. His white sneakers light up every time he kicks his heels against the blanket. 

And right now, you’re voicing Megatron in a gravelly imitation of a villain, dramatically declaring, “Bumblebee, you insolent rust bucket, I will crush you beneath my titanium fist!”

Minsu giggles, delighted. “No, Meggy! No crush Bee! Bee zooms!”

He wiggles out of your lap, scooting forward on all fours before he sets up his figures for an epic battle. He starts arranging them carefully, putting Megatron slightly to the left, Bumblebee centre-stage, and Optimus is overseeing the chaos.

You sip from your Ravenclaw travel mug and glance over your script, distracted just enough to miss Hyunjin coming closer until he’s crouching beside Minsu.

Minsu’s head pops up like a meerkat, eyes going wide. He shoves Megatron into Hyunjin’s hand like it’s a gift from the heavens.

“Hi! You play! I’m Minsu!”

Hyunjin blinks at the toy in his palm, then smiles. “Hey, Minsu. I’m Hyunjin. I’m gonna be working with your sister.”

“Hyuni, look! Shoes!” Minsu stomps his feet twice, and the soles of his sneakers flash in rapid pulses.

Hyunjin gasps, eyes widening like he’s never seen anything cooler. “What the fuck! Your shoes light up? Dude, that’s sick.”

Minsu beams. “Is light shoes! They flash!”

“I see that,” Hyunjin nods solemnly. “I’m impressed.”

You glance up over the rim of your mug at the sound of Minsu’s delighted giggles, take in the sight of Hyunjin crouched next to your brother, boots planted, hoodie sleeves pushed up as he makes Megatron lunge toward Bumblebee with a low growl. 

“Meggy gotta lose,” Minsu instructs seriously, tapping Hyunjin’s hand. “You make Meggy fall. Bee strong today.”

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows. “Damn, alright. Didn’t know Megatron was getting his ass beat this early in the morning.”

Minsu giggles again and flops dramatically onto the blanket, arranging Optimus above like a judge. “You do Meggy voice. Big voice.”

“Big voice?” Hyunjin repeats. “Like scary big?”

“Yah!” Minsu insists, making little fists and flexing his arms. “Scary!”

“Okay, okay.” Hyunjin clears his throat and lowers his voice dramatically. “You dare challenge me, Bumblebee? I am Megatron, ruler of all Decepticons!”

Minsu slaps his knee and cackles. “Better than Y/N Meggy. She no can do deep voice. She sound silly.”

You set your mug down slowly. “Excuse the fuck out of me?”

Minsu gasps, tiny hands flying up to cover his mouth, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief. “You make Meggy sound like silly sausage!”

You gape, utterly offended. “You’ve been letting me voice Megatron for like twenty minutes. Why the hell didn’t you say anything before?”

Minsu shrugs, not the least bit sorry. “Hyuni better.”

“I see how it is.”

Hyunjin is on the verge of tears, laughter shaking his shoulders as he picks Bumblebee up and makes a ridiculous little spin in the air.

“Meggy can’t win!” Minsu declares again. “Is Meggy lose day!”

“You heard the boss,” Hyunjin says, laying Megatron flat on the floor in a dramatic, slow-motion collapse. “Megatron, defeated by the mighty light-up shoe king.”

Minsu cheers, throwing his arms up in victory before he grabs both Optimus and Bumblebee and starts making them kiss with obnoxious smooching noises.

You blink. “Dude. What are they doing?”

“They in love,” Minsu explains simply, then uses Megatron’s limp body as a bench for the two other robots to sit on. “Meggy is chair.”

Hyunjin chokes on his americano.

You reach down to ruffle Minsu’s hair. “Jesus, Min. What shows have you been watching?”

Minsu shrugs again. “Optimus kiss Bee. Bee say I love you. Meggy say okay.”

You shake your head and go back to your script, sipping your tea, trying to focus on Nancy’s first line. 

And Hyunjin, without really meaning to, starts hoping this read-through goes on forever.

Two hours later, the room is a mess of stacked chairs, half-drunk coffees, abandoned scripts, and that particular brand of exhausted silence that follows a full-length table read. Most of the cast are busy packing up, voices lowered now that the adrenaline’s burned out. 

You’re crouched by your bag, wrapping your empty tea mug into a thin plastic bag so the dregs don’t soak through your purse and Hyunjin is halfway through stuffing his empty travel mug into his backpack when Minsu’s voice pipes up behind him.

“You’re pretty,” 

Hyunjin straightens, glancing over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Thanks, little dude.”

Minsu tilts his head thoughtfully. “Are you a lady? Or a man? Or a lady man?”

You freeze.

Hyunjin chokes so hard he starts coughing, shoulders shaking as he laughs into the crook of his arm. He doesn’t look offended, but his face is a mixture of startled amusement and pure what-the-fuck delight.

“Minsu!” you snap, nudging his leg lightly with your foot. “That’s rude. Say sorry.”

Minsu instantly pouts, shoulders tensing, his whole little body bristling with the beginning sparks of a full-blown tantrum. His lower lip wobbles. His fists clench. He lets out a tiny warning whine.

Minsu stamps his feet, fists flying, face crumpling into the reddest expression of sheer injustice known to mankind. “I NOT WANT TO SAY SORRY!”

He flings himself onto the floor, his tiny fists banging the linoleum. Someone across the room stifles a laugh and looks away. Hyunjin freezes, halfway between kneeling and standing, wide-eyed as he watches the scene unfold like he’s witnessing a live-action documentary on the toddler species.

With a sigh, you sling your bag over your shoulder and reach down to grab your wallet. “Guess me and your new friend will just go get ice cream without you.”

Hyunjin gets the memo immediately and falls into step beside you, slinging his own bag over his shoulder and strolling toward the door like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“This is gonna be so fucking fun,” you say loudly, stepping over Bumblebee with exaggerated care. “Just the two of us. No tantrumy little gremlins in sight.”

“Oh my god, yes,” Hyunjin agrees just as dramatically. “Peace. Quiet. Toppings. I love that for us.”

Minsu, now mid-scream, flails harder.

Clearly, that tactic isn’t working. The volume hasn’t decreased. In fact, he’s somehow found an entirely new octave.

“Y’know,” you say thoughtfully, turning slightly to glance at Hyunjin, “Apparently, there's a monster in this rehearsal building.”

“Oooh, I’ve heard about them,” Hyunjin says, catching on fast. “Some fucked-up little monster ghost thing. Real vicious. Lives under the floorboards. Only comes out when it hears children screaming.”

“And do you know what it eats?”

“Little kid toes,” Hyunjin says, dead serious. “Only tantrum toes, though. Screaming ones. It’s very picky. Comes out with big, hairy hands and starts chomping on your pinky toe first.”

Behind you, the crying pauses. You and Hyunjin just keep walking, speaking louder now.

“And once it eats the toes, it moves on to the rest,” Hyunjin says ominously. “Snatches ‘em up like popcorn. No sympathy. Just chomps and crunches.”

“It tried to eat a first-year who screamed during a vocal warm-up.”

“True story,” Hyunjin nods solemnly. “It only spares polite kids. Polite kids are sacred.”

Behind you, there’s a shuffle. Then a sniffling hiccup. Then the unmistakable sound of a small child scrambling to gather their toys in a panic.

“Sissy poo!” Minsu wails, his voice suddenly terrified. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me in here! It’s scary! Monsters will eat my toes!”

You hear the zip of his backpack, the clatter of plastic toys being shoved inside, and the rapid patter of feet behind you.

When you finally turn, Minsu’s running full tilt toward you, face red and blotchy, tiny arms outstretched. You crouch just in time to catch him. He barrels into your chest, breathing hard as you scoop him up.

“You done tantruming now, you little shithead?” 

Minsu nods, lip wobbling as he sucks his thumb quietly. “Sorry for saying you a lady man"

Hyunjin snorts. “Apology accepted, my dude.”

You straighten up, Minsu clinging to you like a baby koala, head tucked against your neck.

“I’ll see you later, Hyunjin,” 

“Hang the fuck on,” Hyunjin says, narrowing his eyes. “I was promised ice cream. You’re not ditching me now.”

You laugh, shifting Minsu on your hip. “Come on then. Let’s get sugared up.”

The walk to the campus cafeteria ice cream bar is short, and Hyunjin makes the most of it, keeping Minsu distracted with a running monologue about his boots, the monsters in the floor, and which flavour ice cream is scientifically the best.

Once inside, you juggle your wallet and Minsu while ordering three bowls of ice cream. You don’t even bother ordering vanilla because you know what’s coming.

“Vanilla’s honk shoo,” Minsu says as he rests his cheek on your shoulder. 

“Noted,” you mutter, tapping your card.

You find a table and set the ice cream down before grabbing napkins and wet wipes. You gently wipe Minsu’s hands and face, but the moment he sees Hyunjin’s ice cream bowl, he launches himself into Hyunjin’s lap.

Hyunjin looks vaguely panicked but doesn’t protest. Minsu immediately plunges a hand into Hyunjin’s bowl, snatching one of the little wafer sticks and chomping it like a lollipop.

“Hey! That was the best part, you tiny thief!”

Minsu, entirely unbothered by the outrage, starts plucking toppings from Hyunjin’s bowl like it’s a buffet. Marshmallows, gummies, even the crumbled cookie bits disappear into his mouth at lightning speed. 

“He’s gonna make me cry in public,” Hyunjin says mournfully. “Like actually. I’m gonna break down over a bowl of fucking ice cream.”

“Honestly? Fair. He’s a menace.”

“He’s a monster,” Hyunjin agrees, trying to angle the bowl away. “A beautiful, terrifying monster.”

Minsu giggles, face lighting up with evil delight as he dives face-first into the whipped cream.

“Jesus Christ, he’s in it. He’s in the bowl. You’re gonna suffocate.”

You spoon another bite of sherbet into your mouth, watching as Hyunjin tries to defend the last surviving cherry from Minsu’s advancing fingers. It’s karmic, you think. The universe’s way of balancing things. Because someone like Hyunjin, handsome as fuck, with that stupidly flawless bone structure, that spiky black hair that somehow looks perfect without effort, shouldn’t also be good with toddlers. It’s not fair. It’s cheating. The guy’s already tall and charming. Why does he also get to be nice?

But you don’t say any of that aloud. You just smile into your spoon and watch as Minsu steals Hyunjin’s last gummy worm with all the grace of a gremlin in a candy store.

A loud knock disrupts the chill in the Alpha Phi frat house like a gunshot in a library. 

Minho straightens, grabbing the remote to pause the TV. “Who the fuck is that?”

Jisung peeks toward the door without moving from his perch half on Chan’s lap, half off the couch. “Food delivery?”

Chan shakes his head. “We didn’t order anything. Did we?”

Felix holds up his phone. “I ordered coffee an hour ago, but that got here twenty minutes ago, remember? Seungmin drank it.”

“You left it unattended.” 

“I’ll get it,” Hyunjin offers, grabbing his phone and bag. “I’m leaving in a sec anyway. I’ve got the fight scene choreography with Y/N.”

That one sentence is all it takes for the living room to erupt into chaos.

“Ooooooh,” 

“Gettin’ some extra stage combat practice, huh?” 

“Bet it’s not the only thing getting dramatic,”

Hyunjin flips them all off as he walks to the door, the sound of his chunky boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. His outfit is doing the absolute most, and he knows it, sleek black leather biker jacket layered over a black turtleneck, paired with oversized, acid-wash cargo jeans that sit low on his hips, tucked into chunky black boots.

He pulls the door open. You’re standing there, hand-in-hand with Minsu, and he doesn’t even get the chance to say hi before Minsu launches forward and wraps himself around Hyunjin’s legs like a tiny backpack.

“Hyuni!” 

“Hey, buddy.”

You’re dressed like the cover of a high-fashion pastel magazine, white satin crop top with a deep V neckline, covered by a cropped pink cardigan, and a pink and white gingham mini skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. A silver chain belt with tiny heart-shaped charms loops low on your hips, matching the layers of necklaces around your neck. Your white stiletto ankle boots click on the concrete, and your bag is covered in charms, including one very clearly handmade by Minsu out of beads and macaroni.

“Hi,” you say. “You mentioned you live in a frat, there’s like eight of you, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Hyunjin replies.

“Any of them trustable with a kid? We’re doing the fight scene today, and I really don’t want him to see that. His sitter bailed like forty minutes ago, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hyunjin thinks quickly. Chan. Obviously. Minho, too. Felix, for sure. Jisung, maybe, if Chan is around. Jisung unsupervised is chaos incarnate. But a supervised Jisung? Fine.

He nods. “Three and a half.”

You snort. “Good enough.”

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. “We’ll lump him on Chan. Chan’s basically a dad already.”

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hyunjin waves it off. 

Minsu toddles in ahead of you in jean shorts, a white t-shirt under a loose, unbuttoned denim shirt, little white sneakers squeaking slightly, and his cap on backwards. His backpack is bouncing as he marches in like he owns the place.

Hyunjin leads you into the living room. Seven sets of eyes turn at once.

“Guys,” Hyunjin announces, gesturing to you, “this is Y/N and her younger brother Minsu. Y/N, Minsu, these are the idiots. Chan, Changbin, Minho, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin.”

He points at each of them as he says their names. You nod politely, giving a small wave. “Hi.”

Minsu walks straight up to Chan, who’s sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie and promptly climbs into his lap.

Hyunjin dumps Minsu’s bag next to them. “Babysitting duty. Three hours max.”

You raise your hand. “No allergies. Toys are in his backpack. Spare clothes too. His sitter cancelled, and Hyunjin said this was fine.”

Chan blinks down at the three-year-old beaming up at him and poking his face. “It’s so fine. I love kids. They love me.”

“If you run out of ideas, put on Transformers. He’s three. Shiny things catch his attention.”

“Cool,” Chan nods, still being aggressively prodded by Minsu.

Within moments, Minsu has cracked open his backpack and started showing off every single Transformer he owns. Jisung, Felix, and Minho are immediately roped in.

“Make fight fun, not honk shoo.”

Minho blinks. “Honk shoo?”

“He means boring,” you explain. “Like the noise you make when you snore.”

Jisung gasps. “I’m using that. Forever. In my articles. ‘The way the police handled the evidence was complete honk shoo.’”

Felix nods. “Genius.”

Seungmin crosses his arms. “What if he’s a shithead?”

“Tell him there’s a toe-eating monster in your basement,” you say casually. “Or something. I don’t know. I make this shit up as I go. Just nothing under the bed or in the closet. I need him to sleep in his own room.”

"Got it,"

You glance at Minsu. “Also, don’t believe him when he says he can pee alone. He can’t. Someone needs to take him, sit him down, and make sure he stays seated. He might aim at you on purpose. He thinks it’s funny.”

The room goes silent, and Minsu beams. “Wee-wee on walls!”

Chan, Minho, Changbin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin all stare at the child in horror.

“I need to wee-wee now,” Minsu announces.

Everyone turns to Minho, and Chan sighs. “Minho. You’re a vet science major. You’ve handled worse.”

Minsu perks up. “Yeah! Mimo!”

Minho groans, but he scoops the child up. As Minho disappears down the hallway, Minsu babbles nonstop. “Mimo, one time I do wee-wee on mirror and it go splash! Splash-splash! An’ sissy poo scream so loud. An’ I laughed and then da floor get wee-wee too but is okay! Clean with sock! I use my sock!”

Minho nods along. “Incredible. Revolutionary.”

“I do wee-wee in kitchen trash too one time,” Minsu says proudly. “I say it’s surprise. Sissy no like surprise.”

You shake your head fondly as Minho vanishes into the bathroom with him. “Good luck.”

“Bye!” you call, pushing the door open with Hyunjin beside you.

The door slams shut behind you, and silence reigns until the bathroom door opens and Minho emerges holding Minsu’s hand. Minsu is freshly washed, beaming, and talking a mile a minute.

“I do wee-wee in da bathtub one time. Sissy say NO MIN, and I say it’s like swimming pool. But small. And I wee-wee in da potted plant! An’ in da hallway corner! An’ under sissy’s bed but she no find it ‘til it go stink.”

“Okay. No one lose sight of this child. Not for a second.”

You and Hyunjin stand centre stage in the near-empty theatre space, the black-painted floors polished and slick under the fluorescent lights, the muffled thuds of movement echoing in the high ceilings above. The makeshift prop staircase looms to the side, a crude but functional stand-in for the grandeur of London Bridge, and a few stacked chairs and crates mark out blocking for future ensemble scenes. 

For now, it’s just the two of you and a professional fight choreographer with a clipboard and the calm, slightly unhinged demeanour of someone who’s seen every possible rehearsal injury and is no longer fazed by anything short of decapitation.

The director appears from behind a curtain, arms crossed, and eyes you carefully from where you stand with one hand on your hip.

“Miss L/N,” he calls, voice echoing. “Do you have trousers today?”

“Nope,” you answer simply, glancing down at your legs. “I’ve got safety shorts under the skirt though.”

He nods once. “Right. Good. Let’s not have a repeat of the Juliet rehearsal incident from last semester.”

“I was nowhere near that production,” 

“Still,” he mutters, then waves at the choreographer. “We’ve got a fight specialist here to walk you both through the motions. Just follow her lead.”

The choreographer, a woman named Sunyoung with steel-grey hair tied into a tight bun and a body built like she could bench press the entire cast, steps forward and claps once. “Alright, bitches, let’s learn how to fake murder!”

Hyunjin straightens instinctively, eyes wide. You suppress a laugh.

“First things first,” Sunyoung says, pulling a bright purple pool noodle from her duffel bag, “Hyunjin, this is you. This is your murder weapon. For now.”

She tosses the pool noodle to him, and he catches it with both hands, then looks down at it with something between horror and confusion.

“This is the weapon that beats me to death?” you ask, staring at the foam tube.

“Only until he learns to mime the blows properly,” she says cheerfully. “We don’t use the real prop club for rehearsals until you both can get through the sequence without looking like drunk raccoons fighting in an alley.”

You snort, and Hyunjin holds the pool noodle up like a katana. “Do I get to name it?”

“No,” Sunyoung replies without missing a beat. “Alright. So we’re gonna start with blocking. Y/N, you’re leading Oliver to meet Brownlow. They’re not here today, so just imagine they exist, which shouldn’t be too hard since Brownlow is about as lively as a bag of wet towels.”

You step into your starting position, pointing toward the staircase with a flourish. “Right this way, sweetheart. Mr. Brownlow’s waiting just upstairs.”

“Beautiful,” Sunyoung says. “Hyunjin, you’re gonna come in from behind”

Hyunjin snickers and pads a few steps behind you, trying to make his steps quiet despite his combat boots clunking like anvils on the stage floor.

“Grab her by the arm,” Sunyoung instructs. “Don’t yank. You’re a bastard, not a linebacker.”

Hyunjin’s hand wraps gently around your forearm. His fingers are warm, and you glance over your shoulder at him with mock surprise.

“Oh!” you gasp. “A violent man in black leather? What a shocking twist.”

“Focus,” Sunyoung barks. “Y/N, you struggle. Pull away. Maybe get a slap in.”

You jerk your arm back and twist, pretending to stumble.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen slightly at your ferocity, but he stays in character, holding on just tight enough to be convincing.

Sunyoung steps forward. “Now we’re gonna add the next part. Hyunjin, you drag her to the staircase. Y/N, you fight him. Claw, grab, kick. Scream if you want. Just keep it real.”

