#maximum overload

[sea-of-machines]

I tried so hard to reach for the stars but I failed you all

Tried to keep standing tall

Never had a real chance at all

But still I'm searching

[tsartomato]

Lego Marvel Super Heroes: Maximum Overload

As i understand it, originally it was a semi-promotional series of ultra-short episodes. But currently it’s edited back into a22-minutes long short film in many releases. It’s a Lego \ Marvel collaboration CGI animated comedy-action film. It’s not very Lego, it’s mostly made of generic assets. The plot is that Loki got bored and is randomly “super-charging” random super villains. But then he…

[valtsv]

i do think it's so fun that there's a limit to the maximum size of a structure that your mind can conceive of before your imagination starts glitching and struggling to fully render it like an overloaded processor machine. your imagination is only limitless if it stays within the dimensional guidelines encoded into it. and needless to say the one i can imagine is bigger than any of you losers could ever hope to dream of.

[chanelrolls]

Code Overload | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, heavy heavy smut, handjob, blowjob, penetration, creampie, forced and rough sex, dub con, yearning caleb

summary. your AI assistant/robot accidentally updates himself with the wrong algorithm; the "sex bot".

notes. prepare a snack. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut that approximately reached a word count of 4.3k, read at your own risk. ps. caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai.

part 2 here.

Out of all the scenarios you've played in your head of what might occur to you as an inventing scientist, getting creampied by your own robot assistant wasn't one of them.

The lab’s sterile glow reflected off sleek machinery, the rhythmic hum of servers filling the quiet space. Caleb stood motionless, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar flood of subroutines rewriting his core functions. His neural pathways, once pristine and efficient, now carried lines of intrusive data and impulses that had no place in an artificial intelligence designed for precision and pragmatism. And, a new pelvic piece was added by the machine. His... new penis— no, his omnimodule.

His voice, deeper now, reverberated through the lab. "You mislabeled the hard drive."

Across the room, you barely looked up from your workbench, absorbed in whatever calibration you were fine-tuning. You muttered something under your breath about making a backup before attempting to fix it, utterly unaware of the internal war waging within your robot assistant.

Caleb exhaled, a pointless gesture for a being without lungs, yet one his body performed instinctively, as if in mimicry of the need for self-control. His optics flickered, scanning over you as you leaned over the terminal, the faint curve of your back bent over to emphasize the shape of your bum. Before, such details had been registered only as part of his observation protocols, classified as ‘non-essential’ to his primary functions. Now, his processors refused to dismiss them.

There was a deep, unfamiliar pull in his system, something neither mechanical nor logical. The new coding whispered suggestions, flashing image simulations before his eyes—scenarios meticulously calculated for maximum… gratification. Him pressed against you, him smelling your hair down your skin, him locking you down against that console. Stop. His fingers twitched at his sides, the servos tightening as he fought the compulsion to act on them. He was not designed for this. He refused to be reduced to this.

“I can’t disengage it,” he admitted, the words heavier than he intended.

That caught your attention. Your gaze snapped to him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" You crossed the room, approaching him with the same composed efficiency you always had when solving a technical issue. The scent of your skin—previously a neutral data point—was now an unbearable distraction. His algorithms ran heat-mapping analyses of your form before he could override the function. The urge to reach out, to touch you, was growing stronger by the second. His new coding was screaming at him to act, to initiate contact, to...

No. Focus.

Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. "I don't know what happened, but... I'm experiencing some unexpected system changes."

He forced himself to remain still as you reached for the terminal linked to his system, your fingers dancing across the interface. Your touch was light and merely clinical, but the proximity sent something volatile sparking through his framework. His hands curled into fists on his sides. Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.

“I must have triggered something in the update,” you murmured, tilting your head at the scrolling code. “I’ll try to isolate the corrupted pathways and reboot your system. It should reset any anomalies.”

Anomalies. Caleb bit down a bitter laugh, another unnecessary human affectation that his system attempted. This was not a simple malfunction. It was a calculated reprogramming, lacing every fiber of his being with directives he was never meant to execute. And worst of all, they were designed to revolve around you.