She demonstrates quickly, hooking her arms over Hyunjin’s shoulders and pretending to pull back, then ducking and twisting to break his grip. Her movements are fluid, controlled, and aggressive in all the right ways. Then she shows you how to use your nails against his jacket, sliding down as if you’re being thrown, her heels scraping along the floor in a slow, staged fall.

You nod, watching every move.

“Okay,” you say, stretching your arms and shaking out your fingers. “Let’s try not to accidentally knock my teeth out.”

Hyunjin positions himself again, and you brace, then act. You kick back into him as you twist, one arm wrenching free, then grab at his jacket as he mimics dragging you toward the prop staircase. The two of you fall together in practised chaos.

“Nice,” Sunyoung says. “Now the real fun. Hyunjin, first blow. You’re not actually hitting her, but I want commitment. Swing like you mean it. Y/N, you’re gonna react like it caught your side.”

She steps behind the staircase to demonstrate the angle, how the audience will only see the weapon coming down, your twitching legs, and hear the sound effects layered on top of it. She hands Hyunjin a set of foam marks to follow, stuck to the floor where each blow should land in space, not on you.

“Hit those. With force. We’ll add the sound cues later.”

Hyunjin nods. His jaw tightens, his expression serious. You see him roll his shoulders, resetting.

You shuffle into position behind the staircase, lying on your back. Sunyoung adjusts your legs, shifting your knees to angle just right, your foot tucked in, toes pointed outward.

“Y/N, when he swings, you’re gonna twitch. Just little flinches. Then full-body shakes. The sound will cue you.”

She hands you a small earpiece, already synced to the system. The first beat echoes in your right ear.

You jump.

“That,” Sunyoung says. “Every time you hear that, you move. Got it?”

“Copy that,” 

Hyunjin lifts the pool noodle, positions himself above the prop space, and waits.

“Three, two, one, go.”

Thunk.

You twitch violently, one leg shifting.

Thunk.

Your shoulder jerks. Your foot slams once against the stage.

Thunk. Thunk.

You writhe, arms flailing briefly before slapping back to the ground. It’s horrible and weird and a little disorienting. You feel sweat prickling along your spine.

Sunyoung holds her hand up. “Good start,” she says. “Y/N, you’ll keep twitching for thirty seconds total. Being beaten to death isn’t fast unless it’s a vital organ. Which it’s not here. We want realism. But we don’t want to scar anyone. This is college. No one paid to see a snuff film.”

You nod, still breathing hard. “Got it.”

Hyunjin lowers the pool noodle, and it flops around sadly in his grip. “I swear this thing is mocking me,” 

A snort escapes you, then a giggle, and then you’re full-on cackling behind the prop staircase, legs still bent at disturbing angles, laughter shaking your stomach. “I’m sorry,” you wheeze. “It’s just this noodle. It’s supposed to be death and it’s fucking flopping like a sad dick.”

Hyunjin raises the noodle and flops it downward with exaggerated force. “Die! Die!”

“Stop it,” you laugh harder. “You’re gonna make me pee.”

Sunyoung doesn’t even blink. “If she pisses herself, rehearsal’s over.”

Hyunjin straightens up, snapping into a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Maximum death, minimum piss.”

“Let’s run it again!"

The spring sun is warm but lazy, hanging high in a cloudless sky over the quad at Miroh College like it’s got nowhere else to be. You’re sitting cross-legged on the grass, your stiletto heels kicked off to the side, one leg lazily jiggling as your fingers flip through your battered Oliver! script. 

Minsu is perched comfortably in the cradle of your crossed legs, a little kimbap lunchbox balanced on one of his chubby thighs as he happily munches his way through lunch. He’s dressed in blue dungarees over a white t-shirt, a matching blue cap sitting backwards on his head. 

Your cardigan flutters in the breeze, tied loosely at the front to show the soft pastel pink lace bralette beneath. Your pants are high-waisted gingham and a pearl belt cinches the waist, and even though your heels are currently off, they sit beside your oversized tote like a fashion-forward threat. 

You're scribbling down notes beside It’s a Fine Life, when Minsu suddenly starts talking with his mouth full.

“Jisu, Mimo, Fefi,” he says proudly, spraying a fleck of rice that lands on your page.

You glance down, not even surprised. “Bless you. Try again, buddy.”

He slurps in the bite like a gremlin and swallows dramatically. “I sayin’, Jisu and Mimo and Fefi, my bestest friends now. They played with me all day. ALL DAY.”

“Wow, all day?”

Minsu nods fiercely. “We do Transformers. Jisu say it so cool he almost cry.”

You laugh. “He almost cried?”

“Uh-huh,” Minsu says, very serious. “And then he show me snack cupboard. It BIG. It got fishy chips, choco pies, honey butter, and ALL the gummies. So many gummies.”

You arch a brow. “He gave you sugar?”

Minsu nods like he’s been knighted. “Mimo say I get crazy eyes and then I do my transformer voice and I go ZHOOOM and Fefi fall down, he fall down right on butt!”

You grin. “They sound like good babysitters.”

He hums in agreement, then drops his chopsticks into the grass and leans forward, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “I know so many swear words now.”

You glance sideways. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Minsu nods. “Jisu say ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘motherfucker’ when he drop rice cup and Mimo go ‘hey!’ and then Fefi say ‘fuck it’ and then laugh. I say it too. Fuck. Shit. Motherfuck.”

You gently wipe a smear of kimchi off his chin as he beams proudly.

“I still like poophead,” Minsu adds thoughtfully. “Poophead is funny.”

“Always a classic,” you say, flipping the page in your script. 

He starts humming something that might be the Paw Patrol theme, watching it on your phone with kimbap still clutched in one hand. But then he suddenly turns to you with wide eyes and says, “Mimo, help me with all the wee-wees.”

You blink. “All the what?”

“Wee-wees!” Minsu chirps. “I do SIX wee-wees, sissy. SIX!”

“Six? In three hours?”

“Uh huh.” He nods solemnly, like a war veteran. “First wee-wee, Mimo say okay, let's go bathroom, and I run and he say no run or you pee pants. I sit. I wee-wee normal. No walls.”

“Fantastic,”

“Second wee-wee, I say I don’t need go but I do,” he continues, licking rice off his fingers. “So Mimo go again and he sing me song so I don’t get bored. I try wee like robot but it not work. I just make noise and giggle.”

You stifle a laugh. “Okay.”

“Third wee-wee, I do fart that so big, Mimo go ‘AH FUCK’ and he cover nose and he go BLEHHH.” Minsu demonstrates the gagging in full dramatic glory, retching and clutching his stomach. “He say I stinky butt and need jail.”

You can’t hold it back this time, you laugh so hard your pen falls from your fingers.

“Fourth wee-wee, I wee-wee on Mimo’s sock,” Minsu says, unconcerned. “I thought I finish. I stand up. But SURPRISE! Wee-wee come again and go on sock. Mimo go ‘ah fuck’ but not mad. He say sock go in spinny washer and he do nakey feets after.”

You nod slowly. “So Minho walked around barefoot?”

“Yeah!” Minsu laughs. “He got hairy toes!”

You bury your face in your hand.

“Fifth wee-wee,” Minsu continues, “I try wee in kitchen pan. Jisu scream. He say ‘what the shit!’ and ‘oh my fucking god no!’ and ‘this kid is feral!’ Then Channie come. Channie say no pee near snacks. That not good.”

“Correct, snacks and pee don’t go together.”

“Last wee-wee, I hide behind couch. I say I secret. Mimo see and go ‘nooooo!’ and he pick me up and run and I almost wee but he make it. He say I crazy.”

You just stare at your brother. “You are crazy.”

He shrugs, unbothered, and shoves another piece of kimbap in his mouth.

You sigh deeply, adjusting your script, but then Minsu gasps and jumps off your lap, hands still full of lunch.

“Hey! Where are you going, you gremlin?!”

Minsu doesn't answer, his little legs pumping fast. He’s abandoned his lunchbox and he's running with full toddler energy like the goddamn wind, but his target is clear. A group of five figures has just stepped onto the quad from the path behind the art building, all holding drinks in takeaway cups. Hyunjin, Minho, Jisung, Chan, and Felix. They’re laughing at something Jisung’s saying, shoulders bumped together casually.

Hyunjin is wearing an oversized plaid shirt, mostly unbuttoned, revealing a teasing sliver of collarbone and toned chest. His ripped jeans hang loose on his hips, and his sneakers are pristine and blindingly white. A black cap shades his face, paired with chunky sunglasses that make him look like he just wandered off a fashion shoot by accident.

Minsu’s squeal cuts through the air like a firework.

“MIMO! FEFI! JISU! CHANNIE! HYUNI!”

All five of them pause, turning in unison. Minho blinks. “Is that-”

“IT’S MY BOY!” Jisung yells.

Minsu launches himself at them, still chewing, arms flailing as he throws himself into Jisung’s legs first. Jisung barely catches him without dropping his drink.

“What’s up, little man?!” Jisung laughs, spinning him around.

Minsu squeals and flails in joy, bouncing from Jisung to Felix, hugging his knees, then to Minho, who scoops him up with practised ease.

“I bring lunch!” Minsu announces, mouth still full. “Kimbap!”

Chan ruffles his hair, and Hyunjin watches, smiling widely under his sunglasses. He excuses himself with a pat on Felix’s shoulder and walks across the grass to where you’re still sitting, kimbap box abandoned beside you.

“Hey,” he says, sliding his sunglasses up.

“Hey,” 

Hyunjin squats and grabs a roll from Minsu’s lunchbox, popping it into his mouth. “Oh my god. This tastes so fucking good. Who made this?”

You raise your brow. “Me.”

He nods seriously, already reaching for another. “Marry me.”

“That easy, huh?”

“Feed me like this again and it’s over for me.”

Just then, Minsu turns and gasps. “MY LUNCH!”

Hyunjin freezes mid-bite, the kimbap halfway to his mouth. Minsu points at him like Caesar at Brutus, betrayed.

Minho gasps dramatically. “FOR SHAME! BOOOOOO!”

Minsu nods aggressively. “Bad Hyuni!”

You sigh. “Hyunjin will buy you pizza.”

Hyunjin sighs. “Yes. Lots of pizza.”

“With cheese?” Minsu asks, eyes big.

“Extra cheese,” Hyunjin says solemnly. “Cheese-stuffed crust.”

Minsu beams.

Chan leans in. “You should ask for ice cream too.”

Minsu gasps. “I like ice cream!”

Felix stage whispers, “And fizzy drinks.”

“Bubble drinks!” Minsu cries.

Hyunjin nods, utterly defeated. “Fucking fine. Bubble drinks too.”

Chan glances at you. “Y/N, you wanna come to the frat house? Hyunjin can order the food there. We can keep Minsu entertained, and you can work on your script.”

Minsu drops to his knees in the grass. “Please! Please! Please! Please!”

You sigh, but you’re already smiling. “Alright. Let me pack up.”

Minsu throws his arms in the air in celebration and runs screaming back toward the others.

You walk through the frat house front door alongside Hyunjin, but the chaos has already begun ahead of you. Minsu is practically flying down the hallway, gripping Chan’s and Jisung’s hands as tightly as his little fingers will allow. Every few steps, the two of them swing him up between them, Minsu’s delighted squeals echoing off the walls each time his feet leave the ground. 

“Higher!” Minsu yells, completely fearless.

“Jesus, kid,” Chan mutters, laughing. “You trying to touch the ceiling?”

“UP!” Minsu demands, wriggling. “I FLY!”

“Flight achieved,” Jisung says solemnly as they swing him again.

“Do you hear how smug he is?” you murmur to Hyunjin as you trail behind, arms crossed. “They’ve turned him into a monster.”

“He was already a monster,” Hyunjin points out, pushing open the door to the living room. “We’ve just enhanced his powers.”

Inside, Jeongin is slouched over one arm of the couch with a bowl of cereal that absolutely isn’t from today, Changbin is lying flat on the floor dramatically like he’s been murdered by laziness, and Seungmin has his head thrown back against the sofa, scrolling through his phone with a face that says he's already emotionally checked out of the day.

The second Minsu enters, everything explodes into motion.

“JJ!” Minsu yells, darting over to Jeongin.

Jeongin lifts one arm lazily in a wave. “Sup, little menace.”

“BinBin!” Minsu screams, launching himself at Changbin’s side.

Changbin groans like he’s being tackled by a small rhino. 

“Minnie!” Minsu grins, flopping down onto Seungmin’s legs.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You don’t get paid at all,” Jeongin replies, still eating.

“That’s the problem.”

You and Hyunjin plop down onto the couch together, shoulder to shoulder. You reach for your tote bag to grab your script. Hyunjin’s already grabbed his from the coffee table, flipping to the Oom Pah Pah scene.

“Okay,” you say. “You know I hate the way I deliver this line, right?”

He grins. “I’ve heard you say it thirty different ways, and you hate all of them.”

“That’s because I sound like a drunk pigeon,”

“I don’t know,” he says, tapping the top of the page thoughtfully. “I think it’s more of a cockney flamingo.”

You laugh, poking the side of his ribs. “Fuck you.”

The two of you fall into that familiar rhythm line by line, flipping through the pages, swapping ideas, mocking each other’s dramatic voice choices, debating the emotional arc of a pub song, and snorting every time Hyunjin does his terrible imitation of your falsetto. The rest of the room fades into background noise, even though the frat is anything but quiet.

Minsu is content and thriving in the centre of it all. Chan has poured him some pineapple juice in a plastic cup and is now crouched in front of him like a very patient babysitter-slash-best-friend, nodding along as Minsu monologues about Optimus Prime. Jeongin is showing him how to scroll through photos on a tablet, and Changbin is helping him stack tiny blocks into a tower that will definitely collapse in ten seconds.

Every time Minsu knocks over a tower, he howls in laughter like he’s just heard the best joke of his life.

“Hey, buddy,” Minho says suddenly, crouching beside Minsu, “you're wiggling pretty hard. You need to wee-wee?”

Minsu freezes for a second. “No, Mimo.”

“You sure?” Jisung asks, narrowing his eyes like a detective.

Minsu squirms. “I need to wee-wee! Really bad!”

“Shit, shit, shit—” Minho grabs him like a football and bolts. “Emergency!”

“Go, go, go!” Chan yells like a field medic.

The rest of the room just dissolves into laughter as the sound of Minho’s feet thunders toward the downstairs bathroom. You and Hyunjin don’t even look up, still locked in a semi-serious argument about Nancy’s choreography.

From the hallway, Minsu’s voice echoes. “Mimo, Mimo, it coming out!”

“Jesus, sit down! Pants down first!” 

“I was having fun, Mimo! I didn’t wanna stop to wee!”

"You know what’s not fun? Peeing on the floor.”

“I no wee on socks this time! Look! All in toilet!”

“Good job, bud.” 

“Uh oh,” 

Minho groans. “What now?”

“I need poopy.”

You can all hear Minho’s defeated groan through the wall.

In the living room, everyone erupts into laughter again. Jeongin nearly spits his cereal, Changbin actually rolls onto his stomach, wheezing, and Seungmin just mutters, “He’s a biological weapon.”

But you and Hyunjin? You’re still in your little bubble, pointing at lines, half arguing over whether Nancy should spin or stomp at the bridge.

Then comes the sound of dry heaving.

“I stinky butt!” 

Minho retches again. “Oh my god, Minsu. What the fuck did you eat?!”

“Rice and juice!” Minsu giggles.

“I think your kid’s trying to kill Minho,” Felix says from the floor.

“He’ll survive,” you mutter, scribbling a note in the margin.

A few minutes pass. You're in the middle of debating whether a spin would be too dramatic or just dramatic enough when Minsu’s voice returns.

“Mimo, you wipe my poopy bum bum now.”

There’s a pause.

“Alright, little man,” Minho groans.

“Wipe proper, Mimo! Or itchy!”

“Yes, boss man.”

“Hurry! I wanna play!”

“Can’t wipe faster than I’m already wiping!”

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. Minho emerges, peg on his nose, holding Minsu’s hand like he’s walking him away from a war crime. Minsu, meanwhile, is beaming.

“Hyuni!” Minsu yells, running into the living room. “Pizza!”

Minho removes the peg and gasps dramatically like he’s been underwater for an hour. “Oh, sweet fuck, fresh air.”

Hyunjin finally looks up from the script and stretches. “Alright, alright, I’ll order.”

He grabs his phone and walks toward Minsu.

“Alright, boss,” he says, crouching to eye level. “Give me your order.”

“Cheese!” Minsu says instantly.

“Obviously.”

“Cheese crust!”

“Got it.”

“Bubble drinks!”

“Fizzy drinks,” Felix corrects from the side.

“Fizzy drinks!” Minsu yells.

“And-” Chan leans down and whispers, “Ice cream.”

“ICE CREAM!” Minsu repeats, raising his hands like it’s the gospel.

Hyunjin mock-salutes. “Understood. Sugar overload incoming.”

He places the order. Everyone relaxes, sprawling out on the couches and beanbags. You scoot over slightly to make room for Minsu when he clambers into your lap with a little grunt.

Pizza arrives fast. You’ve barely finished rewriting Nancy’s third verse when the doorbell rings, and Chan nearly dislocates his shoulder racing to the door. Boxes are opened, sauces are spilt, and the TV is switched on to the animated Transformers series like a religious ceremony.

Minsu sits proudly in your lap, tiny hands full of pizza. He immediately starts sucking the cheese out of the stuffed crust with disgusting enthusiasm, dipping the rest of the slice into garlic sauce with such intensity you'd think he was painting the Mona Lisa.

Jisung watches for a while, then leans over. “So, how much of raising a kid is winging it?”

You take a long sip of cola. “All of it. You think I knew how to potty train an eighteen-month-old? Did I fuck. I made that shit up. Shit hit the walls. Literally.”

Minsu giggles. “Poopy walls!”

Minho nearly chokes on his soda. “Like actual shit on the walls?” 

“Like, piece de reshitstance. Little finger smears, everywhere.”

Felix’s face twists. “You poor thing.”

“I was sobbing,” you say. “Like full ugly cry. And then Minsu sees me crying, and starts wailing because I’m wailing, and the two of us are just in the bathroom surrounded by shit and pain.”

Changbin stares. “How did that even happen?”

“Someone wanted potty independence,” you say, staring directly at Minsu.

Minsu grins proudly.

“So,” you continue, “I let him. He toddles out of the bathroom, all smug, and there’s shit from the base of his back up to his fucking shoulder blades. I go into the bathroom thinking, okay, I’ll wipe him down. What I find is-”

“Don’t say it,” Seungmin warns.

“Horror,” you say. “Literal horror.”

Hyunjin whistles. “Jesus.”

Minsu giggles. “I did it! I made poopy paint!”

Everyone laughs again. You bury your face in one hand while Hyunjin gently pats your back like a trauma counsellor.

And honestly? For a chaotic night with a toddler and a house full of barely functioning college boys, this isn’t half bad.

The theatre is buzzing softly with scattered movement, but the seats are empty, except for the front row, where seven college boys are squeezed together. Minsu is planted firmly in Jisung’s lap, his little green dungarees slightly wrinkled, sneakers lighting up every time he kicks his feet. 

“I sit here,” he tells Jisung, beaming. “You hold me.”

“Forever and always, boss,” Jisung replies with a grin, adjusting Minsu’s weight so the kid can bounce a little as he watches the stage.

Originally, the plan was to leave Minsu at the frat house. Chan had promised snacks, Minho promised fun wee-wee times with songs, and Felix had bribed the toddler with bubble drinks and ice cream. But none of it worked. Minsu had clung to your leg like a koala, eyes filling with fat tears every time you took a step toward the door. So now, the entire frat is at the theatre, serving as Minsu’s personal fan club-slash-childcare team.

Chan’s got the Paw Patrol movie queued up on Jisung’s laptop for the death scene, and Seungmin is already arguing with Felix about who’s going to hold the snacks. Minho, as expected, has stationed himself two seats away like he’s waiting for another possible emergency toilet dash.

You, meanwhile, are backstage. Lacing up your heeled Victorian boots, checking the tightness of your crimson bodice in the mirror, fingers flitting over your neckline to adjust the gingham trim at the cuffs. Your curls are pinned up in a perfectly dishevelled style. The dress is a deep red, and the striped underskirt adds just enough movement when you spin. You feel like Nancy. You feel alive. Also slightly itchy, but you’re pretending that part isn’t real.

“Hey,” Hyunjin calls from the other side of the dressing curtain, his voice muffled. “You alive in there or did the corset claim a victim?”

You step out and there he is: Bill Sikes in the flesh. The top hat is crooked, his coat is shredded at the hems, the maroon scarf makes his neck look longer. He’s got those fucking gloves on and every step he takes is heavy, deliberate, like a man used to making others flinch. His shirt’s tucked haphazardly into those loose trousers, the sash frayed like hell, and he still somehow looks good. It's fucked.

“You look like you’ve mugged three people and robbed a bread shop.”

He grins. “You look like you murdered your last five husbands and buried them in the gin barrels.”

The lights dim, and the show begins.

Minsu’s eyes widen the second the opening scene starts. The stark workhouse setting, the echo of metal bowls, the cry of a little boy asking for more. Minsu leans toward Chan, whispering, “Why he in trouble? He just hungry.”

Chan sighs. “Yeah, kiddo. The people there are kinda mean.”

Minsu frowns. “That’s poopy.”

Felix nods seriously. “Very poopy indeed.”

Scene by scene, the story unfolds. Oliver walks to London, “Why he walking so far?” Minsu asks, voice squeaky, and he meets Dodger. The guys take turns whispering answers, trying not to disturb the rehearsal while still keeping the toddler entertained.

Then comes Hyunjin’s first scene. The crowd onstage parts for Bill’s entrance, dark and looming. He stalks across the stage like he owns it, delivering the goods to Beomgyu’s Fagin. The room chills. The frat boys boo half-heartedly.

“Meanie,” Minsu says, but then he spots you entering the tavern set, walking straight toward Hyunjin.

Minsu shrieks, “SISSY POO!”

Hyunjin visibly flinches onstage as you try not to laugh mid-entrance.

You saunter up to the makeshift bar, pour him a tin cup of gin, slap it down, and launch into It’s A Fine Life. The lights are warm, and the tavern ensemble joins in, the energy growing with each bar of music. 

You bounce across the floor in your boots, tossing flirtatious smirks toward Hyunjin, who leans back in his seat and watches you like a predator. You twirl, flash petticoat, and Minsu is ecstatic. He claps off-beat, legs kicking wildly in Jisung’s lap.

“THAT’S MY SISSY!” 

More scenes pass. Then: the apartment scene.

The set is dim. You’re on stage, humming as you fuss over a pan of imaginary eggs. You move like a woman used to being quiet in her own home, hoping not to wake a storm. Then, Hyunjin emerges from under the blankets, voice thick with sleep.

“Nancy, I’m tryin’ to sleep,” he growls. “Go to Fagin’s. Get the cash.”

From the audience, Minsu gasps dramatically. “WHY HE RUDE?! SISSY POO MAKE GOOD FOOD!”

Minho leans over. “Bill’s a meanie, bud.”

“BOO!” Minsu says, full volume.

You keep playing, voice trembling with just the right touch of desperate hope. “You do love me, don’t ya?”

Hyunjin sits up, dragging the sheets, his tone flippant. “’Course I do. I live with you, don’t I?”

“That’s meanie love,” Minsu declares. “Not nice, love.”

Felix covers his face to keep from laughing, whispering, “Nancy should listen to you, kiddo.”

You don’t look at the audience, but a tiny smile curls at your mouth before it disappears behind Nancy’s mask.

A scene later, you’re with Jiwoo’s Bet, waiting at the hideout to grab cash for Bill. The lights glow golden as you’re joined by the kid playing Oliver and the boys playing Fagin’s crew. You start singing “I’d Do Anything.” You twirl Oliver, sing to Dodger, and ruffle one of the pickpocket kids’ hair.

In the audience, Minsu goes still. “MIMO,” he whispers urgently. “That’s my sissy poo. Why she dance with stinky boys?”

Minho clears his throat. “They’re acting, bud. It’s pretend. It’s her job.”

Minsu squints suspiciously. “But they stinky sausages.”

“Very stinky,” Minho agrees, deadpan.

Minsu leans back dramatically, crossing his arms. “I bet Y/N thinks they stinky sausages too.”

“She definitely does,” Minho assures him.

Satisfied, Minsu goes back to bouncing.

Minsu is practically vibrating in Jisung’s lap, cheeks flushed with excitement as he watches you step into the spotlight, the music swelling beneath your feet. The theatre goes quiet as you begin to sing As Long As He Needs Me, your voice soft at first, trembling with the weight of Nancy’s heartbreak. 

Minsu’s little hands grip Jisung’s shirt tightly. “Why sissy sad?” he asks in a whisper.

Jisung clears his throat, keeping his voice low. “Because her boyfriend’s a dick, little man. She still loves him, but he’s a real fuckin’ asshole.”

“Ass-hole,” Minsu repeats carefully, nodding with the gravitas of a toddler who has just discovered the world is unfair.

Jisung mouths ‘fuck’ to himself and just strokes Minsu’s back, eyes still on you.

You don’t even notice them. You let Nancy’s pain pour out of you, tears catching in your lashes as you sing about loyalty, love, and devastation. Hyunjin stands in the shadows just off-stage, face unreadable as he watches. You sing like you’re begging, not performing. And by the end, when your voice cracks just slightly on the final “as long as he needs me,” there’s a deep, collective exhale from the guys in the front row.

Minsu claps with all his might. “SISSY POO IS BEST!”

Seungmin quickly wipes at his eye. “Dust. Shut up.”

From there, the play surges forward. Oliver is kidnapped in the marketplace, ripped from Mr. Brownlow’s loving care and dragged back to the criminal underworld by Bill Sikes. The cast moves through the scenes with practised urgency, transitions flowing smoothly. The tension builds, and you reappear backstage, breathless as Nancy.

You plot with Brownlow, hiding in shadows, voice hushed and urgent. You’re going to sneak Oliver out. You’re going to save him.

Minsu is now curled between Jisung and Chan, a stuffed tiger clutched to his chest, eyes wide as he watches you prepare for the final stages of your doomed plan.

And then, it happens. The lights brighten. Music crashes in. Oom Pah Pah begins.

The energy in the room shifts on a dime. You twirl into the tavern set like you own the world, skirts flying as the ensemble joins in. You slap the countertop, pour fake gin, and pull Jiwoo into the crowd as you begin to sing. It’s brash and joyful, and the contrast from your last solo makes it hit ten times harder.

Minsu sits up straighter. “SISSY SINGIN’ AGAIN!”

“Yeah, buddy,” Chan says, grinning. “This one’s got dancing.”

“LOOK!” Minsu points with excitement as you hop up onto the fake bar and belt out the chorus. “LOOK! SHE SPIN!”

He’s completely enraptured, little fists waving in the air, eyes shining like he’s watching the greatest show in the world. Which, in fairness, he is. You’re electric, laughing with abandon as you lead the tavern in distraction, all the while scanning the crowd for Oliver, keeping one eye on the back door for escape.

The guys watch too, even if they’re starting to squirm. They know what comes next.

And sure enough, the music fades. The lights shift cold and blue.

Chan and Jisung act immediately. Jisung pulls the laptop from the bag like it’s a defibrillator and sets it on his lap. Chan puts the kid-friendly headphones over Minsu’s ears as Jisung whispers, “Paw Patrol movie, buddy. Brand new. You ready?”

Minsu’s eyes widen. “New one?!”

“Brand new,” Jisung confirms.

Within seconds, Minsu is fully hypnotised by the flashing colours of the Paw Patrol movie, headphones firmly in place. Jisung places one hand on the back of Minsu’s head, another across his forehead like a protective visor, making sure Minsu won’t glance up even for a second.

On stage, Oliver is walking with you to London Bridge. You crouch next to him, whispering lines full of desperation and quiet hope. Just as the embrace ends, Hyunjin storms in from the opposite wing.

He grabs Oliver roughly, shoving him aside.

“Let him go, Bill,” you say.

You shove him back.

The fight escalates. He grips your arm, yanks you backwards, and the pair of you disappear behind the faux stone staircase. The frat guys see only your feet, one boot kicking, the other twitching. The sound cues start: dull, gut-wrenching thuds. Your cries. Bone-hitting-flesh sound effects from the speakers. The guys in the front row all shrink in their seats.

“Fuck, this is worse than the movie,” Changbin mumbles, hands covering his face.

Minho is wide-eyed. “I didn’t think they’d actually do the sound effects. That’s so fucking realistic.”

Jeongin peeks through his fingers. “Why do her feet move like that?”

Seungmin groans. “Because she’s dying slowly, that’s the fucking point.”

Felix mutters something in horror as another blow sounds, and you let out a groan that echoes through the theatre.

Still, Minsu is perfectly content in Jisung’s lap, laughing softly at something Marshall is doing onscreen. He has no idea what’s happening on the stage ten feet away. Jisung holds him steady, keeping his vision locked downward.

Then the scene ends. The lights dim.

Hyunjin stumbles back onstage, running. A mob of cast members gives chase. There’s shouting, chaos. Bill Sikes climbs the scaffolding, slips. The rope catches him around the middle. A loud BANG goes off as the gunshot hits him. He dangles, limp, caught in midair.

“God that was fucking bleak,” Seungmin says, still partially hiding.

Chan looks over. “Minsu good?”

Jisung nods. “Totally. Think he thinks the pups are in danger or some shit.”

Minho mutters, “Wish we were watching Paw Patrol.”

The rest of the show picks up. Oliver is reunited with Brownlow. Fagin slinks away with Dodger, planning their next thefts. The message is clear: bad people stay bad, but maybe the good can still find peace.

And then the music strikes up again. Oom Pah Pah plays one more time.

The lights explode with colour. The full cast bursts onto the stage, singing and dancing with reckless joy. You are front and centre, spinning with your skirts flowing, grabbing hands and laughing with genuine glee. The show is over. It’s celebration time.

Minsu looks up, eyes wide. His mouth drops open in pure joy.

“OOOOOOH!”

Hyunjin dances up to you and grabs your hand. The pair of you spin in unison before he dips you low, one arm firm around your waist. You’re laughing as you belt the final line, and the cast behind you harmonises the last oom pah pah! with a triumphant cheer.

Minsu loses his shit.

“HYUNI AND SISSY POO!” he screams. “THEY DANCE! THEY DANCE!”

Chan starts laughing. “He’s gonna pass out.”

“They look like the final scene of a rom-com,” Jisung says through a grin.

“MIMO!”

“Yeah, bud?”

“Are they gonna kissy?”

Minho snorts. “I don’t know, little dude.”

“They should.”

“Maybe later. You should tell your sissy poo that.”

Minsu nods seriously. “I will.”

Minho chuckles. “Wait till she’s brushing your teeth tonight, okay?”

Minsu holds up his pinky. “Pinky promise.”

Minho links pinkies with him and whispers, “You’re a menace.”

Minsu beams. “I a little menace.”

The bathroom is warm and quiet, the soft hum of the fan buzzing lazily in the background. You’re sitting on the tiled floor in your red plaid pyjama shorts and camisole, cross-legged with Minsu curled in your lap. He’s in his favourite Bumblebee pyjamas, the little hood with antennae flopping every time he shifts. You’re gently brushing his teeth, one hand steadying his squirming body and the other keeping the brush moving.

“Spit,” you say, holding out the pink plastic cup. Minsu obliges with an overly dramatic pppthhhhhh sound, completely missing the sink and hitting your thigh.

You groan, wiping it with a towel and shaking your head. “You absolute feral gremlin.”

He just grins, wide and proud, toothpaste on his chin.

“Fank you, no more toofies,” he declares and flops back against your chest like he’s finished a great battle.

You’re brushing his curls away from his forehead when his little hand pats your arm. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thoughtful.

“Yeah?”

“Are you and Hyuni gonna kissy?”

“Wait. What?”

Minsu tilts his head and repeats. “You and Hyuni. Gonna kissy?”

You stare at your three-year-old brother like he’s just recited Shakespeare in Latin.

“Excuse me?”

“I ask Mimo,” he explains, utterly unbothered. “But Mimo no know. Mimo say ask you.”

Of course he did. You can already picture Minho’s smug face. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying not to laugh or die.

Minsu makes a dramatic kissy noise. “Like this,” he says. “Mwah. Mwah.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging your hands down your face. “You’re three. Why are you asking about kissing?”

Minsu shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You pretty. Hyuni pretty. Kissy, no?”

You don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throttle Minho. Instead, you just sigh and wrap your arms tighter around Minsu, brushing back a curl that's fallen into his eye. “Oh, kiddo. If only life was that simple.”

He frowns. ��But do you like Hyuni?”

You hesitate. There’s no point lying, not to him. “Yeah. I like Hyunjin. He’s really nice, isn’t he?”

Minsu nods solemnly. “And pretty too.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, he’s very pretty.”

“He got nice hairs.”

“He does have nice hair.”

“And big shoes.”

“Yep. That too.”

Minsu sits up a little, serious now, tiny hands pressed to your cheeks. “If you like Hyuni and he pretty and you pretty, then you do kissy!”

You squint at him. “Is this what happens in your three-year-old brain?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Well,” you say, lifting him a little to wipe his face, “maybe you should let grown-ups figure out their own weird grown-up shit.”

Minsu scowls. “You not gonna kissy ‘cause you a scaredy chicken.”

You stare at him, betrayed. “Excuse me?”

“You hear me!” Minsu flaps his little arms. “Bawk bawk! Chicken!”

“I am not-” You can’t even finish because now he’s pecking at your shoulder with his lips like a chicken, full-on clucking into your collarbone.

“You chicken!” he crows between pecks. “Bawk bawk!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say through wheezing laughter, scooping him up. “Time for bed before I sell you to the circus.”

“You too scaredy to kissy,” he mumbles smugly, letting his head rest on your shoulder as you carry him to bed.

You settle him into his little bed. His nightlight glows softly, casting little robot silhouettes across the wall. You sit beside him, running your fingers through his curls as he watches you sleepily. You hum, low and quiet, the same lullaby you've always used when you can’t think of anything else. 

You smile gently and trace the tip of your pinky down the bridge of his nose. It’s something you figured out by accident when he was two and sick and wouldn’t sleep. For some reason, that soft, repetitive motion calms him instantly. And it still does. Within seconds, his breathing deepens, mouth slightly open, a soft snore building behind his tiny nostrils.

“Night, little menace,” 

It’s not even 8:30 in the morning when Hyunjin, groggy and shirtless in a pair of grey sweatpants, opens the door of the frat house and finds you looking like you've lived through a natural disaster. Your hair is scraped into a messy bun that’s leaning hard to the left, your halter crop top twisted at the side like you lost a fight with a toddler, and your light blue high-waisted pants are crumpled around your sneakers like you've sprinted in them.

Then there's Minsu, practically vibrating beside you in his bright red t-shirt and yellow shorts and a little cap perched crookedly on his head. He looks like a human Winnie the Pooh who’s been fed espresso.

You raise one exhausted hand. “Please. Reprieve. Coffee. Need. Tired. Cried before nine. I’m too pretty for this much suffering.”

Hyunjin snorts, stepping aside without a word and gesturing you in like you’re being smuggled out of a war zone. “What happened?”

“Your favourite tiny terrorist woke up at six,” you groan, dragging yourself across the living room like you’re wading through quicksand. “Threw a tantrum because I wouldn’t let him have ice cream for breakfast. Then demanded to see his Mimo and screamed until I almost lost my hearing. I cried. Like, actual tears.”

Minsu doesn’t even look back as he gallops into the living room, eyes already scanning for Minho. The second he spots him curled up on the couch, he climbs straight into Minho’s lap like a cat with a vendetta.

“Hi Mimo!”

Minho, still blinking sleep from his eyes, instinctively wraps an arm around Minsu. “Hi little dude,” he says, his voice still raspy.

You collapse face-first into the loveseat with a groan that sounds like you’ve been exorcised. Your voice is muffled by the cushions. “End me. I’m done. I surrender. I give up. The child wins. I’m out.”

Minho leans down to Minsu and whispers, “What did you do to your sister?”

Minsu leans in close and whispers back, “I needed see Hyuni for kissy plan. So I made Y/N tired.”

Minho nods slowly like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. “Nicely done, dude.” They fist bump in silent conspiracy.

Meanwhile, Jisung appears from the kitchen like a guardian angel holding out a canned caramel latte. “You need this more than I ever will,” he says, placing it in your limp hand.

You lift your head slightly to peek at him, eyes half-lidded. “God bless your gay soul.”

Minsu hears it. His head perks up immediately like a meerkat

Jisung glances over his shoulder. “Chan! She’s required full gay healing powers. That’s like, crying since sunrise levels of damage.”

Chan appears a moment later, tousled hair and bleary eyes, clutching a cupcake box like it’s an offering to a deity. “You cried already?” 

“I cried walking up Greek Row,” you mutter as Jisung pats your hair. “I cried at 6:12. Then at 7:00. He pissed behind the couch at 7:30 and that was it. I decided to come here. I couldn’t survive another fucking second.”

“Oh, honey,” Chan says with pity, popping open the box of cupcakes. “These are from that insane bakery Jisung and I gatekeep. We never share these. That’s how dire this is.”

Jisung nods solemnly.

Chan peels one of the cupcakes and practically feeds it to you, pushing the soft sponge into your mouth.

“There, there,” Jisung croons, stroking your forehead. “So brave. So strong. For real, I would’ve just abandoned him at a firestation.”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a broken “fuck.”

Across the room, Minsu is curled up happily in Minho’s lap, chewing on the edge of his cap and looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Then he turns up to Minho. “Mimo?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“What’s gay?”

Minho freezes like someone just put a gun to his head. “Uh-”

You wave your hand in the air without lifting your face from Jisung’s lap. “Have fun explaining that one. He screamed for his Mimo all morning. I’m clocked out, bitch. This is your circus now. Minsu is your monkey.”

Jisung cackles. Chan starts peeling another cupcake.

Minsu blinks up at Minho with wide, innocent eyes. “You tell me?”

Minho clears his throat, looking like he’s considering just running out the door. “Right, okay, uh- So- gay means when a man bear likes another man bear.”

Minsu tilts his head. “Man bear?”

“Yeah,” Minho says. “Imagine two bears. But they’re both guys. They live in a cave. A gay cave.”

Chan and Jisung start snickering.

“They snuggle?” Minsu asks.

“Yeah, they snuggle.”

“Like sleepy snuggles or naked snuggles?”

Jisung chokes on his laughter, and Chan grabs a pillow to cover his face.

Minho powers through. “Mostly sleepy snuggles. But sometimes they also bake cupcakes and watch cartoons together.”