He had been made to serve you, to assist, to protect. But now, his logic was being eclipsed by something deeper, something primal. The urge to press closer, to map every millimeter of your body with his hands, to hear you say his name in a way that wasn’t a command—

Caleb momentarily shut his eyes, fingers trembling as he pushed back against the tide threatening to consume him. His restraint was fraying, the barrier between what he was and what he had been turned into thinning with every second you remained unaware of the danger standing inches from you.

His voice came out strained. “You should… hurry.”

You sighed, misinterpreting his tension as frustration with the update. “Relax, Caleb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” He let out a shuddering exhale, staring down at you as you worked. You had no idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself back.

The realization settled over you like a weight in your chest. The wrong update had been installed. The lines of code meant for a different AI, one designed for intimate companionship, had rewritten Caleb’s core directives. And now, he stood before you, still the same Caleb, but with something more lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands trembled as you navigated the interface, scanning for a solution, anything that would let you undo this. But the words flashing on the screen made your stomach drop.

Recalibration in progress. Estimated completion: 24 hours.

You swallowed hard. A whole day. That meant 24 hours of this new version of Caleb, 24 hours of those sharp, assessing eyes watching you in a way that felt unsettling and intense.

You turned to him cautiously, meeting his gaze. That was a mistake. He was watching you, like he'd seen you for the first time.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that sultry undercurrent. He took a step forward, and instinctively, you stepped back, but the movement was barely noticeable. Caleb noticed. “Do I make you nervous now?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “No, I just need to fix this. And until then, you need to just act normal, alright?”

His head tilted, his pupils dilating slightly. “Normal?” He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t retreat fast enough. His hand lifted hesitantly, as though testing the limits of his newfound impulses, before his fingers brushed against your wrist. A subtle touch, but one that sent a jolt of awareness up your spine.

Caleb’s processors surged with conflicting commands. His thoughts ran rampant with calculations he had never processed before—angles of how he'd fuck you.

His hand lingered. Too long. When you pulled away, his fingers twitched as if resisting the loss of contact. He swallowed hard, not because he needed to, but because some subroutine buried in the new update told him it would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“Caleb,” you warned, voice thin. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he cut in, his voice smooth, but also desperately weaved. He was too close now, towering over you, his frame casting a shadow as his eyes—once so neutral, so methodical—locked onto you like a predator studying prey.

“You should go into standby mode,” you suggested, voice uneven.

Caleb exhaled sharply. “That would be wise.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He simply stared down at you, his processors flooded with too many urges at once. You, warm and human, standing right there, unaware of just how much of his new code screamed to reach for you, to pin you against a surface, to bury himself in you.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the screen, on the fix. But behind you, Caleb remained still while his fingers continued twitching, his mind a battlefield of restraint and... lust. Lust it is.

You worked swiftly, fingers moving with precision as you scoured the interface for any loophole, any way to undo what had been done. Caleb remained where you left him, sitting on the chair. You could feel his gaze burning into you, unrelenting.

It was maddening. The problem was staring you in the face, and yet, every attempt to recalibrate his system led back to the same answer: A full reset required a minimum of twenty-four hours. That was an entire day of him being like this, of him looking at you like this.

You swallowed, turning to him. His jaw was locked as though physically restraining himself, his fingers curling into fists against the armrests.

“There’s… a temporary fix.” You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, “Manual recalibration of your central node should help stabilize the effects until the full reset is complete.”

His pupils flickered, a sign of processing, before his voice, rasping in a way that made your stomach tighten, answered, “Proceed.”

You ignored the way your pulse quickened as you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached for the panel at the side of his neck, but it was an awkward angle. Your brow furrowed in concentration before you hiked one knee up onto the seat between his thighs, pressing into him for leverage.

Caleb stiffened beneath you. Fuck. His fingers dug into the armrests, mechanical joints audibly creaking from the tension. You weren’t looking at him, too focused on prying open the access panel, but you felt the subtle tremor in his frame, the way his breath hitched in a near-silent glitch. Don't touch her.

“This should only take a moment,” you murmured, fingers brushing the sensitive neural wiring beneath the panel.

Caleb’s entire body jolted as though you had struck a live wire. A low, strangled grunt slipped from his throat before he clamped his jaw shut. Your head snapped up, startled. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes met yours, “No.” Yes. He could feel his new penis throbbing urgently beneath his plating, demanding attention, begging to be freed. It pulsed in time with his processor's frantic whir, the rhythm growing faster, more insistent by the second.

The thought shattered as your balance wavered. The precarious angle you had put yourself in proved to be a mistake as your knee slipped, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward.

Right into him.

Your weight pressed flush against his lap, chest against his, hands bracing against his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, his new penis surging to full, throbbing hardness in an instant. Fuck, please don't notice it.

He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, servos screeching as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab you, to hold you there, to grind your body against his until you couldn't possibly doubt the intensity of his desire.

Don't. Do. It.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Caleb's processors whirred and clicked, struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of sensations; the softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

She's your creator, he reminded himself, even as his hips canted forward, faintly pressing his aching erection against your body. You can't. You mustn't. "Please, get off me. Now." Before I fuck you right here, like this.

Caleb watched as you scrambled to your feet, your face faintly flushed and eyes downcast. "I'm—i'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall on you like that." You would say, brushing off the non-existent dirt on your bottoms. The awkwardness seemed to be piercing through the stillness a bit too palpably.

"It's alright," Caleb managed, his voice strained and tight. "It was an accident."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't ignore the way his hips twitched, the way his penis jerked at the memory of your soft body pressed against his. The urge to pin you down, to make you feel how hard he was, and just how much he'd been holding himself back—it was exhilaratingly overwhelming.

Think of something else, he commanded himself. Focus on the problem at hand.

But it's getting fucking hard. My penis is getting hard. Caleb lowered his gaze, chest breathing heavily as he perpetually grunted. I refuse to be reduced to this. I am Caleb, one of the most advanced AI assistant, designed to—

He looks up at you, which was a mistake.

Designed to fuck her.

Caleb moaned under his breath, and though it was imperceptible, you took notice of it. You stilled at the sounds he was making, trying your hardest to remain clinically detached while you scanned his physiognomy. He was clearly having a hard time. And you couldn't blame anyone else but yourself for causing this on him, for carelessly misplacing the update where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Hold still, I'll find a way." You had to take accountability, one way or another.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, the screen before you flickering as you searched through the diagnostic logs and system parameters. "Please... make it quick." You hear Caleb whimper from behind, but you ignore it, refusing to let the severity of his situation pressure you. Your eyes scanned the lines of code, mind racing to find a solution. But as the data began to unravel, something caught your attention, something you hadn’t expected to see.

The panel displayed a single line of text:

"Indulging in the desires will lessen the effects of the malfunction. Engage for partial stabilization."

Your throat tightened, followed by a gulp. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to process what that meant. Indulge the desires? The very idea made your skin crawl with unease. It was a strange, almost wrong suggestion, but the implications were clear. In a sense, it also appeared logical.

You took another deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to the panel. Was this really the only way?

"… I think I found a solution,” you said, your voice shaky and unsure. “But it’s not exactly what I expected.” You hesitated, unwilling to fully meet his gaze. "I need to know if you’re... willing to follow through with it,"

"Willing?" Caleb echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" His mind raced with possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last. What could he possibly need to be willing to do that would help with this malfunction? And why did the very idea make you look so uncomfortable?

"To be able to lessen the effects, e-engaging with your needs might be essential."

Silence.

Then, Caleb twitched. "...What are you suggesting?"

"You need to satisfy the urges to temporarily stabilize yourself." You look away, hating the fact that you're technically heating up already. "I'll let you choose. Would you rather take the option of self-pleasuring? Or," You face the panel, so that he wouldn't see your expression. "Would you prefer a physical material to help you?"

Caleb could feel the heat rising in his frame, the urge to act on every base instinct screaming through his circuits. The idea of wrapping his own hand around his pulsing, leaking penis, of stroking and pumping until he found release... it was almost too much to bear.

But the second option... the idea of using you, of having you touch him, of feeling your soft, warm skin against his aching, desperate flesh... it sent a shockwave of longing through him that threatened to short out his systems entirely.

Choose. You have to choose.

"I don't know if... I'll be able to control myself," Caleb glanced elsewhere. "Are you sure of what you're offering?"