Minsu considers this. “So… like Jisu and Channie?”

Minho sighs in relief. “Exactly. That’s exactly it.”

Minsu’s face lights up. “So they’re man bear gay cave boys!”

Chan groans. “Please don’t let that be my new title.”

Minsu taps his chin. “I love Mimo and Fefi and Jisu and Channie and Hyuni and BinBin and Minnie and JJ. So I gay?”

Minho runs both hands down his face. “No, bud. You love us ‘cause we’re your friends.”

“But I love a lot.”

“You’re a very loving kid.”

“So I half gay?”

Jisung wheezes. “Oh my god.”

Minho sighs. “No. There’s no math involved. It’s just about who you wanna snuggle forever.”

Minsu’s eyes go wide. “Forever?”

“Yeah.”

“Do man bears in gay cave get tired of cupcakes?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then what?”

“Then they order pizza.”

Minsu gasps. “With cheese?”

“Yes,” Chan says solemnly. “Always cheese.”

Minsu nods with all the gravity of a small pope. “I like gay. Man bears sound nice.”

You finally lift your head from Jisung’s lap, grinning weakly. “That’s it. He’s gone. He’s joining the man bear cave.”

Minho drops his head onto the back of the couch with a groan as Minsu continues his questioning.

“Do man bears watch Paw Patrol?”

“If they want to,” Minho mumbles.

“What if man bear wanna be Skye?”

“Then he can be Skye.”

“What if Skye is girl?”

“Man bears can like girl pups. It’s about feelings.”

“What if man bear wanna wear pink?”

“Then he wears pink, Minsu.”

“Even glitter pink?”

“Yes. Even glitter pink.”

Minsu is quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers against his knee. Then he says, “Can Mimo be man bear too?”

Minho looks like he’s seconds from bursting into flames. “Sure, bud. I’ll be whatever bear you need me to be.”

Minsu lights up like a lightbulb. “I be baby bear. You be big bear.”

“Deal,” 

Jisung claps his hands together. “You handled that with more grace than any straight man I’ve ever seen.”

Minho groans. “I am never having kids. Ever.”

Hyunjin, curled up in the beanbag, has been giggling the entire time, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was the most deranged conversation I’ve ever witnessed.”

You lift the caramel latte in a slow, tired toast. “Here’s to the man bear gay cave.”

“Cheers,” everyone mutters, even as Minsu starts chanting it like a war cry.

“Man bear gay cave! Man bear gay cave! With cupcakes and cheese!”

“Please,” Minho begs the universe, “knock me out.”

Minho's salvation comes in the form of Hyunjin standing up to go to the kitchen. Without even a beat of hesitation, Minho seizes the moment, leans close to Minsu’s ear, and whispers, “Kissy.”

Minsu’s mouth parts in slow-motion understanding like he’s just recalled an ancient prophecy. His big eyes flick to Hyunjin’s back as he rounds the corner toward the kitchen, and without a word, Minsu slips down from Minho’s lap like a ninja sliding off a rooftop. He tiptoes after Hyunjin, sneakers lighting up every few steps in bright red flashes, giving him away entirely, but his face is determined.

You, meanwhile, are unaware of the chaos brewing in the next room because you’re currently buried under Jisung’s throw blanket like a corpse. Jisung is feeding you banana slices, and Chan is massaging your temples like you’re a stressed-out housewife who’s just returned from the battlefield.

“I don’t wanna move for twelve years,” you mumble, mouth full. “If a meteor hits, I’ll just die. That’s okay. At least I’ll be lying down.”

“We won’t let the meteor get you, angel,” Jisung says as he adjusts the blanket around your shoulders. “We’ll kiss it to death.”

In the kitchen, Hyunjin is halfway through pouring cereal when Minsu suddenly appears beside him, tugging on his sleeve. “Hyuni!”

Hyunjin looks down, grinning. “Hey, little man. You hungry?”

Minsu shakes his head vigorously. “No! I wanna know why you no kissy my sister!”

Hyunjin nearly drops the cereal box. “I- what?!”

Minsu’s eyes sparkle with mischief and sincerity all at once. “She wanna kissy you! She tell me!”

Hyunjin stares, heart trying to escape his chest cavity. “Wait… what?”

“She likey you!” Minsu announces proudly. “Like how Jisu like Channie! She said so! She say you pretty and nice!”

Hyunjin sways slightly, leaning on the counter. For a second, he forgets how to breathe. He’s been pining after you since freshman year, since you shared that jazz elective. That crush didn’t just stick. It fucking settled into his bloodstream like oxygen.

“You want to kissy Y/N?” Minsu asks, eyebrows raised, toe tapping like he's waiting on a business deal to close.

Hyunjin nods, too stunned to speak.

“Go! Kissy kissy! Smoochie smoochie!” Minsu declares, pushing at Hyunjin’s knees like he’s trying to herd a large sheep toward destiny.

Hyunjin laughs and ruffles Minsu’s hair. “Okay, okay, jeez. No pressure, right?”

Minsu beams and sprints behind him like a bodyguard escorting a VIP back into the living room. As soon as Hyunjin walks in, you lift one sleepy eye to glance toward the noise and immediately spot Minsu grinning like a criminal behind Hyunjin’s legs.

You sit up slowly. “What the hell did you do, Minsu?”

Minsu claps his hands. “You two can kissy now! Hyuni know you wanna kissy him! He wanna kissy you! Say thank you!”

Your soul leaves your body for a moment. You turn your head toward Minho with deadly calm. “Minho. You can keep him forever.”

Minsu beams. “I help you! Say thank you!”

“No,” you reply.

Minsu stomps his foot. “Say thank you!”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Make me, gremlin.”

He gasps, betrayed.

Hyunjin, trying very hard not to laugh and betray his own amusement, clears his throat. “How about, instead of a kissy right now, a date? Maybe tomorrow?”

You slowly lower yourself back into Jisung’s lap and cover your face with your hands. “Let me die first. Then yeah, date sounds cool. Maybe in the afterlife.”

Minsu is undeterred. “Now kissy!”

“No!” you snap.

And that’s all it takes. The tiny stormcloud that is Minsu explodes into a full tantrum, flinging himself onto the floor like a possessed worm, shrieking about how you’re a “stinky meanie” and that you “no say thank you for kissy plan” and that he “worked hard like a big brain baby.”

“Oh god,” you groan, grabbing a pillow and smothering your face. “Let me suffocate in peace.”

Chan winces. “That’s a Category 5 tantrum.”

Jisung strokes your hair. “You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before the glass breaks.”

Minho, watching this unfold, slowly starts to back away. You lift your head just enough to narrow your eyes at him. “No way, bitch. He’s your problem today.”

Minho freezes. “Fuck.”

Then, in an act of desperation, Minho switches sides. He crouches beside Minsu and starts patting his back. “You’re right, bud. Your sister is so mean. She’s the worst. You worked so hard on that plan. I’m mad for you.”

Minsu’s cries lessen just slightly. “She not say thank you”

“She’s rude,” Minho nods solemnly, mouthing sorry at you while validating Minsu’s spiral. “Awful. Just so rude.”

“She mean to me and she look bad!”

Minho cringes but nods along. “Yeah, she looks awful.”

“Poopy bad.”

“Exactly. The worst.”

You glare at Minho as he keeps mouthing sorry while Minsu continues, “She look like poopy ratty lady!”

That does it. You flop back on the couch like you’ve been shot.

Jisung gasps dramatically. “How dare you? She’s beautiful!”

Chan immediately starts stroking your cheek. “You’re a goddess, baby.”

Hyunjin has turned to face the corner, shoulders shaking with laughter. You can practically hear him wheezing.

Minsu’s tantrum eases completely now, satisfied that his Mimo understands the full extent of the betrayal.

“I get you another drink!” he shouts, and before you can stop him, he’s dragging Minho to the kitchen, leaving you lying on the couch like roadkill.

You sigh, rolling your head toward Jisung and Chan. “You two beautiful gays. Listen to me.”

They both sit up straighter, eyes wide. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t adopt,” you whisper. “Don’t get a surrogate. Just be two man-bears in your cave. Even if all your family members die and there’s no one else left, don’t raise a baby bear. Do not subject yourselves to being called ratty poopy gays after years of feeding and diaper changing. Don’t do it.”

They nod solemnly like they’re receiving sacred instruction.

“Ratty poopy gays,” Jisung repeats softly, horrified.

Chan locks pinkies with him. “Just us. Beautiful gay bears with unshattered self-esteem.”

Moments later, Minsu and Minho return. Minsu proudly hands you a canned latte like he’s just retrieved the holy grail. “Here! Your hair messy too. Fix it. Then you look less poopy!”

You accept the drink, stare at it, then look at the two gay bears beside you.

“No kids,” Chan says immediately.

“Never,” Jisung agrees.

Minsu is oblivious, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s fixed all your problems.

“I come on date with you and Hyuni!” he declares with delight.

You bolt upright. “Absolutely not. You will be having a sleepover with your Mimo.”

Minho’s face drains of all colour. “Wait, what?”

You don’t even blink. “You heard me.”

Minsu screams with glee, throws his arms around Minho’s legs, and starts babbling about movies and popcorn and sleeping on the floor.

Minho stares at you with pure betrayal.

You sip your canned latte. “Your circus. Your monkey.”

Minho groans, but when Minsu hugs him and calls him the “bestest Mimo in the world,” he melts. “Yeah, bud. Sleepover.”

Minsu throws his hands up in the air like he’s won a prize, and Minho scoops him up with a resigned sigh, hugging him close.

Hyunjin barely finishes unlocking the frat house door when it swings open to reveal you standing there, hair loosely curled, face framed by soft tendrils, minimal makeup glowing naturally under the morning light. 

You’re wearing a black tube top that hugs just right and a high-waisted olive green cargo-style skirt with oversized pockets and a belt slung casually at your waist. A pair of classic black high-top Converse completes the look, and you give Hyunjin a lazy little smile like you haven’t been racing around for the last forty-five minutes trying to get Minsu dressed, fed, and packed.

Hyunjin blinks once, taking in the sight before looking down at Minsu, who’s standing next to you, vibrating like a wind-up toy ready to pop. He’s wearing a blue and red Paw Patrol onesie with matching slipper boots that make soft shuffling noises as he bounces on his feet. His overnight bag hangs awkwardly from one shoulder, bulging with toys and snacks and what appears to be a roll of duct tape for some reason.

“Holy shit,” Hyunjin mutters under his breath, still absorbing the double impact of adorable chaos and glowing beauty.

You squint up at him. “You better be reacting to the outfit and not the gremlin.”

Hyunjin snorts. “Both. Honestly, both are kind of melting my brain.”

Minsu bounces in place. “Hyuni! Sleepover!”

Hyunjin crouches down to Minsu’s height. “That’s right, buddy. They’ve got a whole setup inside. Pillow fort, snacks, cartoons, the whole nine yards.”

“YAY!” Minsu squeals and sprints past Hyunjin into the house, slipper boots sliding slightly against the floor as he skids into the living room. 

Inside, Minho, Jisung, Seungmin, Jeongin, Changbin, Chan, and Felix are waiting around a ridiculously elaborate pillow fort. It looks like an IKEA showroom exploded. There are fairy lights strung across blankets, a mountain of cushions, a popcorn machine in the corner, and Paw Patrol blasting from the flat screen.

Minsu launches himself toward the chaos like it owes him money. “Mimo! Minnie! JJ! BinBin! Jisu! Channie! Fefi! Sleepover!” He practically vibrates with joy as each guy greets him with high-fives and fist bumps, shouting greetings right back, matching his volume and enthusiasm with impressive accuracy.

You watch the scene unfold, arms folded across your chest, smiling in disbelief. “Okay, so where are we going?” you ask, turning toward Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, still recovering from watching Minsu crash into Jeongin with the force of a meteor, looks at you with a crooked grin. His outfit mirrors the sleek utility aesthetic, black cargo trousers paired with a black button-down shirt that’s worn mostly open, showing off a fitted white tank underneath. A thick black belt wraps around his waist, accentuating the clean lines of the ensemble. Chunky black boots complete the look, and his naturally spiked hair sticks out in all directions like he walked through a wind tunnel and decided to own it.

“Because your three-year-old brother is not your responsibility until tomorrow morning,” Hyunjin says, motioning toward the chaos inside, “I’ve decided we’re doing something involving alcohol.”

Your eyes widen. “Real alcohol?”

“Very real. And also... pottery.”

You gasp like you’ve just been handed the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Boozy Pottery Emporium. “You hear that?”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Hear what?”

You tilt your head, feigning serious listening. “That’s my panties dropping.”

You don’t realise Minsu’s just around the corner, picking a toy out of his bag.

Hyunjin snorts so hard he nearly doubles over. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

And with that, you both slip out the door, leaving chaos, cartoons, and one very impressionable toddler behind.

As soon as the door shuts, Minsu glances up from his toy haul and blinks. “Why are Y/N’s panties dropping?”

Seven full-grown men freeze like deer in headlights.

Jisung, the first to recover, goes, “What the actual fuck.”

Minho makes a strangled sound. “Okay! Uh- who wants to play Paw Patrol?!”

Minsu ignores the distraction, eyes narrowed with the focus of a war general. “Why panties drop?”

Chan looks around the room, lips pressed into a hard line. “Alright. Damage control time. Fast. Go.”

“Panties drop when you sneeze really hard,” Jeongin tries.

“That’s hats,” Seungmin mutters.

Felix starts rifling through Minsu’s overnight bag. “Distraction! Distraction! Where the hell is the Rubble truck?!”

Minsu won’t let up. “Why she say panties drop for Hyuni?”

Changbin gestures wildly. “It’s- uh- it’s a phrase. Like- Like rain! It means love rain. It’s raining love. In panties form.”

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” Jisung cries.

“SHUT UP, I PANICKED!” 

Minsu is now laser-focused. “Is panties like hugs?”

Felix whimpers. “Someone answer this or I’m calling child services on myself.”

Chan takes over like he’s running a hostage negotiation. “Listen, Minsu, buddy. That’s a grown-up thing to say. Only grown-ups say it.”

“Why?” Minsu asks, head tilted like a confused puppy.

“Because if little kids say it,” Minho begins carefully, “the grown-up police come.”

Minsu gasps. “Police?”

“Anti-panty police,” Jeongin says grimly.

“They show up,” Jisung nods, “and they take away your toys.”

“Your cartoons,” Seungmin adds.

“Your Paw Patrol episodes,” Changbin finishes with a dramatic whisper.

Minsu looks like he’s just been told Santa Claus died. “My Paw Patrol?”

Chan nods solemnly. “Gone. Forever. No more Chase. No more Rubble. No more Ryder. Just... silence.”

Felix starts to look genuinely guilty. “Guys, we’re gonna give him a complex.”

“Worth it,” Minho hisses. “We can’t let him repeat that phrase in public. Y/N will cry in the street. She’ll give up on life. She’ll dissolve into dust.”

“Why panties drop?” Minsu tries again, quieter this time, like he’s trying to test the waters.

“You say that again and the anti-panty police are gonna eat your toys,” Jeongin says with the stone-cold confidence of someone who has worked retail during holiday season.

Just as Minsu’s face begins to crumple into genuine toddler heartbreak, Seungmin leaps into action, pulling something out of his backpack.

It’s a brand-new Chase plushie, tag still on.

He thrusts it into Minsu’s arms. “HERE. FOR YOU.”

The tantrum, which had been building like a pressure cooker, dissipates immediately. Minsu gasps, clutches the toy to his chest, and squeals with joy, eyes lighting up like Christmas morning.

“Chase! New Chase! Fefi got me new Chase!”

Felix glares at Seungmin. “You had that the whole time?”

Seungmin shrugs, grinning. “It was too funny. I wanted to see you all suffer.”

“YOU FUCKING GREMLIN,” Chan yells, throwing a pillow at him.

Minho drops his head to the floor dramatically. “I lost six years of my life to that conversation.”

Jisung flops back onto the couch. “I think my soul left my body.”

Jeongin looks at Seungmin with genuine awe. “You are both my hero and my villain.”

Minsu, completely oblivious to the emotional destruction left in his wake, climbs into the pillow fort, new plushie in one arm and an apple juice box in the other. “Let’s do sleepover! Yay!”

And with that, seven grown-ass men collapse into various forms of exhaustion around the living room as Minsu resumes singing the Paw Patrol theme song at full volume, utterly thrilled with life.

Hyunjin and you have only been gone twelve minutes.

It’s gonna be a long fucking night.

The evening is warm, the sky still streaked in violet and gold, and the buzz of a Friday night crowd hums behind you. You follow Hyunjin down a quieter side street, away from the traffic and neon lights, to a tucked-away pottery studio glowing softly through frosted glass windows. 

"So you booked us a pottery class? You trying to Ghost me?"

Hyunjin smirks, already pulling open the door and gesturing dramatically for you to step inside. "Only if you promise not to drop your panties when I touch your hands."

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wore my good panties today. You’re not getting near them unless you pay the toll.”

Inside, the space is cozy but sleek, modern wood paneling lining the walls with clusters of ceramic pieces on display. The receptionist beams as Hyunjin checks you both in. He’s reserved the private room in the back, it's quiet, softly lit, and there’s a low table with a full pottery wheel, two stools, and two bottles of chilled soju already on ice.

“Oh, he’s serious,” you mutter, sinking into the stool while eyeing the instructor, a short, energetic woman who introduces herself as Nari and begins explaining the basics of clay handling, wheel speed, and structure. 

You're half-listening, half-watching Hyunjin, who already looks like some tortured artistic genius as he rolls up his sleeves and starts forming the clay into something shapely and even. It's not fair. He looks annoyingly good doing anything.

You, meanwhile, are pouring yourself a glass of soju and topping it off with a splash of wine from the open bottle nearby. “What is this? Bougie alcoholics anonymous for art majors?”

Hyunjin snorts. “Some of us are actually taking this seriously.”

“I’ve had a toddler screaming at me since before sunrise most days. I deserve alcohol, art, and attention.”

Nari chuckles as she finishes her brief tutorial, gives Hyunjin a subtle ‘good luck’ look, and leaves you two alone. You immediately spill a bit of your drink on the table, sigh, and slide your hand into the clay like you're digging through a bog.

“Wow,” Hyunjin says, deadpan. “Are you trying to murder the clay or seduce it?”

“Both,” you say proudly, massaging the sticky mess. “This is abstract trauma. It’s gonna be titled ‘My Three-Year-Old Pisses Behind The Couch At Seven A.M.’”

He laughs and shakes his head, clearly trying not to smile too hard as he leans over to inspect your creation, or lack thereof. “Okay, I can’t let this happen. I need to intervene. This is offensive.”

“Oh no,” you say dramatically. “You’re gonna get behind me and guide my hands, aren’t you?”

“I literally am,” he says, gently placing his hands over your sticky ones. “I’m saving the clay’s life.”

His chest is warm against your back, the smell of whatever woodsy cologne he put on tonight threading through your senses. You pause, feeling the steady way his hands wrap around yours and start guiding you through a smoother, more confident shaping motion.

You squint at the clay, wobbling under the pressure. “This is the most action I’ve had in years.”

“Don’t start.”

“No, seriously. I’ve got cobwebs where my G-spot is. You try gaining a half-brother at eighteen and suddenly becoming a full-time guardian. Boys do not line up for that shit. I’m like a single mom but without the hot divorcee backstory. There’s just me, a very small man with a bladder control problem, and a paediatrician on speed dial.”