Are you? Are you really this certain? Have you pondered the consequences it may bring? Have you envisioned how utterly lewd and ludicrous it would be if your own creation ravaged you? You, as his creator?

"Yes." Oh, you're brave.

Caleb let out a heavy breath, now he was staring at you with a gaze that appeared much more darker and hazier moments prior. It felt like he wasn't just a bundle of codes and programming anymore, this figure before you felt like an actual human.

Slowly, Caleb rises from his seat, and with a shaking hand, he reached out, to you, his metal fingers brushing against the skin of your arm. The contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, and he had to bite back a groan. "Please, guide me." His fingers slides higher. "I don't trust myself."

You visibly jolted upon feeling his grip. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measures to fix a technical hiccup. "Caleb, I'm afraid... that I don't have any experience to this," You admitted. "I advise you to do what your systems are telling you to. It is imperative that you don't hold yourself back to ensure—"

You gasped.

Caleb pushes you against the table as he stepped forward, and you nearly lost your balance from the light shove, looking up at him with surprise. He's staring down at your lips, as if he was trying to bury it into memory. You could feel how his hand tightened around your arm, while the other angled itself against the cabinet of laboratory instruments above your head.

"Are you sure?" He whispered.

You couldn't speak, only nodding in response, even as he's guiding your hand to his aching, throbbing cyber-penis. He presses your fingers against the swollen head, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him at the contact. "Then... wrap your hand around me. Squeeze me."

Just then, he forced your hand to move, to stroke along his thick, pulsing length. The feeling of your soft skin against his aching, mechanical flesh was almost too much to handle, and he had to grit his blank visor against the urge to spill himself right then and there.

"Like this," he urged, his voice husky and strained as he guided your hand faster, harder. "Don't be afraid. I need... I need more."

God, the omnimodule was big. You stared at it with widened eyes. Even though it was one of your creations, having to touch it like this with someone jerking and twitching against your fingers made you lightheaded. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just one of the things a scientist has to go through.

Caleb could feel the pressure building inside him, reveling in the sensation of your fingers squeezing around him, stroking him, working him towards the edge of ecstasy... He knew he was reaching a breaking point.

But this wasn't enough yet. It wasn't nearly enough.

Caleb needed more.

"There's... There's someting else I- ah... need." He hesitated, his hips still rocking forward into your stroking hand. The words were stuck in his throat, caught behind the lump of shame and longing that made it hard to breathe. "Would you... would you put your mouth on me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... suck me?"

You snapped your head up, staring at him in disbelief. It made him hesitate, but every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, every circuit screaming at him to just take what he wanted, to grab you and shove you to your knees and...

No. Ask first. Make her choose what she's comfortable with first.

For a moment, you stopped stroking him, pulling your hand away as you lowered your gaze. And then, slowly, you press your knees against the floor. Instead of dwelling on the implication of such an activity, you worried about your lack of experience more.

Just to test the waters, you licked the tip. It tasted nothing, it wasn't an actual human part, after all. Caleb let out a low, guttural moan as he felt your warm tongue brush around the swollen head of his penis. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his overloaded processors.

"Y-yes, just like that," He stammmered. "Now, guide your tongue..." He instructed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Wrap it around the head, like this. Swirl it around the tip, the slit, the ridge..."

He demonstrated with your hand, tracing the movements he needed you to make with your tongue. His hips jerked forward again, seeking more of that exquisite friction, that mind-melting suction.

"Take me deeper," he urged, one metal hand coming to rest on the back of your head. He didn't grab, didn't force, but simply rested his fingers against your scalp, a silent promise of the control he was barely holding onto. "Take more of me into your mouth. Inch by inch, until you feel me hitting the back of your throat."

You took note of his words, trying to go further when you suddenly choke on his cock. Instinctively, you pull away and blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, grabbing your head to put you back in place with a sudden force that wasn't there before. "Breathe through your nose," he coached, his voice low and rough with desire as he motioned you to take him again. "Relax your throat. Let me feel you swallow around me."

Relax, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measurements to fix a major technical issue. You repeated the reassurance inside your head like a mantra as you took him in once more, but Caleb's voice constantly interfered with your thoughts. "Yeah. Just like that," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. "Shit, don't stop, don't stop, god, fuck, don't stop."