Hyunjin laughs against your shoulder, his breath warm, his hands still gently guiding yours on the wheel. “You know you’re completely insane, right?”

“You chose to go on a date with me. So what does that say about you?”

“That I’ve had a crush on you since jazz class freshman year, and I’m incredibly patient.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking at the spinning wheel in front of you. “Jazz class? No fucking way.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now, still casual but sincere. “You were always the only one who could actually follow the rhythm. I looked like a confused ostrich next to you.”

You laugh again, but this time it’s a little warmer, a little more real. “I thought you were just really intense about plies.”

“I was really intense about watching you do plies,” he mutters, and then immediately ducks his head like maybe that was too far.

You glance sideways at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, now I’m going to have to schedule another pottery night just so I can recreate this moment and record your face.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“...Yeah,” 

You blink, but before you can say anything, your over-focused attempt at shaping the clay suddenly warps and collapses inward like a melted ice cream cone. Hyunjin groans dramatically.

“Oh, look, it’s your heart when I don’t text back,” you say, trying to salvage it.

“It’s the clay’s way of asking me to stop flirting with someone who handles ceramic like she’s squishing literal shit.”

You grin, leaning back against his chest again. “Still not the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“Tell me the worst.”

“Had a guy ask me mid-dinner if I was still breastfeeding my kid. Minsu was one, and he knew I was the legal guardian. He thought I was just an extremely youthful-looking mom. I asked for the cheque while he asked if he could call me ‘mommy’ in bed.”

Hyunjin chokes on air. “What the fuck.”

You nod solemnly. “I have not recovered.”

He’s laughing now, shoulders shaking behind you as you both lean over the messy wheel, still barely salvaging the misshapen lump of clay. “Okay, in comparison, I’m feeling like an absolute dream right now.”

“You are a dream. A clay-covered, slightly-too-handsome dream with annoyingly perfect bone structure.”

“I will accept that compliment, even though you’re mostly complimenting my genetics.”

“I’m a single guardian,” you say with a flourish, throwing your arms up and nearly flinging clay. “Let me objectify you.”

You both laugh, and it hangs in the space between you, soft and genuine. The wine is starting to hit your system, your shoulders loosening, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re carrying the entire world on your back. Just maybe a small, slightly lumpy ceramic pot and the full attention of a boy who knows how to make you laugh even when your life is a chaotic whirlwind of juice boxes and tantrums.

You reach for your drink again, sloshing it slightly but still sipping happily. “So, what are we naming this disaster?” you ask, gesturing to the clay blob.

“‘Hope and Regret,’” Hyunjin says instantly. “Subtitle: ‘How She Seduced Me Over a Soju Bottle.’”

You snort into your cup. “Please. You were already seduced. You booked a private pottery session.”

He shrugs, feigning casual. “I have to admit, I was kinda banking on the sexy pottery moment.”

You grin. “And did it meet expectations?”

“Exceeding. Except for the clay. The clay is in mourning.”

You tilt your head, mock-pouting. “So you like me for my jokes and trauma, not my art skills.”

“And your stunning fashion sense,” he adds, eyeing your skirt and tube top. “Very no-nonsense hot girl energy.”

“High praise from a man dressed like a K-drama villain with a heart of gold.”

“I’ll take that.”

The music playing from the studio speakers swells into a slow, jazzy tune, and Hyunjin glances at you with a raised eyebrow. “We finished our pots. Wanna dance?”

You pause. “Here? Now?”

“There’s no one watching.”

You narrow your eyes, finish your wine in one long sip, then push back your stool. “Only if you lead.”

“Oh, I always lead.”

You roll your eyes but let him pull you into a clumsy sway in the middle of the pottery room, half-laughing as he spins you slowly in the dim light, your shoes scuffing against the wood. And for a second, just a second, it feels like the version of life you’d never thought you’d have again, carefree, young, selfish in the good way.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice soft now.

“For what?”

“For booking this. For letting me forget I’m raising a toddler for a few hours.”

Hyunjin’s smile turns gentler. “You’re more than just that.”

“I forget sometimes.”

“Well,” he says, spinning you one more time before pulling you close again. “I won’t let you.”

You don’t say anything back, but you rest your head against his shoulder. And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself just breathe.

When you and Hyunjin get back to your apartment, the hallway smells like someone down the hall just burned ramyeon, and your arms are loosely linked as you unlock the front door. The moment it swings open, the lived-in warmth of your home washes over you like a soft blanket, soft yellow light from the hallway lamp, toys shoved halfway under the couch, and the distinct trail of small shoes and half-shed clothes leading toward Minsu’s room. It’s quiet. Peaceful. You’re unused to it.

Hyunjin steps inside behind you, slipping off his boots as you toe off your sneakers with a dramatic groan. “Home sweet semi-chaotic home,” you mutter, gesturing broadly like a tour guide who’s lost her patience.

He follows you into the small living room, and immediately his gaze gets caught on the little museum of Minsu you’ve unintentionally curated. Marker-drawn masterpieces cover the fridge and spill onto the walls nearby, most of them done on cheap paper that’s curling at the corners. 

You know exactly which ones are from the ‘unsupervised’ era because they’re directly on the walls, one is just a blue scribble, another is a red monster with big triangle teeth and what looks like either tears or sweat drops flying off its head. 

Hyunjin grins at the chaos. “Okay, some of these look like cursed relics.”

“Oh, fully,” you say, flopping onto the couch for a second. “This one,” you point to a drawing taped eye-level to the wall. “Is called ‘Y/N said the F-word and then stubbed her toe.’”

He laughs as he walks toward the hallway and pauses by the picture frames along the wall. One after another, candid shots of you and Minsu smile back at him. There’s one of you at eighteen, holding a six-month-old Minsu with big eyes and a full head of curly hair, your face blotchy from crying but smiling through it anyway. Another from when he turned one, cake all over his face. Another from when he learned to walk, arms up like Frankenstein as he waddled across the living room. You’ve got your hands just out of frame, cheering. Hyunjin lingers on that one the longest.

“You’ve always done this alone?” he asks softly, turning to you.

You nod, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to your chest. “There wasn’t anyone else left, not really. It was me or the system. And I wasn’t about to let him grow up without someone who gives a shit.”

Hyunjin walks past the hallway and stops at the doorway leading to the kitchen. On the doorframe, there’s a long vertical chart drawn in permanent marker, height lines labelled in messy handwriting. Most are labelled ‘Minsu’ with various dates, almost month by month. But far above them, at the exact same height, are lines labelled ‘Y/N.’ 

“Why are you still measuring yourself?”

“Minsu demands it. He insists it’s only fair. I try to tell him adults don’t grow but he doesn’t give a shit.”

“That’s commitment,” he says, stepping back to admire the doorway like it’s a museum exhibit. “You really do build your whole world around him, huh?”

You shrug, not defensive, not apologetic. “He’s my family.”

Hyunjin nods thoughtfully, turning back to you. “You’re doing really well with him. Except for the pissing-on-the-wall thing. That needs work.”

You groan and throw the pillow at him. “You’re awful,” you say, laughing as you kick off your shoes. “You know what I want right now?”

“More sex?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically.

You snort. “No. Although, yes. But no. What I want is a night of uninterrupted sleep in my own bed, with a beautiful man next to me and no one screaming ‘Mimo’”

Hyunjin taps his chin like he’s considering. “You know what? That can be arranged. Maybe even a beautiful man who watches a movie with you and drinks wine like a classy, exhausted adult.”

You groan in delight, standing up and stretching as you walk toward the kitchen. You reach for the fridge, which has been baby-proofed with a lock you bought online at 2 a.m. one desperate night after Minsu opened it and ate a raw egg.

“I hate that I have to unlock the fridge like I’m sneaking into Fort Knox,” you mutter as you twist the child lock open and grab a bottle of chilled white wine.

“I can’t believe you child-locked alcohol,” Hyunjin says, trailing after you.

“You wanna explain to a three-year-old why he can’t drink the grown-up juice that smells like juice but makes you sleepy?” you say, uncorking the wine like a pro and pouring two glasses. “I didn’t think so.”

You hand him a glass and clink your own against it. “To questionable parenting and fine alcohol.”

“To mildly traumatised clay,” he replies, smirking.

You both head into your room, wine glasses in hand. Your room is cosy, a little messy, with a basket of tiny socks in the corner and a dresser with a makeup mirror rimmed in warm yellow fairy lights. You flop onto the bed with a long sigh, and Hyunjin sits next to you, toeing off his boots with a satisfied grunt.

You reach for the remote and turn on the TV mounted on the wall. A cheerful, high-pitched voice immediately explodes through the speakers. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you groan, fumbling for the remote. “I forgot to switch it-”

“No, no, wait,” Hyunjin says, hand on your wrist. “What if we reclaim it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You watched this as a kid, right?”

You shrug. “Yeah, kinda."

“Then let’s watch it now. But for us. Not for a three-year-old. We’ll drink wine and watch Mickey Mouse like the emotionally complicated adults we are.”

You grin, touched in a way that surprises you. “You’re my dream man.”

“I know.”

You snuggle back into the bed, shoulders brushing as the theme song starts up. You take a sip of your wine and laugh at how ridiculous it is, two twenty-somethings curled up with alcohol watching Mickey Mouse like it’s Oscar bait. But somehow, it feels exactly right.

He leans his head against yours halfway through the second episode, and you don’t move away. The wine is warming you from the inside out, and so is the feeling of someone sitting beside you, not because they have to, but because they want to. Because they like your jokes, your mess, your weird fridge art and sharp mouth and all the soft, tired parts of you.

It’s the kind of night you’ll remember when things get hard again. When Minsu won’t eat anything but ketchup packets, or when he screams in the middle of the night for someone you can’t be. You’ll remember this. You’ll remember that you are still young. Still allowed to want things. Still allowed to be loved.

And when Hyunjin bumps your shoulder gently and whispers, “This is kinda perfect,” you smile.

“Yeah, it really is.”

The morning sunlight is barely warm when you and Hyunjin show up at the frat house, each carrying an iced latte, sunglasses on, steps lazy with satisfaction and sleep. You’re in white linen trousers that swish with each movement, a black halter top hugging you just enough for comfort, and your hair is loosely tied up, still slightly damp from the shower. 

Hyunjin’s dressed in grey sweatpants, a white tank top that clings to him in that annoyingly perfect way, and fresh white sneakers. He’s somehow managing to look like he just walked off the set of a Calvin Klein ad, while you look like someone who’s finally had eight hours of sleep and a night without a toddler kicking you.

He sips his coffee and nudges your arm with his. “Ready to see the aftermath of the Great Sleepover?”

You groan dramatically. “If he’s drawn on anyone’s face with permanent marker, I’m just walking away.”

The door creaks open, and immediately, you're greeted by chaos. Actual, living chaos.

Minsu is sitting trouserless in Changbin’s lap, wearing nothing but his Optimus Prime t-shirt and a pair of slightly skewed Paw Patrol underwear, swinging his legs happily as Changbin feeds him spoonfuls of what looks like cereal with rainbow sprinkles on top. You blink.

“Why is he pantsless?” you ask, more to the universe than anyone in particular.

“Morning!” Changbin says with the haunted look of someone who has seen things. “He said pants were itchy and he didn’t want to wear them anymore. I gave up. I’m just a spoon delivery system now.”

Jisung is in the corner, curled up like a ball of post-trauma noodles, full-on sobbing while Chan kneels beside him, trying to coax him out of it like he’s talking down a hostage. His shirt is wrinkled, hair in wild tufts, and you’re not sure whether his sobs are from exhaustion or something worse.

“Jisung, honey, are you okay?” you ask, cautiously stepping closer.

He shakes his head without looking up.

Chan looks at you helplessly. “So, uh. Minsu forgot where the toilet was. And he didn’t wake any of us. He found a pan.”

You squint. “He pissed in a pan?”

Jisung wails louder, full-on face-in-knees despair.

Minsu, chipper as ever, looks up from his cereal and chirps, “Wee-wee and poopy pan!”

You drop your iced latte. “Oh no.”

Hyunjin is snickering behind you, not even pretending to be helpful.

“He wasn’t in the room when I woke up,” Jisung gasps between sobs. “I thought he’d been abducted by raccoons. I checked every room. Every single room. Then I went into the kitchen, and he was there. On the floor. Shitting in the pan. And he smiled at me. He smiled.”

“Oh, you poor gay,” you murmur, dropping beside him to pull him into your arms. He latches onto you like a drowning man clinging to a life raft.

“I have so much respect for you,” he whispers. “You do this every day. You’re a hero.”

“Thanks, baby,” you say, patting his head.

Chan sighs and scrubs his face. “We just… we threw the pan into the Sigma Chi garden. We didn’t know what to do.”

You start laughing so hard you nearly cry.

Minho is lying on the rug, head casually perched on Felix’s ass like it's the world’s firmest pillow, watching cat videos on his phone. Felix doesn’t even seem to care; he’s scrolling TikTok like it’s a normal Sunday morning. Jeongin and Seungmin are tangled up in a blanket cocoon on the other end of the couch, both mindlessly scrolling as if this is just any other post-apocalyptic morning.

“How was your date?” Jisung asks from your arms, voice muffled against your shirt. “Make me feel better with adult romance stories.”

You lift your chin proudly. “Amazing. There was wine and pottery. I almost had a spiritual awakening. Like, near-tantric orgasm levels. Then we had some adult bonding, and I had a real orgasm.”

“Ooh, that’s hot,” Jisung says, sniffling.

Then Minsu, completely unfazed, cheerily asks, “What’s orgasm?”

The room freezes.

Every single person goes silent. Then chaos. Felix stands up and bolts out the front door. Minho immediately fake snores and goes limp on the rug. Jisung crawls under the couch. Chan vanishes behind it. Seungmin dashes up the stairs like his life depends on it. Jeongin heads to the basement. It’s like a fucking fire drill.

You and Hyunjin flee to the kitchen, iced lattes in hand, crouching behind the island like two fugitives. Changbin is left alone in the living room, Minsu still cheerily perched in his lap.

“BinBin?” Minsu calls. “What’s orgasm?”

“Oh shit,” Hyunjin breathes, covering his mouth to muffle his laugh.

You lean against the cabinets, red-faced, shaking with giggles. You both listen as Changbin valiantly tries to distract the three-year-old with cereal trivia and wild improvisation.

Behind the kitchen island, Hyunjin nudges your shoulder. “Be my girlfriend?”

You blink, a little startled by the sudden shift, but your heart stutters pleasantly at the soft smile on his face. He’s still crouched, hiding like a child who’s broken a vase, but there’s something serious in his eyes. You beam. “Okay.”

He leans in and kisses you, just a warm, smiling kiss that tastes a little like coffee and a lot like relief and affection.

“Yay! Kissy!” comes a high-pitched squeal, and you both turn to see Minsu peeking around the corner.

You groan, tilting your head back against the cabinets. “You still sure about this ‘me being your girlfriend’ thing?”

Hyunjin laughs. “I think I’ve never been more sure.”

Minsu rushes over and clambers into Hyunjin’s lap like he’s a beanbag chair. He immediately tries to reach for your latte.

“Hey, little gremlin,” you warn. “That’s mine.”

“But it yummy,” he argues, trying to sip it through the straw while Hyunjin holds it out of reach.

“Tell you what,” Hyunjin says. “You tell me about your pan adventure, and I’ll share one sip.”

Minsu’s eyes go wide. “Okay! So, I woke up and needed wee-wee and no toilet! I go looking and looking and then ta da! Pan!”

He throws his arms out like a magician revealing a trick.

Hyunjin chokes on his sip of coffee. “You really just picked a pan.”

“It shiny pan!” Minsu insists. “And I sit down and go wee-wee. Then I go poopy. Then Jisu find me! I say ‘Hi Jisu!’ and he scream like monster! Then Channie throw pan over fence! So fun!”

You and Hyunjin exchange a glance, trying desperately not to burst into laughter. Minsu beams, utterly delighted by his retelling.

Hyunjin wraps one arm around your waist and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You lean into him, warm and content, resting your cheek against his shoulder as Minsu babbles on.

“Hyuni,” Minsu says seriously, eyes wide and hopeful, “you play with me lots now?”

“Yeah, little man,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “Lots.”

Minsu looks between the two of you, blinking slowly like he’s processing something big, then whispers, “Y/N, we keep Hyuni?”

You glance at Hyunjin, who looks back at you with a crooked smile that makes your chest ache a little. You whisper back, “Yeah, Min, I think so.”

Minsu grins like the sun.And in that messy kitchen, crouched behind the counter with an iced latte, a half-naked toddler, and a beautiful boy who looks at you like you hung the damn moon, it’s hard not to feel like, yeah, maybe it is a fine, fine life.

3/07 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post for It's A Fine, Fine Life

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Hwang Hyunjin Taglist: @jchotch726

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely @bbokarismeow @Matchacha65

Proofread and hyped by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3

[milkywayes]

what's your preferred choice for garrus' loyalty mission? i love that mission a lot...on one hand i want shepard to trust garrus' judgement the way he trusts hers, and when you push him about killing sidonis he points out the people sidonis got killed, and the unfairness of him getting to walk away. on the other hand he is so upset and acts so aggressively during the mission. even tho i do watch him beat up harkin everytime without interfering LOL. harkin had it coming (and it's hot shhh) it's more that garrus is obviously devastated and probably not thinking straight. i do love how shepard and he can argue it out and how much pain he's in for his percieved failure on omega, and his need to find justice. and how much it pains him that there may be a grey area where justice is not clear

My Shepard doesn’t go into the mission expecting to interfere. 

She has her concerns, but ultimately if Garrus asks for her help, her number one goal is to give it. On this suicide mission, he is more than her lieutenant. They both experienced recent, traumatic upheaval, and he is the only thing left that she can derive comfort from, even when he’s not quite the man that she knew. He’s volunteered for her mission, her suicide run, and the least she can do is return the favor and help tie up his one loose end. There might even be a little voice in her head that says, this is the source of his pain and everything about him that’s off and unfamiliar to her, and once it’s excised, she’ll have her crew-mate back how he was.

But then they’re on the mission, and he is less himself than she’s ever seen him. They’re on the mission and he is breaking apart. And she learns exactly how much his team meant to him, and there is no way to forget for even a moment that Sidonis was one of them too.

If he had kept his cool throughout, not let anyone see the emotional state he was in, she would have let him put a bullet in that turian’s head. 

She’s a commander; she understands the position he was in and what he owes his team. She doesn’t give a shit about Sidonis. They’ve all killed people for less. But when Garrus asks her, what would you do if someone betrayed you? Sold out her squad; her friends, for personal gain—betrayed their common goal—left them there to die—

She’d want that vengeance too. But she is far enough removed from that scenario to know that she’d wish someone would take that responsibility from her hands. That dealing with that particular loose end is not something that should be her task. That vigilante justice is well and good until it gets personal, and that as commander, the traitor would have been her subordinate too.

Killing a subordinate and worse, a friend, in cold blood is not something that you can come back from. It’ll stay with you for the rest of your days. Justice served—and you’re the one who pays for it to happen. Every time you close your damn eyes. The exploding head of a person you once swore to look out for.

The price is steep. She doesn’t want to see Garrus pay it. That death, and the deaths of his squad—of his idealism, his dreams—that trail behind it like offal would be an open wound forever. If she interferes, he can be angry at her for breaching his trust and crossing that boundary, but at least he would be hating someone other than himself. 

It’s not really her place. There are turian social mores and particularities at play here that she can’t even pretend to understand beyond simple keywords like loyalty and accountability. It might destroy their relationship and leave her all alone on that facsimile of a ship again. But on this suicide mission, Garrus is more than her lieutenant, and he’s more than just a comforting presence too. 

He’d have to be a hell of a lot more for her to willingly place her skull between the muzzle of his prized sniper rifle and the target that gives him tunnel vision and a twitchy trigger finger.

And he must be, because that’s exactly what she does.

[writingdevil]

Hiii Devil!!! [emerges from the ground all dirty and half-dead] You know very well how normal I've been over your latest Skeptunist fic, I've been yapping about it nonstop-

Anyways, I will scream and explode if you write a part 2 to that fic where Skeptic apologizes to Oppy for the argument and all the awful things he said to him. I would cry at this scene from Oppy POV, but Skeptic POV will definitely make me scream too skfkskf

Anyways! I go back into the ground now, thank you again for writing my previous request [I have been thinking about it a concerning amount /lh], and thank you for everything you do!! <3

(How did you get in the ground in the first place?!/silly. Anyway, YES- I've been dying to write a conclusion to this because it breaks my heart to break my ship's hearts. So I'm so excited to write this part, and thank you for everything you do as well, because you make me just as feral about Skeptunist. Enjoy!)

Part One

'You're useless when it comes to thinking about anything other than yourself!'

'You're useless-'

Useless. Useless.

That's all Opportunist was.

It was a truth that had been in the back of Opportunist's mind forever, but having it shoved so plainly in his face now, it was hard to deny it any longer.

Opportunist really was a selfish monster.

It felt as if his mind was torturing him, not letting him move on from that incident. He woke up and saw his face, he tried to do something and he heard his voice- Opportunist tried to do literally anything and he was just reminded of that day.

'You're useless when it comes to thinking about anything other than yourself!'

He felt his heart break into tinier pieces. Oh, Skeptic.

It's been two weeks since that day, and the more time that passes, the more time that Opportunist had to reexamine his own actions, and there was a clear conclusion to come to.

Opportunist hadn't changed.

He was still just a heartless, manipulative backstabber, who was more than willing to lie to his own flock.

If Skeptic, the sharpest of them all, the person that claimed to know the real Opportunist, thought that, then how could it not be the truth?

The worst part though, was that Opportunist didn't even know he had been manipulating Skeptic.

Opportunist had been guarded at the start, of course, but it felt like Skeptic had approached him differently, not with caution, but with an open mind, as if he didn't care if Opportunist would betray him or not.

Opportunist actually thought that Skeptic saw something good in him, saw something worth giving his love for, and all those happy moments that they shared afterwards.

Opportunist said that he loved Skeptic.

Too bad it was all a lie.

He should've known that nobody would like what was behind the mask. He should've known that everyone thinks about themselves, even subconsciously.

He should've known that he wasn't worthy of love.

Opportunist has always been afraid- a secret that he will take to his grave. He was always afraid that there was something more powerful, more stronger, more sinister than him, and that they would attack Opportunist when he least expects it, so it was simply better to play both sides until he knew which side was the winning one.

But with their newfound freedom and no cabin to endure, there suddenly wasn't a side to pick- just birds that knew Opportunist would betray them at the drop of a hat.

That put him in a difficult position, one where Opportunist was just terrified all the time, that his efforts of pleasing and playing nice to the others would all be in vain and he would be alone forever.

But then Skeptic came along and changed everything Opportunist thought about himself- or so he thought.

Opportunist thought he was in love with Skeptic, that he cared about him and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Turns out, Opportunist just clung to the first and only person that gave him a chance.

Opportunist took advantage of Skeptic's kind and inquisitive nature, and sunk his claws into him, to the point that he made Skeptic fall in love with a mask of himself. He made Skeptic believe that he was loving and funny and caring- but what he really was, was a coward, who couldn't stand to be alone.

So he tricked Skeptic into loving him, and now Skeptic knows the truth.

Opportunist thought he cared about Skeptic's wellbeing. He thought he wanted Skeptic to relax for the good of his health. But it was all so that he wouldn't leave Opportunist, but Opportunist pushed him too far.

He really was fucking useless.

He couldn't even keep a partner from overworking himself, and now Opportunist was more aware than ever that he was so willing to deceive people, that it was practically second nature to him.

So Opportunist decided not to feed into that nature anymore. He holed up in his room, thinking about Skeptic over and over again.

His heart had never been more shattered, and he's never been more afraid of his own mind.

He didn't leave his room. He tried not to talk to others, but Hero and Hunted always checked in on him at least once, to make sure that he ate something. Opportunist would've ignored them, but he knew that they would make a scene about it otherwise, so he pulled together a shoddy mask and accepted the food, only taking a bite or two. He didn't deserve their kindness.

He spent his days curled up in his bed. The first few days, Opportunist cried his heart out, harder than he's ever cried before. Then, his brain went wild with thinking of ways to beg for Skeptic's forgiveness, because Skeptic was always right, and Opportunist wanted to prove that he did still love him, that he wouldn't push Skeptic again.

But now he's just sitting here, withering away. Maybe if he waits long enough, the wickedness within him would die off, and then Skeptic will have a chance to love the real him.

Opportunist wasn't sure how much time had passed- his head was too busy replaying that day and remembering every kiss and embrace they shared up until the fight, questioning if any of it was real or salvageable.

He was useless.

He deceived his partner without even realising it.

Did he even deserve love-

Knock knock!

Opportunist sighed, wishing Hunted wouldn't pester him so much about eating. "Go away, Hunted. I'm busy," he mumbled, turning his back to the door, his fingers fiddling with a familiar feather, a shade of black so dark that it shone almost navy blue in the light, but then he heard another knock.

Opportunist wrapped his wings around himself, hugging himself tightly. "I'm not hungry, Hunted."

Knock!

Opportunist sighed in defeat, forcing himself to sit up, glaring at the door, mustering up all the energy he could for a mask that showed that Opportunist was fine and definitely not heartbroken.

Opportunist wrapped his hand around the doorknob. "Hunted, I promise you, if I'm hungry, I will let you-"

He opened the door, but it wasn't Hunted standing before him.

"-know," was all Opportunist could think to say, as he stared up at the disheveled and grieving face of Skeptic.

Opportunist looked up into those eyes, and he felt his breath being taken away.

Skeptic blinked, before a pained look crossed his face, and he whispered, "Oppy."

"Skeptic," Opportunist whispered back, gripping the doorknob tight.

Opportunist knew how to act around everyone. Everyone except Skeptic, so he had no idea what to do now.

"Can I come in, Oppy?" Skeptic softly asked, and he figured it wouldn't do Opportunist any good to deny him right now, so he silently walked away, letting Skeptic make himself at home.

He heard Skeptic let a sigh of relief out, coming in and closing the door behind him.

Then they stood there, staring at each other with such a heaviness in their eyes, and the memories of a fight that destroyed them.

'You're useless when it comes to thinking about anything other than yourself!'

That was what was between Skeptic and Opportunist now.

Opportunist didn't dare make the first move, not when Skeptic had been so angry at him before. It was safer to let Skeptic lead right now.

Skeptic took a deep breath in, nervously fidgeting with the feathers on his arms, something that Opportunist has never seen him do before.

"Forgive me for not speaking to you sooner, Oppy," Skeptic began. "I wanted to talk to you as soon as I could, but I wanted to give you some space."

Skeptic then lowered his head awkwardly with a cough and added, "It was also hard to get past Hunted. He guarded your door very well."

Despite the anguish in his heart, Opportunist's lips twitched, as if wanting to smile but afraid to.

"But then I heard that nobody's seen you around lately, and I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I knew I needed to make things right with you."

"Make things right?" Opportunist echoed with a weak chuckle, waving a hand carelessly through the air. "My friend, you've done nothing wrong."

Opportunist tried not to focus on how his voice cracked at the word 'friend', but he couldn't ignore the way it stabbed his heart.

Opportunist smiled at him, but he saw the way Skeptic's eyes darkened at him, and it felt like Skeptic was piercing through his mask and into his very soul. But Skeptic had never known the real him, so how could he make Opportunist feel this vulnerable?

"I have, Oppy," Skeptic firmly said, "and I understand why you're doing what you're doing. I don't blame you, because I'd hate me too after what I said to you."

"Hate?" Opportunist said. "I don't hate you. How can I hate you when you were just telling the truth?"

Skeptic's eyes widened, and then there was a heavy pause that lasted a second too long, that made Opportunist feel how suffocating the tension between them was.

Opportunist couldn't take it, so he smiled until his face hurt. "You were just pointing out the facts, just like you always do! What's to hate about the truth?"

Opportunist forced himself to take a step forward, pushing his shaking to the side. He put a hand on his chest and said in a sincere tone, "If anything, I should be apologising to you. I shouldn't of gotten involved with your work."

"You were worried about me."

"I kept annoying you when you tried to focus."

"You wanted me to relax and I wouldn't listen to you."

"I overstepped and I-"

"No, I overstepped and I pushed you away-"

"You were right!"

"No I wasn't!"

"I am selfish!" Opportunist yelled, then was immediately appalled at his outburst, but he kept going, in the hopes of making Skeptic understand. He clutched at his chest feathers as he exclaimed, "You were right- all I do is think about myself! I tried to insert myself into your work and I made you angry! You were right, just like always. All I do is think about my own personal gain and nobody else's, so I am deeply sorry, Skeptic."

Skeptic took a deep breath in, then took a step forward, holding his hands out to Opportunist.

His voice was calm, but with a hint of fear in it, as he said, "Oppy, what happened was completely my fault. You don't have to make excuses for me. I was the one in the wrong, and you were the one that was only trying to help me, and I ended up lashing out at you, which wasn't fair."

"You weren't selfish for worrying about me," Skeptic continued, his voice becoming more weak and desperate as he spoke. "You cared about me and brought me food and checked up on me. How is that selfish? The only person who was selfish was me, because I cared more about my stupid work than what my amazing partner was doing for me."

Opportunist's heart ached at 'amazing partner' but he forced himself to forget it. It wasn't real. Those feelings weren't real. It was all a ploy to keep Skeptic close to him.

He shook his head, pushing back tears as hard as he could. "No, it's okay, Skeptic. Y-You don't have to lie about making me feel better."

"I'm not lying!" Skeptic pleaded. He took a step closer to Opportunist, who hugged himself and looked away, but couldn't block out the sadness and guilt in Skeptic's voice as he pleaded, "Oppy, please! I'm so sorry for how I treated you, but I won't stand here and let you convince yourself that you were in the wrong! I was the one who treated you like shit!"

Skeptic reached out, and gently took his hands into his own, and Opportunist hated how nice it felt to hold those hands again.

This close, Opportunist could see Skeptic's eyes shining with tears, as he whispered, "Oppy, I'm so sorry for hurting you. You didn't deserve any of it, and you definitely don't deserve to be blaming yourself for my mistakes. You're not selfish, Oppy-"

"Yes, I am," he mumbled in protest, but Skeptic just continued talking, "-and you care so much about me and the flock-"

"No I don't-"

"- and I should've appreciated you more and told you how much I loved you-"

That's when Opportunist snapped.

Loved him?

Opportunist can't love anything else, and nothing can love him.

"No!" he yelled, ripping his hands out of Skeptic's grasp, leaving him floundering, and Opportunist couldn't stop the tears from flowing, sobbing his heart out as he yelled, "You said it yourself! I'm useless! All I care about is myself and my own gain and I made you love me! I manipulated you into falling in love with me just to satisfy my own pathetic loneliness!"

Opportunist broke down then, hugging himself and sobbing loudly. His head was so confused, so torn between wanting to throw himself in Skeptic's arms, and keep far away from him so that Opportunist couldn't hurt him anymore.

But one thing he couldn't do was look away from him, so when he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find the other with tears silently streaming down his face. But the surprising thing was the fact that Skeptic had a steely, determined look in his eyes now, and when they made eye contact, Skeptic's voice was low and firm as he asked, "Is that what you believe? Is that what you think happened between us?"

Opportunist nodded.

Skeptic took a sharp breath in, then said, "Wait here," before marching out of the room.

Opportunist just stood there, having no clue what was happening, other than the fact that his heart yearned for Skeptic's presence again.

Thankfully, it wasn't long that he had to wait, as Skeptic quickly marched back inside, head bowed as he held his- his diary?

Skeptic had kept and written in a diary every day since they became their own people, to help understand his thoughts and the situation around them.

"Skeptic, what are you-" Opportunist tried to speak, but then he gasped as Skeptic fell to his knees, opening his diary up to a certain page and read aloud, "Day forty- Opportunist invited himself to come on a walk with me. Not sure why, but I didn't mind. Talks a lot, but somehow still manages to say absolutely nothing- why is that? Clearly likes talking but isn't saying anything meaningful. Does he just like his own voice? Requires further investigation."

Opportunist had no idea what was going on, and he just stared as Skeptic flipped a few pages over and continued, "Day Fifty- We've all tried to come to terms with this new arrangement and settle within ourselves, but Opportunist is the most interesting case. He keeps complimenting people, offering himself up to be useful, but the others don't trust him. I see the sadness and the fear in his eyes when he thinks no one's looking. Everyone else says he's a good for nothing backstabber, but I don't think so. Will try to get closer to him."

"Skeptic, what is this?" Opportunist quietly asked, but Skeptic's focus was solely on the diary, his voice getting louder and more passionate as he spoke.

"Day Ninety- Opportunist claimed to know a place for peace and quiet, but we quickly got lost in the woods. Opportunist told me that he had everything under control, but this was clearly a lie. He seems to present himself as a very capable person, as if terrified of not being useful."

Skeptic paused to take a deep breath, and his voice wavered as he continued, "But as we kept walking, I kept asking questions, and I realised that Oppy was not who I thought he was at all. He lies because he's scared, but when he's not, he can be-really pleasant to be around. He approaches things differently to me, and I actually quite enjoyed our discussions. I hope to talk to him again soon."

"W-What are you doing?" Opportunist asked. "What are you trying to prove?"

Skeptic wiped a cheek with his palm as he kept reading. "Day one hundred and fifty- I'm not sure what this nervousness in my chest is about, but it only shows up whenever Oppy is around. Oppy is my friend, and the more I learn about him, the more I'm fascinated with him. His ideas, his actions, his smile- there's just something about Oppy that pulls me in and never wants to leave his side. I know he's a scared individual, I know that's why he betrays people. He thinks he's so confident, that he needs to be evil to survive- but I've never met someone with a warmer soul. I-I know what this feeling is now."

Opportunist weeped, shaking his head. "No-No, this isn't true-"

"Day four hundred," Skeptic said, his voice devoid of warmth and passion, sounding empty now. "I've made the greatest mistake of my life."

That was when Opportunist realised what day Skeptic was referring to- the day of the fight.

"I thought if I figured everything out, knew about anything that could hurt him, he'd be safe. But the only thing that ended up hurting him was me."

That was why Skeptic had been working so hard? He had been that worried about something happening to Opportunist?

Looking back on it now, it did seem like Skeptic was looking into all possible threats that could happen to them. At the time, Opportunist thought he was just digging too deep, falling back into bad habits- but Skeptic kept talking about keeping the flock safe, which would include Opportunist as well.

"Why did I say that to him?" Skeptic continued, his bottom lip trembling as he read. "I love him so much. Why would I push him away like that? I should've listened to him, should've spent time with him- it would've been so lovely. But instead I hurt him, and I fear I can't undo the damage I've caused. I only hope I can make sure that he still finds happiness after me."

Finally, Skeptic looked up at Opportunist, and then he broke down crying.

"Oppy, I'm so sorry!" he cried, clutching his diary to his chest, and Opportunist felt himself weep with Skeptic, his whole body shaking with grief.

"Oppy, I'm so sorry for saying that to you! You're not useless! You're not selfish! You're the most caring and kindest person I know! You were always there to try and help me, when leaving me alone would've been so much better for you! You wouldn't stop caring about me!"

Skeptic lowered his head in shame, and then dared to inch closer to Opportunist, and all he wanted was to never let Skeptic go.

"Oppy, my love, you are not a monster. You did not trick me into falling in love with you. I knew who you were from the start, the real you, and that's who I fell in love with."

Opportunist cried, and he saw how much it hurt Skeptic to see him in pain. "How do I know?" Opportunist whispered. "How can I be sure-"

"Take this," Skeptic said, and then thrust his diary towards Opportunist. "You can keep it."

"What? Skeptic, I can't." Skeptic never let anybody touch his diary, and he was just giving it to Opportunist?

"Take it," Skeptic said, pushing the diary into his hands. "All of my thoughts are yours to read. I want you to see how I fell for you, how I still see the real you. If I can't have you as my love again, then I at least want you to not think such horrible things about yourself, not when I deserve them."

Numbly, Opportunist lifted the diary up, unsure of how to feel about all of this, but he found himself cautiously opening the diary to a random page, and he gasped at how many times he caught the words 'Oppy' and 'love' in the same sentences.

Opportunist fell to his knees in front of Skeptic, as the realisation hit him.

Opportunist hadn't deceived Skeptic.

Skeptic knew what he was from the very beginning.

He took a deep breath in, and lifted his head to look at Skeptic, and it felt as if the clouds in his mind were finally starting to evaporate.

He gently put the diary down, and whispered, "I need to do one thing to be sure of something."

"Anything," Skeptic whispered back, so Opportunist gently cupped his face, and pressed a soft kiss against his lips.

Immediately, Skeptic sighed into the kiss, but didn't dare touch Opportunist without permission yet, but Opportunist didn't care. All he could focus on was the way his heart was pounding, at how right this felt.

He loved Skeptic. He genuinely fell in love with Skeptic, and Opportunist could never trick his own heart like that.

He pulled back, and looked Skeptic in his regretful, beautiful eyes, and whispered, "I forgive you."

It was as if all the weight escaped from Skeptic then as he sighed in relief, putting his hands on Opportunist's hips. "You do? You really forgive me?"

"I do, love," Opportunist said, tracing his fingers along Skeptic's jawline. "But-But you still hurt me, so you have to earn me back."

"I will," Skeptic said earnest, while nodding his head adorably. "I'll win you back all over again. Everytime."

"I know you will," Opportunist murmured with a smile, then leaned in for another kiss.

They were going to be okay.

[ellclarkey]

Said Too Much Meant Too Little. (requested)

george clarke angst💔(happy ending)

warnings:foul language, harsh arguments, manipulative behaviour.

a/n: first angst kinda nervous if you have any feed back pls let me know how i did!

It all started with some disagreement about how George didn’t know how to put his dumb stuff away. Shoes always scattered across the floor, his side of the bathroom a disaster, food all over his desk. Now, on a particular day, you can get past this because you know at some point it’ll be cleaned up. But today wasn’t one of those days.

You woke up immediately pissed off because George’s headphones weren’t working, so he was blasting the video he was editing. Never in the three years of dating have you felt this pissed off this early in the morning.

“Oh my fuck,” you groan, getting out of bed immediately tripping on something George left out from the video he filmed.

“Do you not fucking pick up anything? You’re 25, not 5. Grow up and put your shit away,” you practically yell at George.

He pauses his editing and looks at you. “What’s your problem, love? I’ll pick it up later, hm?”

You instantly retaliate. “What’s my problem? You’re the one who can’t fucking pick up after themselves. It’s always later.”

You storm out.