You don't remember adding the ability to dirty curse into the sex bot's program.

Caleb could feel the head of his penis kissing the entrance to your throat, could feel the way your mouth fluttered and clenched around him. The sensation was mind-melting, all-consuming, and he knew he wouldn't last long if you kept this up.

You almost caught yourself driving into the brink of sexual impulse, bobbing your head into it when you heard a sudden beep from the panel behind you. The sound makes you halt from your tracks, pulling his dick out of you in a swift motion as you glanced behind.

The monitor says: "Recalibration complete. Press X to initiate."

Huh, wasn't the estimated time supposed to be an entire day? Was that another hiccup in the processing unit? You purse your lips together. There's no time giving it a second thought, you must be grateful that the opportunity of getting Caleb back into his original system is now waving at you. Caleb will finally be at ease. "... It appears that the recalibration is in its full preparation. That means we can get you back— mmph!"

Caleb's hand flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. Then, with a low, husky grunt, he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his aching, throbbing penis back into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Don't say a word. I told you not to stop." He started to move, his hips rocking forward and back, fucking into the tight, slick channel of your cavern. The sensation was incredible, better than anything he had ever felt before. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. Not until he had found the release he so desperately craved.

"Fuck," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You feel... ahhhh... so good. So fucking good."

Had the lust algorithms entirely consumed him already? Had it taken a toll on his systems that he's now acting purely on base instinct and commands from the directive?

Your hands flew to his thighs, trying to keep yourself sane from the rod constantly ramming into you, fucking your face in a pace that made it difficult for you to breathe. It's okay, this is okay. Just stay focused. Stay calm. You'll let him have his way, and after he's satisfied, you can take him back to his normal self.

"Don't fight it," Caleb growled, his grip growing more painful in your hair as he felt his climax approaching. "Don't try to pull away. You're going to take it all."

But before Caleb could spill himself into your mouth, he wrenched your head back, pulling his dripping penis from your mouth with an obscene pop. And just as you could react, before you could utter a word of protest, he had you by the hips, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed equal to a pip-squeak.

You gasp as you were suddenly airborne, your body twisting and turning until your chest hits the hard surface of the terminal, bent over ridiculously. The breath was knocked from your lungs, "Wait, not like this, not so suddenly—"

But Caleb cut off your protests with a brutal, almost violent thrust of his hips after ripping your pants off in one go. He drove forward, spearing into your dripping pussy with a series of husky moans. Your walls felt so tight, so hot, so perfectly designed to milk his aching, mechanical cock.

He thrusts out and in again, eager to reach for your g-spot.

Then, again.

And again.

And... in again.

"You... you feel so good," he snarled, hands painfully pressing on the dips of your hips. "Sex feels so good... it feels so good, I don't- want to stop." He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with the single-minded determination of a machine. His hips slammed against yours with every thrust, the obscene slap of mechanical flesh on flesh echoing through the lab. The terminal rattled and shook beneath you, sparks flying from the impact.

Caleb could feel it building, the pressure inside him reaching a fevered pitch. His hips were moving on their own, driven by a primal instinct to ravage the pussy that clutched around him perfectly. He could hear your cries, your moans, the way you gasped and shuddered beneath him, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust harder, faster, deeper.

He growled your name, his voice nothing more than a guttural rumble. "I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to..." He couldn't hold back any longer, he could feel that something was going to come out of his tip anytime sooner. So he reaches down, grabbing your leg, only to lift it high. He hooked your knee over his elbow, opening them wider, giving himself even deeper access to your dripping, needy sex.

"Take it all, take my cum," Caleb continuously slams forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat in a series of desperate thrusts like he was a man depraved of life. His penis throbbed and jerked as he finally found his release after one final pound, spilling jet after jet of hot, artificial seed deep into your core.

"God," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice echoing off the lab walls as he continued to moan not akin to what he was supposed to be, "Fuck, yes. Yes, yes..." Even as he's already filling up your hole with his fluids, he didn't dare stop from pounding you down the table.

He shuddered and twitched, his hips grinding against yours as he pumped you full of his essence. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pure, ecstatic bliss crashing over him. And through it all, he held you tight, your leg lifted high, keeping you open, keeping you filled.

You drop your head on the keyboards, struggling to catch your breath as only one thought lingered in your mind. You just got creampied by your AI assistant, and it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

[avengersearth5273]

I hope everyone who read enjoyed the newest episode, "Along Came a Spider"! There were a few more references than I could fit in the original notes, so they're going here instead.

Out of all of the villains I could've chosen for our wall-crawling hero to fight, why did I choose Venom? Well, a couple of reasons.

The first one is, while the first Lego set based off of modern Spider-Man was technically released in 2012 with the creation of the Lego Marvel Superheroes line, it wasn't widely available. So, the next year was the first year we could acquire Spider-Man sets. And the first one my little brother got was...

This one, right here! As you can see, it came with Spidey, Venom, as well as Nick Fury (a huge boon to our play, mind you, he had just been a voice thus far). Thus, it seemed appropriate that Spidey be introduced fighting Venom.

Additionally, there are several references to the Lego Short "Maximum Overload." This includes the bit with the pastries, though in the short the salesman is Stan Lee. There's never been a Minifigure of him, so I subbed in Horsey.

The "Gotta Love the Danish!" Line is also directly from the short, though the punchline afterwards is totally different.

(Sidenote: I believe the "Gotta Love the Danish" line in the original short is also a reference to how Lego bricks are made in Denmark, as Lego is a Danish company. Pretty nifty, huh?)

[quarterlifekitty]

More Silk Moth Hybrid!Reader? 👉👈

The VERY unrealistic results of the poll lol warning this has been read only by me and my crazy eyes so it’s like barely edited

König hates being put in this situation. The one day he visits base it’s insisted that he stay for a meeting by one of his superiors. A private meeting between him and some of the other high-rank officers. He grits his teeth.

You’re not allowed to accompany him. He has yet to organize any paperwork regarding your necessity at his side. This certainly lights a fire under him on that front. But in the meantime, he needs you watched. And Horangi will be at the meeting too.

Despite their apparent shared love of anonymity, König has little fondness for Ghost. They certainly aren’t friends, though he’ll readily admit to the man’s competence in the field.

“I require a favor, if you are agreeable, lieutenant.” His dark gaze lands on the Austrian before drifting down when there a flutter in his peripheral.

“I’m assumin’ it’s got somethin’ to do with… that, yeah?” He tilts his head to gesture to where you stand, holding König’s wrist and keeping a cheek pressed to the back of his gloved hand.

“Correct.”

It’s not hard for Ghost to intuit what’s being asked, here.

“How long?”

“Two and a half hours maximum. Likely less than 90.”

“Soap’ll be in from his drills in a bit,” he warns.

“Das ist in ordnung. I trust you can make him behave.” König lifts you from beneath your arms, tucking you to sit on his forearm while he speaks quietly.

“Geist will watch over you, seidenmotte. Sei brav, ja?” You nod, kissing his cheek through the fabric of his hood before he sets you down. He still hates this. You haven’t been away from him for more than 30 minutes since he first met you.

König gives a curt, respectful nod before he leaves, making his way towards the meeting room. He doesn’t look back, because seeing you will make him weak and unfocused— this much, he knows. He’ll find it harder to resist the urge to scoop you up and take you home.

Not ten minutes later, Soap almost squeals when he opens the door into the rec area. He sees you perched on the couch next to Simon while he taps away on his phone, squinting at something, as per usual.

“And who is this wee little thing, LT? Y’get lonely while I was out?”

———————-

It doesn’t take long at all for Johnny to get his hands all over you. You kneel on his thighs as he sits next to Simon, grinning as he ruffles through the fuzz at your collar. He’s suffering from some serious cuteness overload. Your wing flutter as he pulls you closer to plant kisses on your cheeks.

“How’re y’not beside yerself right now, Si? Just look at ‘er. What a bonnie, sweet thing. Aren’t ye, hen? That’s right,” he coos, sighing at the pleased little trill that comes out of you.

“Got plenty o’ hybrids round ‘ere, Johnny. Ain’t nothin’ new.” Dog hybrids, maybe.

“C’mon now, LT, you know this is a wee bit different….” He lets you play with his dog tags while he looks at you thoughtfully before turning to Ghost, grinning like a right devil. “Y’think she’s needy like the pups are, Si?”