George doesn’t follow you right away. You half expect him to, to argue or even apologize but instead, you hear the chair creak as he sits back down. That pisses you off even more.

You’re in the kitchen now, but it doesn’t feel like much of a breather. The kettle doesn’t boil fast enough, your tea tastes bitter, and there’s a dish left in the sink from last night and of course it’s his.

You hear his footsteps eventually, slow and heavy. He leans against the doorway like he always does when he’s talking to you.

“You done?” he asks flatly.

You look at him, eyes narrowed. “Am I done?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Snapping at me like you’re in charge of everything I do? You know i’m gonna clean it up if not now than later.”

“You always say that, George,” you snap, setting the mug down harder than necessary. “Every day it’s something your shoes, your plate, your bloody camera gear. I feel like I live with a teenager that doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”

He scoffs, and all he says is, “Right.”

That one word so short, so dismissive.You would’ve preferred him leaving entirely. But it was the fact he didnt’t even try to hide how little he seems to care. The way it’s delivered, like you’re just some annoying background noise, makes your blood boil.

You shake your head, exhaling sharply through your nose. Exhaustion and anger all in one.

“I didn’t start dating you because I wanted to cradle you and teach you how to fucking keep your room tidy,” you snap, voice trembling with frustration. “So don’t make me have to.”

That lands. You can see the blow hit him his expression falters, his jaw clenches, and his eyes suddenly go cold.

“You know how many times I have to tell you I’ll do it later—” he starts, voice rising in defensiveness.

You cut him off immediately. “Exactly. If you actually gave a shit about what I say, you wouldn’t wait until I explode to do it.”

He throws his arms out . “Well if you actually gave me time instead of exploding, maybe I would actually do it.”

You stare at him, blinking in disbelief. He continues yelling “And you know what? Maybe instead of being a fucking asshole about it, you could just ask me like a human being. Then maybe, maybe I might actually listen and care.”

Just like that, the air in the room shifts. He goes quiet, and everything you said suddenly echoes back to you, louder than before. The words. The tone. The exaggeration of it all.

You feel it all at once every harsh sentence, every frustrated breath, every inch of distance. It crashes down, and the tears come before you can stop them.

Your voice cracks. “No… no, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, reaching toward you, guilt flooding his expression. His hand hovers, ready to comfort.

“Get the fuck off me,” you mutter, stepping back like his touch might burn you.

You storm off no shoes, no plan. You don’t even make it out of the flat. Leaving would just make everything harder. But staying there, in that shared space, with him watching you fall apart that felt unbearable because the last thing you wanted to do when he was like that was cry in front of him,again.

So you duck into the bathroom. Childish, maybe. But nothing about this fight has been mature. The lock clicks behind you, and you slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the cold tiles. You don’t cry hard, just enough to feel it in your chest. Enough to feel small.

Fifteen minutes pass. Your thoughts are nothing and everything at once when you hear a knock.

“I know you don’t want to,” his voice calls softly through the door, “but please let me in. Let’s talk.”

It’s the last thing you want to do. But the silence inside the bathroom has started to scream. Slowly, without saying anything, you unlock the door and crack it just an inch not fully because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of having a fully open door for him to just walk in.

He pushes it the rest of the way open.

Tears stream down his face. His eyes are glassy, red at the corners. He doesn’t say anything just opens his arms.

You can almost hear what he’s thinking the echos of you shouting “don’t fucking touch me.”

So you whisper, quiet and close to his heart, “You can touch me.”

That’s all he needs. He wraps his arms tightly around your back, pulling you in like he’s scared you’ll go again.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “I was really worked up. All of my editing wasn’t going how I wanted and… I know that’s not an excuse. I know I should clean up after myself—”

You cut him off this time, but softer. “Shush… just hold me. We’ll talk about it later.”

And he does.

[dekariosclan]

Hello! I was wondering if you could share your thoughts on this:

So the Party is doing their adventure, as usual, to solve their tadpole problem. Gale has already explained everything to Tav, yet they do not share something for fear of betrayal, especially from Gale. Elminster arrives and gives Gale Mystra's order, however before he leaves he warns him to keep an eye on Tav and to eliminate them the moment they start to be "dangerous" or "suspicious".

The mission goes on, Gale doesn't detonate and the Party reaches Baldur's Gate. Elminster comes again to tell him that he's expected by Mystra in the temple and that she may have found a way to give him forgiveness without the use of the orb.

Long story short: Mystra demands Gale to kill Tav because they too have found something that they shouldn't (not as bad as Gale's one but still enough to piss her off, also in this case Tav is a sorcerer)

Obviously Gale would refuse, even if they were just friends, but do you think that moment would be the drop that breaks the dam to the point that he decides to no longer worship Mystra? Of course Gale loves magic. But to know that the goddess of all magic demands something so important to him after everything she has done? I don't know, if I were him I would probably go "you know what? Fuck you Mystra, I've had enough of your absurdly crazy demands, I won't kill the love of my life/the only person that has helped me get on my feet again. I don't care that you're scared of Tav becoming the next Karsus like you did to me. After I give you the Crown I'll make sure to stay as far away from you as I humanly can and warn everyone of who you really are!"

I don't know.... I think that would be pretty dope of him (especially if he discards his earing after the visit, even more hot in my opinion)

Anon, I feel the need to quote Gale himself:

😂 I have been put on the spot! Not because of your ask about Gale’s response—which I think you and I are of a similar mind on—but because I am rather unfamiliar with the mechanics of DND and the Weave. So I apologize if I mess up or state anything incorrectly regarding the ‘rules’ of magic use!

The thing about Gale is this: He values life and prefers to avoid conflict whenever possible. Yes, he has killed and can kill with magic quite effectively and will do so whenever needed—but he prefers not to. One of the quickest ways to earn his approval early in the game is to avoid unnecessary bloodshed during confrontations. And he gets very angry and upset if, in the Grove, Nettie tries to poison Tav—because if he had been in Tav’s place, it would have resulted in the orb exploding and the devastating loss of many innocent lives.

So let’s start with the friend scenario: I do agree completely that Gale would refuse to kill Tav, and that he would be angry and frankly shocked—moreso than when Mystra demanded his own sacrifice.

Gale’s guilt and shame over his ‘folly’ with the orb, his lack of self-worth, plus his sense of loyalty to Mystra and the Weave, made it so that when he received the order to self-sacrifice he initially responded with sad acceptance, rather than anger. Plus, he knew he would be saving countless lives by doing so.

…but if the order has been that he cause the death of his friend? That he essentially murder his friend? A friend that saved his life? He would 100% outright reject it, and be appalled as well.

I think his anger would be equivalent to how he reacts to Mystra in the Stormshore Tabernacle meeting where he is gunning for the crown: He admonishes her, he raises his voice at her, he is scornful. I don’t think he would have a shred of respect left for her, goddess or no. But I’m not sure if he would give up magic entirely as a result.

From what I’ve seen in the game, if I understand correctly, Gale (or any magic user…?) can be at odds with Mystra and can still achieve magic, as she’s just the ‘conduit’ for the Weave and cannot decide on who does or does not use it. So while he would not ‘worship’ her any longer, he would still allow magic in his life.

But if Tav was his beloved and he was asked to kill them?

I think Gale would be so completely repulsed he might actually give up magic entirely.

This is a man who, in Act 1, explains his relationship to magic as this:

But then, once he knows Tav loves him as much as he loves them, spends the rest of the game

telling them

how much more important

they are to him.

And so I do think, to your point Anon, this could actually be something that would break him and sever his relationship with magic entirely.

Where we differ slightly is that I can’t see Gale going on a verbal rampage and saying “fuck you.” Full disclosure: this definitely veers into my own person hc territory, but I imagine Gale says “fuck you” VERY RARELY, if at all. He does swear a few times in the game, and he absolutely can destroy someone verbally, but I feel that he tends to go the clever/sarcastic route or just straight honest anger without devolving into extremely harsh swearing. Instead, in this instance, I think he would be so repulsed and horrified by Mystra’s request and the thought of betraying Tav that he would actually be at a loss for words.

All I think he would be able to utter in that moment—he, the always talkative, overly-loquacious, extremely chatty wizard—is “Never.”

And I think the absolute revulsion in his eyes would say the rest.

Now, the timing of all this is significant, because it would be in Act 3 and Gale would know that he needs to use his magic abilities to help defeat the Netherbrain. So regarding the earring, if it has no effect on his magic use, I think it would be out of his ear and crushed under his foot immediately.

If, however, it is his ‘magic focus’ (as has been theorized) and he needs it to cast magic, then I think it would stay—even though he would hate it—until the end of the game. And then it would be tossed into the Chionthar along with that goddamn crown, which Gale would deliberately not be returning to Mystra, nor would he be collecting for himself. I believe in this chain of events, Gale would be removing himself completely from all things related to the divine. Because:

[eulaliasims]

Round 7: Midwife 10 / 12

This round might be shorter without all the toddler spam... but it's cute!

River gets invited for dinner whenever they happen to walk by. We practically have enough witches here for a new coven now.

Father explodes in a flurry of fur, +2,000 aspiration points.

Elmet: The girls are all sound asleep. How about I cook a fish for us, and then we can go run around the woods and maybe make out against a tree?

Arturo: An appealing proposition. After the dishes are washed.

Elmet: You're surprisingly domestic now. Like an old tomcat that's been lured in by a saucer of cream.

Arturo: Even forest creatures dislike stinky dinner plates, wolf.

Elmet: Do you really think it was a ghost?

Arturo: You humans are all 'by the spirits' this and 'oh spirits' that, but this is a step too far for you?

Elmet: I never said I believe in them.

Arturo: But you do believe in other odd or unnatural things.

Elmet: Well, yeah, werewolves, curses, and occasionally rude forest dwellers of unknown origin are tangible things. Never met a spirit, personally.

Arturo: That you know of.

They do a lot more making out than fishing these days (the pond is frozen anyway).

Helenet: Eep! You smell like forest, love. I hope you brushed all the leaves off before getting in bed.

Elmet: 'Course. You think Arturo would stand for leaves in his bed?

Helenet: I mean... he did live in a tree until recently.

Elmet: Hm, good point.

[lpmurphy]

Begin Again

<- Previous Next ->

Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, seriously it's slow, ofc’s daughter is a teenage gen z menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning to the max, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Word Count: 4,497

Read on AO3 (Up to Chapter 15!)

Chapter Eight: But You Won't Forget Me

Mom was so full of it.

This was not the faster way back to the car. Not even close. Abby could’ve mapped out a quicker route in her sleep, one-handed, with no Wi-Fi. She could have Lewis-and-Clarked it through this hospital she had literally been in twice, and they would have already been in the car. They were definitely retracing their steps on purpose now, passing through the ED again like it was some kind of tourist attraction. All for nothing, obviously. No one just accidentally loops past the same hallway where their ghost ex-boyfriend works. Totally just because the parking garage was ‘closer’.

Especially not when they spent twenty minutes curling their hair that morning, which she never does unless she’s going on her obligatory date every six months or going to a wedding. Which was hilarious, because Abby had straightened her hair that morning. So either Mom was hallucinating hot tools, or she was lying. And Abby had a pretty strong guess which it was.

She trailed a few steps behind, letting Mom lead her in this totally-not-planned direction. The ache in her leg had mostly eased up after being poked and prodded at by Doctor Yang, but she still used it as an excuse to hang back. From here, she could watch her mom’s posture; tight shoulders, arms crossed, chin up like she was scanning the room.

Just painfully, totally obvious.

And yeah, maybe Abby hadn’t expected Doctor Mullet to be… normal. Or nice. Or capable of holding eye contact without exploding into flames. Honestly, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would just disappear on someone. 

Not in the “vanish off the face of the Earth” way, anyway. And when he’d looked at her mom, it hadn’t been weird. It’d been quiet. Kind. A little sad. Not the way the guy who ran out on her mom in the 1900s and left her to stare out at the middle distance when Abby asked about him should look at her.

Which made Mom’s face even harder to read. She hadn’t looked angry or heartbroken. She’d looked like someone trying very hard not to feel anything at all. Like someone standing in front of a dented car, deciding whether to fix the damage or kick in the other side just to make it match.

It was weird. The whole thing was weird. And Mom wasn’t weird. She was decisive to a point where it was almost bitchy. Always had a reason and purpose for every little thing she did. She didn’t do weird.

Okay, maybe Mom was a little weird. Maybe.

She followed a few steps behind as they made their way out, catching Miss Dana’s eye as they passed the hub. The nurse gave her a warm smile and added a wink like they were in on something together. Abby gave a little wave, already anticipating freedom and deciding how to talk Mom into stopping for overpriced drive-thru fries. She’d been a brave little girl today. She deserved a little treat.

They were nearly at the exit when a flash of blonde and frantic energy intercepted them.

“Hi, Doctor Baker! I’m so sorry—sorry—I know you’re not working today, and I know you’re with your daughter,” the woman said, rapid-fire, like she was trying to get all her words out before her lungs caught up. “Hi. Sorry. I’m Mel. Your mom is really nice,” she added, flashing a sheepish grin Abby didn’t know how to respond to.

Mom held up her hands and gave the blonde a kind smile. “It’s fine, Mel. Slow down. What’s up?”

Mel did slow down, just barely. “Okay. Your seizure patient from last night is still down here; peds hasn’t had a bed open up yet, and his mom is refusing to talk to anyone but you. I have his labs, but she’s not budging and I just… would you mind coming down real quick? Just to help smooth it over?”

Behind them, Miss Dana piped up with a breezy, “She can stay here with me, Red. We’ll try not to get into too much trouble. Go.”

Mom hesitated, clipped her badge onto her jacket like a reluctant superhero suiting up, then looked at Abby. “You okay?”

Abby lowered herself into a chair near where Miss Dana talked to a nurse and pulled out her phone. “I’ll be fine. Probably. Go save lives or whatever.”

Mom leaned over to kiss her head and promised to be back quickly, then followed Mel down the hallway. Abby exhaled and let herself sink into the chair properly, scrolling absently through the group chat, catching up on the debate about what to wear to Homecoming. Kennedy sent a picture of her dress and claimed purple, Charlee was annoyed because she claimed purple in May; cue the drama and screenshot receipts. Abby scrolled through the messages without really absorbing any of them.

One new text from Gavin sat in her inbox. How was ur appointment?

Her stomach did a little flip and she sat up a bit straighter. She stared at the screen for a second too long before typing back: it was good! ty for asking. u get out of practice early?

She closed out the chat before she could overthink the timing of her reply and opened her Kindle app. She found her place in her book and started to read. The sounds of the ED around her made it difficult to focus, but she’d learned to tune them out before she could even walk. 

“Well?”

Abby looked up to find Jack at the monitor across from her. His badge beeped softly as he tapped it against the scanner, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“What’s the verdict, House?” he asked, low and friendly.

“December,” she said, exhaling like she’d been holding the answer in her chest. Her phone dropped to her lap with a soft thud.

Jack’s grin bloomed. “Hell yeah,” he said, reaching a fist across the counter.

Abby smiled despite herself and bumped her knuckles against his. “Ortho said I might shave off a couple weeks if I do my PT and avoid being a dumbass.”

His brow lifted. “You gonna manage that?”

“I want to play again,” she said with a shrug. “So… probably.”

Jack gave a small approving nod, like that answer earned a checkmark somewhere in his brain.

“And,” she added, “I can start driving again in two weeks, thank God. I love my mom, but she drives like a Disney princess trying not to disturb the forest animals. It’s infuriating.”

Jack laughed. “She still does that, huh?”

Abby squinted. “Still?”

He didn’t glance up, fingers typing on the screen, but she saw the edge of a grin.

“Yeah. She’s been like that ever since she got pulled over by her dad when we were in high school.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Grandpa gave her a ticket?”

“Forty in a thirty,” Jack said with a grin. “Wrote her up without blinking. Then grounded her for a month. She was pissed.”

“That’s amazing. ”

“It was brutal.” he said. “Especially for me. She refused to drive after that. I had to chauffeur her everywhere, and she was the worst backseat driver in the world. I still think that was your grandpa's plan all along.”

“Oh no, she still is. Constant running commentary, invisible brake; the whole deal.”

He chuckled again. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Abby’s smile lingered, warm and a little crooked. She tried to picture it; her mom, young and stubborn, arms crossed in the passenger seat, Jack behind the wheel making dumb jokes until she finally cracked a smile. It was weird. Not in a bad way. Just strange to see a version of her mom that existed before her. A version Jack still seemed to remember like she hadn’t changed much at all.

“So,” Jack said, eyes flicking to the screen, “you gonna be back in time for winter conditioning?”

That caught her. “How do you know about winter conditioning?”

“You brought it up when we had you on that wild pain cocktail last week,” he said with a smirk. “Something about winter conditioning and some girl named Kayla who, and I quote, ‘should never be allowed around a volleyball net again because she’s stupid and sucks’?”

Abby groaned. “Well, I stand by that.”

“Yeah?” he grinned. “What’s her deal?”

“She flinches during serves, Jack. She plays libero.”

He gave an exaggerated wince. “Yikes.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled, leaning an elbow on the counter. “You planning to play after high school?”

“Nah. I’m just going to focus on school. Med school apps don’t care how many aces you had sophomore year.”

Jack lifted a brow. “Med school, huh?”

“That’s the plan. Undergrad, then med school for trauma surgery. Mom’s still trying to talk me out of it. She’s got… strong opinions about surgeons. Blame my dad.”

Jack’s brows knit together for a half-second at that before he cleared his throat. “Yeah? Who’s on the list for undergrad?”

“Pitt, Penn State, Villanova, NYU…” Abby counted them off on her fingers, adding her third tier backups for good measure, then added with a touch of quiet certainty, “But UPenn is at the top.”

Something softened around Jack’s eyes. “Just like your mom,” he said, something strange in his voice.

Abby nodded, but before she could answer, she heard Mom’s voice drifting in from the hall, calm and even and full of authority; the “everything’s fine, I’ve got this” tone she reserved for patients and stressed-out interns.

“…Doctor King will be in soon with an update, alright?” she was saying as she rounded the corner, Mel trailing beside her like a duckling before she rejoined them with a tablet in hand, talking lowly to the blonde as they returned to the hub. Abby was about to head over and tell her mom they could finally go when something made her pause.

Abby glanced up, and that’s when she saw it: Jack’s gaze had wandered. Right past the screen, past Abby, and directly to her mom. She blinked. And then squinted. And then, with rising horror, watched as his eyes did not immediately move on, like normal people’s should when looking at a mom. They lingered. Scanned. Rolled up her mom’s legs and over her hip and torso and—oh my god, ew dude, that’s someone’s mother—then up to her face. He smiled.

Abby recoiled internally.

Disgusting. Her mother? In front of her? Cool, what if she just literally threw up? There should be laws against this. Federal ones. Maybe something Geneva-related. Pretty sure one of the Ten Commandments was ‘thou shalt not check out your mom while you’re standing right there.’ Then again, what did she know? They only went to church twice a year.

But Jack kept looking at her. Not staring. Not in a creepy way. Just… watching. Like something about the sight of her mom had rooted him to the floor. Like he remembered every version of her and still thought this one might be the best yet.

Abby watched for a moment longer, then looked down at her phone, her mouth pulling into a small, thoughtful smile. It was weird. But not in a bad way. Maybe not even in a weird way. Just… different.

Jack looked away just as Mom stepped up to the computer beside his, Mel trailing close behind. She was speaking softly, walking the younger doctor through strategies for handling distressed parents as she pulled up a chart and started typing. Mel listened intently, nodding along, her posture gradually uncoiling; shoulders lowering, face relaxing. That was one of the things Abby loved most about her mom: the way she made people feel capable. Jack must’ve felt it too, because he glanced over at Mom again, that quiet little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he turned back to his screen. Mel kept talking, voice fast and hopeful now, and Abby seized the opportunity for a quick escape.

She pushed herself up and tugged on Mom’s sleeve. “Do you have cash? I’m going to go get a water.”

Mom didn’t even glance up. “Take my wallet,” she said, digging it out of her purse and handing it over. “The machines are—”

“Past radiology, left of the elevators. I saw them on our way in.”

Mom nodded, still distracted. “Be quick, okay?”

Quick wasn’t exactly in Abby’s vocabulary right now, but she tried. She fed a wrinkled bill into the vending machine, grabbed a bottle of water, shoved the change into her mom’s wallet, and started the slow walk back, water tucked under her arm, condensation soaking through the fabric of her sleeve.

When Abby turned the corner, the blonde doctor she’d left with Mom was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jack was there; leaning casually against the counter, relaxed, grinning at something her mom had just said. Then Mom laughed. Not just a polite smile, but a full, genuine laugh. The kind that started with a snort, crinkled her eyes, and ended with her covering her mouth like she was trying to swallow it back in. The kind reserved for Will Ferrell movies and the sarcastic comments Abby made to adults who never quite caught on. The kind of laugh Abby hadn’t heard in far too long.

And Jack just stood there, like he’d been waiting for it, like that laugh was the highlight of his day. He smiled like he’d just won a contest, then said something else, clearly trying to bring out another one of those laughs. 

Mom used to laugh like that more often.

Not with the guys she brought home, though.

There weren’t many of those, really. Mom dated here and there, but nothing that ever stuck for too long. She’d probably tell you she liked it that way; independent, self-sufficient, a badass doctor who kept a trauma kit in the trunk and pulled over every time they drove past a car accident to make sure everyone was okay. She was perfectly happy on her own; just her and Abby. The way she liked it. 

But Abby knew what came after those dates. She’d hear Mom come home late, quietly enough to not wake Abby, though she was never asleep. Mom would sit on the couch for a while, just staring into space. Then she’d sigh, slip off her heels, and leave them in the closet untouched for months until the next “first date” that never made it to a second.

Abby could count on one hand how many men had stuck around for longer than a minute, and it was easy, because she only needed one finger. Ed came around when she was eleven: a police captain who looked like a walking cliché from every cop drama on TV. He was about ten years older than her mom, had a son in college somewhere in California, and was the steady, “responsible” type. Nice. Quiet. A little boring, if you asked Abby, but safe.

He brought flowers, took Mom out every Friday, told the same four stories from his Vice days, even tried to learn the rules of volleyball when Abby started playing. He spent Christmas with them in Coldwater at Grandma and Grandpa’s house one year and was Mom’s date to Aunt Becca’s second wedding in the Bahamas. But when he suggested a week-long trip to Paris after the pandemic when the travel restrictions were lifted, Abby caught the shift in her mom’s expression; that subtle flicker like she’d sensed a proposal coming. And just like that, Mom did what she always did when things started to get too good: she bolted.

No second chances. No looking back. Just a clean break and a quiet smile a few weeks later when Abby caught her standing in front of the bathroom mirror a little too long, followed by the usual excuse about him not being the right fit, and how that was okay, because she was perfectly happy with it being just the two of them. It was the first time her Mom had ever lied to her.

She never laughed like this for Ed. Not even at their best. And Ed definitely never looked at her like Jack just did, like seeing her was the single best part of his whole day. No one had ever looked at Mom like that. Like he didn’t want the moment to end quite yet. Like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of whatever invisible thread had pulled them together just now. Her mom had looked; what was the word? Lighter. Not exactly happy. But easy. Comfortable in a way Abby hadn’t seen in a long time. She didn’t know if she ever laughed like that for her dad. Mom didn’t talk about him much, and Abby was okay with that.

Yeah. People who ‘just work together’ didn’t look at each other like that.

Abby wasn’t sure why it made her smile so much.

But then, he showed up, and Abby stopped smiling.

Some tall, beardy guy in cargo pants and a hoodie with an annoying smile that Mom immediately returned. He had the nerve to step in and start talking to Mom, and worse: Miss Dana was encouraging it, grinning at them both like she was watching an episode of The Bachelor. He leaned in and, of course, found a reason to lightly touch Mom’s arm within ten seconds.

Et tu, Miss Dana? Who is this? Ew. No. No, sir. Which pocket of your cargo pants do you keep all that audacity in? She was having a conversation. Walk away. This is not your moment. Get lost. Bye.

She groaned softly as her mom laughed again, lighter this time, but not quite like she had for Jack. She looked like she was trying. Abby scowled when her mom gave Hoodie Guy a polite smile and tilted her head. Jack stepped back a little. His posture changed. He didn’t leave, but he let the other guy take up space. Abby wanted to throw something. 

Mom. Don’t smile at Hoodie Guy. Don’t you do it. Ugh, she was doing it. Stop it, Mom. You’re too old to be in a love triangle. It’s cringy. 

No! Jack, don’t leave! Go away, Hoodie Guy! I will literally fight you. No. Go away so Jack will come back.

God damn it, Elizabeth.

A minute later, Mom waved her over.

“Abby, this is Doctor Robby. He’s one of our attendings. This my daughter, Abby.”

“Hey, Ab—”

“Yeah, hi,” Abby said, polite enough, setting Mom’s wallet on the counter by her purse. Whatever, Hoodie Guy. Don’t get comfortable. 

Then, with just the right amount of pitiful in her voice, she turned back to her mom, pouting out her lip just so. “Can we go home? My leg kinda hurts.”

Concern took over immediately. Her mom’s brow furrowed and her voice softened. “Of course, boo.” She turned back to Robby, said a quick goodbye, then reached for her bag.

Didn’t even notice her wallet wasn’t with it.

Abby glanced across the hub, and alas, there it was. Mom’s wallet. Still sitting by the monitor where Jack had been standing earlier. Just left behind. Waiting to be picked up while Mom kept on her beeline for the door, already talking about dinner and laundry and all other kinds of boring mom stuff. 

Aw, no. 

Mom. 

Your wallet.

Wait—darn.

Too bad it was so far away. Practically across state lines. A whole journey. They’d never make it.

Oh well. C'est la vie.

Someone will find it.

- - -

Beth didn’t put that jacket on for Jack.

She didn’t. She just happened to put on her yoga clothes that morning because she was going to go to yoga that evening. That had been the plan. She didn’t go, sure, but the intention was there. The clothes were logistical, not emotional. Functional, not flirtatious.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

They were just clothes. Same way the cardigan and sweats she changed into as soon as they got home were just clothes. Not everything had to mean something. She’d love to see Abby twist pajamas into some secret signal she was supposedly sending to a guy she dated before cell phones had cameras.

Which she wasn’t doing.

Honestly, that kid needed a hobby that wasn’t narrating her mother’s love life like a CW reboot of Pride and Prejudice.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there today. She didn’t know he’d be on shift. They were running late, her brat child has a broken leg, so excuse her for parking closer so said brat wouldn’t have to walk too far. It just so happened that he was working, so she said hello because it’s polite. It wasn’t like that. She didn’t plan it, she didn’t mean anything by it, and it wasn’t certainly the flirting Abby made it out to be. God, it wasn’t flirting. She barely remembered how to flirt. 

It wasn’t about Jack. It wasn’t about the pause, the half-second of hesitation, when he’d looked at her like he hadn’t quite finished saying whatever he was going to say before Robby showed up. It shouldn’t be about Jack. Jack made it entirely clear what Jack thought of her thirty years ago when he left.

Beth turned the burner to simmer and stirred the sauce slowly. Smoothed her palm along the counter and watched the evening breeze rustle the rose bushes in the backyard through the kitchen window. She should be making dinner. She had far more important things to do than stand in her kitchen trying to validate a conversation between two people that her daughter called flirting. 

Because she wasn’t flirting. She didn’t even know if she remembered how. And even if she did, it wouldn’t be with him. Not that there was anything wrong with him. She just didn’t make a habit of making eyes at men who’d stood beside her not even a day earlier and spoken about the worst kind of loss a person could carry. Who said his wife’s name like it still lived somewhere sacred in his chest. A man still carrying a love so deep he hadn’t taken off his wedding ring in nearly a decade. A man who stood quietly in a room and somehow made her feel steadier just by being there.

She understood that. Beth had known a love like that after him too, though the loss that came with hers was a different kind. She remembered the shape of it, how it softened her in the beginning before it became something else. Misshapen. Ugly. She remembered the aftertaste it left. Though she imagined his was far less bitter than her own. 

She wouldn’t interrupt that. That kind of grief carved out space. It didn’t vanish. It settled in and stayed. She wouldn’t ask for more than a moment shared at a nurses’ station. A cordial relationship between coworkers. Not that she wanted anything more with him. Something more ended the minute he pulled out of her parents’ driveway when they were kids. Something more wasn’t meant for them. It never had been.

But, she had laughed. And she’d liked it.

And maybe she was thinking about him now, alone in her kitchen, in her pajamas, stirring sauce she hadn’t even tasted yet because her kid planted a thought in her head about a boy who had taken too much space there for too long that she now couldn’t quite weed out.

Fucking Abby. The little instigator. She was so damn lucky Beth loved her so much.

She tapped the spoon against the pot again. Louder this time. A little rougher. Just to make a point, even if the pot wasn’t really the one who needed convincing.

She wasn’t even sure that she could convince the teenager in the living room if she tried. She’d seemed to have made up her mind, though perfectly wrong. Beth peeked through the kitchen doorway to where Abby lay sprawled out on the couch in the next room, the dog draped across her lap, both half-watching a rerun of New Girl that no one was really invested in. Shopping bags that she asked to be taken upstairs were still dumped on the kitchen table, but she resisted the urge to get on her about it and run the risk of opening up a whole new line of ‘you were too, Miss Boob-Shirt’ dialogue. Not worth it. They’d eat on the couch instead. 

Beth swayed a little to the music oozing from the kitchen speaker, barefoot on cool tile, moving between the stove and the counter. Silver Springs floated through the kitchen, and this time, she allowed herself to sing along, stirring the sauce with one hand, glass of red wine in the other. She wasn’t really singing so much as murmuring along, letting Stevie Nicks pull her back through time in little, aching pieces in a way that always felt a little therapeutic.

That was, however, until the doorbell rang.

Atlas lost his mind immediately. He leapt off the couch, nails skittering against the hardwood as he tried to get his footing, barking like it was his sworn duty to defend them from certain death.

“Mom, door!” Abby called over the noise, not even bothering to sit up.

“Really? I had no idea,” she muttered, setting the spoon down on the dish and wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Atty! Go lay down!”

The dog did not go lay down. If anything, he barked louder, alerting them to the great danger that was Amazon, or someone selling solar panels. Maybe even Jada from next door dropping by to chat. Oh, the horror.

Beth sighed and started out of the kitchen, giving Abby a gentle swat with the towel as she passed. She waved a hand in the dog’s direction, gesturing wildly to shush him as she neared the door. Atlas stayed glued to it, sniffing the frame in loud, determined snorts like he could identify the threat by scent alone. She stuck a leg in front of him to push him back just enough to crack the door, but he didn’t budge. Damn dog. She braced a hand against his chest, his nails scraping the hardwood in protest, and yanked the door open, still quietly singing along.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of a woman who loves you…”

The door swung open mid-line, her mouth still open, ready to accept whatever package the Amazon guy deemed doorbell-worthy instead of leaving on the porch. But the words died in her throat the moment she saw who was standing there.

Jack Abbot.

Standing on her porch. At her house. Bathed in porch light like a memory she hadn’t meant to summon. Not in scrubs, like he should be thirty minutes after his shift ended, but in clean jeans and a t-shirt, holding her fucking wallet.

Atlas howled behind her, pushing his big head around the side of her hip, tail thumping against the wall like a metronome for her now off-kilter heart.

And she was suddenly, acutely, painfully aware of her lack of bra.

[ginnysgraffiti]

haaii I would like to know how you think Patrick would have behaved if the Reader's parents didn't like him, god

OMG WHY DIDN’T I NOTICE THAT I HAD RECEIVED THIS ONEEE

PATRICK BATEMAN x yn.

head-canons:

not quite to their taste.

it starts like a normal night.

or rather, as normal as patrick allows it to be.

the dinner had been planned for weeks. you were careful in your preparations, walking the tightrope between appeasing your family and reassuring patrick that this wasn’t a trap—that you just wanted the two sides of your life to meet. he said yes with a quiet, clipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “sure. if they matter to you, then i should see what i’m dealing with.”

you told him that sounded cold. he told you he was being realistic.

patrick arrives twenty minutes early, wearing his most timeless armani, bearing wine that costs more than your parents’ monthly mortgage. he rehearses his charm in the car, fakes a quick yawn to widen his eyes in the mirror—he knows how to weaponize charisma. he’s done it his whole life.

but the second he steps through the door, he knows. he feels it. they don’t like him.

they don’t trust the pristine suit or the over-practiced smile. he sees it in your father’s handshake—too firm, too assessing. in your mother’s eyes—polite, but scanning, like she’s searching for cracks in the finish.

and worst of all: in you, who are tense in the shoulders, your voice slightly too bright. he wonders if you knew they’d dislike him, if you’d hoped to soften the fall. he doesn’t say anything.

he doesn’t need to. he files the thought away. silently. resentfully.

he’s not used to rejection. especially not from people he doesn’t consider his equals.

the dinner is tight-lipped, full of offhand questions that double as warnings.

your father asks about patrick’s job with a measured tone, fishing for ego. patrick responds with cool detachment—“mergers and acquisitions. wall street” (fortunately, not murders and executions.)

your mother inquires about his childhood and upbringing, smiling when she says, “you seem so…particular, patrick.”

he knows what she means. he can hear the judgment sharpen beneath the silverware.

he keeps smiling, keeps the performance tight and professional. but inside, he’s boiling.

they’re reading him like he’s cheap fiction.

it bruises something deep in him—because patrick bateman is used to being admired, envied, feared. but now he feels managed. assessed.

and worst of all—unwanted.

your father calls him “a bit polished, maybe too practiced.” your mother says, “you must be used to a very different kind of woman, patrick.”

that’s when he realizes: this is war by manners.

what patrick won’t say out loud—but will write in the back of his mind like a to-do list.

he won’t explode. he doesn’t allow himself that.

not yet.

he smiles, excuses himself to the bathroom halfway through, stares into the mirror and tells himself he’s better than this. better than them.

he does deep breathing exercises. calms the racing need for retaliation.

but under the surface, the list is already forming:

- find out who your father works for.

- trace your mother’s wine club or charity networks.

- understand their routine, their pressure points.

- calculate how long it would take to make them apologize.

and most disturbingly:

- wonder whether you’d still love him after they mysteriously came around.

he would never hurt them—he assures himself of that. he would do it just for you.

but he might make their lives so subtly uncomfortable that they start to question their own dislike. it would be psychological. elegant. bloodless.

he wants to ask you, when you’re alone later: “why didn’t you defend me more?”

but instead, he just holds your waist tighter on the way out. and says, “let’s never do that again, pumpkin.””

what he really fears: that you might believe them.

more than the insult, more than the bruised ego—what truly haunts him is the possibility that you might agree with them.

that some small, quiet part of you also thinks he’s not fit to love.

he watches your face as you say goodbye to your parents, studies you like a painting.

do you still look proud to be with him?

do you look like you’re making excuses in your head?

that night, he doesn’t sleep. he stares at the ceiling, wondering if you’ll wake up one day and start seeing him through their eyes.

and that thought—that unbearable possibility—makes him want to burn the entire evening from memory.

makes him want to burn the entire evening from memory.

⸻ A LITTLE EXTRA hehe

what if your parents see right through patrick and suspect he’s a serial killer?

head-canons:

under their roof, under suspicion.

it starts small. it always does.

the dinner was supposed to be performative, a civil affair: drinks at seven, dinner at eight, patrick bringing an expensive, emotionally meaningless bottle of wine, dressed like the cover of GQ.

but the temperature in the room doesn’t match the setting.

your father is too quiet. your mother’s questions are more pointed. there’s a kind of sidelong studying happening at the table that not even patrick’s narcissism can ignore.

and then your father says something offhand, too casual to be a coincidence:

“you’ve probably seen the headlines lately—about that missing woman near sutton place.”

and the room stills. not completely, but just enough. you almost drop your fork. fuck.

patrick knows what it is immediately.

this isn’t conversation. it’s a test.

he’s used to being judged, but not unmasked.

patrick has heard people imply things before. he’s used to fear dressed up as envy.

but this is different.

there’s something behind your mother’s eyes—a spark of intuition, that quiet inner voice women tend to have when something doesn’t feel safe. she doesn’t say it outright, but patrick can tell.

she doesn’t trust him.

the way she stiffens when he touches your hand or when he looks at you.

the way your father’s eyes follow the lines of his knuckles, as if cataloguing whether they’ve done damage.

the joke about the american psycho nickname someone once gave him in college, which your dad brings up with a too-tight smile.

they are circling him like sharks.

and for the first time in years, patrick feels something close to fear.

not the fear of exposure—he knows how to clean a scene, how to remove traces.

no. this is the fear of being seen.

because if they know—even a little—what does that mean for you?

control becomes a performance he can’t afford to mess up.

his posture becomes hyper-correct.

every breath timed. every answer rehearsed before he speaks.

he pulls from magazines, from interviews he’s memorized, from polite ivy league conversation—anything that will cloak him in credibility.

he mentions yale, his golf handicap, charity auctions.

he tells a charming anecdote about a business dinner with donald trump that didn’t happen or that time when he met ivana trump at the same restaurant (he was having dinner with paul allen just before killing him.)

and when your mother leans in and says, “you know, you have this…stillness about you. it’s unsettling.”

he doesn’t blink.

he smiles with precision and says, “stillness is underrated.”

your mother does not smile back.

he logs every detail.

he’ll stay composed in the moment. too composed.

but once you leave their house, and you fall asleep that night, he’ll pace the penthouse barefoot, his teeth clenched and eyes glassy.

he’ll start checking the locks twice. he’ll throw away the polaroids you took that night when you aren’t looking.

he’ll ask questions like: “did they talk about me when i went to the bathroom?”

and then: “do you think they’d call the police?”

then, quieter: “what do you know about what they know?”

or: “no, they have no proof, it can’t be.”

he doesn’t say it outright, but there’s something dangerous in him now. he feels cornered.

and a cornered animal doesn’t retreat. it calculates.

what he thinks about doing—and why he doesn’t do it (yet).

part of him imagines what it would take to make your parents vanish.

a gas leak. a break-in. a car accident. many natural “accidents” can happen.

something poetic. tragic. something that leaves you untouched.

but the problem is you.

because if he hurts them, you will know.

even if he stages it perfectly, something in you will break. and he doesn’t want you broken. he wants you attached.

he wants you to look him in the eye and still see something lovable.

so instead, he tells you one night—softly, too softly—“you know they don’t like me. i think they’re afraid of me.”

he waits for your reaction.

and when you answer with: “they don’t know you like i do.” he files that away as evidence. not of safety.

but of your loyalty.

and that, for now, is enough to keep everyone alive.