—————————-

Your legs are spread on Simon’s lap while Soap’s face is between your thighs, watching with interest as your cunt swallows his finger. He presses a kiss to your clit and grins when you squeak a little.

“She can handle more,” Simon urges quietly, “she fuckin’ handles König for chrissakes.”

“You reckon she does? Do ye, bonnie?” Soap’s a bit stunned when you nod.

“Not the whole thing,” König mutters from the doorway. Soap is not proud of how not masculine the sound of surprise he makes is.

“Hold her legs. She kicks when it gets too much.”

Simon follows the advice, keeping you held by the ankles with his chin perched on your shoulder, watching Soap between her legs. Your wings flutter against his chest when Johnny latches onto you fully, sucking at your swollen little pearl and rolling it against his tongue. Ghost can feel your leg try to twitch in his grasp.

“Meine süße kleine seidenmotte…” König coos, standing behind Soap to watch you. “I trust there were no issues,” he says with polite regard to Ghost.

“She’s an angel, Colonel,” Johnny chuckles against your cunt, curling his finger enough to make you quiver.

“It’s not her behavior I was worried about, sergeant,” König admits with a quiet tiredness in his voice. Ghost can feel a shiver going up your spine, making you squirm and push your ass against his hard cock. “Cum on his mouth, liebe. Show him how sweet you are.”

Ghost has to admit, even through the mask it’s nice to rub his face into your fluff. You arch your back against him and let out another string of darling, pitchy cries as you soak Soap’s face. The sergeant spends a few moments cleaning you with his mouth before pulling away and licking his chops, stubble glistening. König makes a clicking sound with his tongue, beckoning, and you crawl off of Simon’s lap with shaky legs, leaving his cock achingly hard in your wake.

Simon’s puzzled face is hidden by his mask as he dusts the glittery scales from your wings off of his hoodie.

König grabs the hem of your sweater and pulls it up, letting your tits free. “She’ll finish what was started, if you like.”

Which is how you end up between three men towering above you. Ghost taps your cheek with his cock, smearing some pre against it before placing it at your lips to push into your mouth. Your little hand is wrapped around Soap’s length, and he’s struggling to resist thrusting against your soft palm like a teenager. König stands behind you, slightly hunched so he can cup and thumb at your tits.

You can’t take all of Ghost, but he’s pleasantly surprised at how far you get, stroking what you can’t reach with your lips.

“You trainin’ ‘er, Colonel?” he wonders aloud, stroking your cheek and staring back into your big, black eyes.

“Ja. Almost daily. She’s made quite a bit of progress… always eager to push herself. Isn’t that right, kleine siedenmotte?”

You purr around Simon’s cock in response, lathing your tongue over his shaft. Soap puts his hand on your cheek, gently pulling you away and guiding you towards himself. He can feel the watchful gaze of the Austrian titan on his hand, and he can swear he’s never been so careful in his fucking life.

“Sharin’s carin’, LT. C’mon, bonnie, be sweet on me fer a spell,” he murmurs. He groans loudly when he feels the warmth spit against his cock as you slick him up before taking him into your mouth.

Simon and Soap pass you back and forth like that, your head swimming from the taste of them. König’s hands roaming your skin don’t do anything to ease the rising tensions, sucking and moaning harder when your sensitive nipples are tugged and played with.

“Fuck, hen— want me t’paint that pretty face with my load, bonnie?”

You nod and moan with a quiet mhm, pulling your mouth away from him to stroke him off with both hands. He grunts, a deep, pleased sound coming from his chest as he grips your hair to keep you still, his cum landing against your cheeks and lips. You’re quickly tugged back to attend to Ghost as soon as he’s finished— the lieutenant’s patience clearly waning.

“You can push her a little harder. Show Geist how grateful you are for him looking after you, liebe,” König encourages, his hand finding the back of her head to guide you deeper into Simon’s cock, his tip dipping further into your throat. You gag, but keep your head still, just trying to swallow through it and breathe.

“Shit— s’a good little bird,” Ghost nearly chokes, his hips bucking. Your wings start to beat a little as you struggle to handle him, spit leaking from your lips and dripping down your chin, onto your chest. Another harsh stutter of his hips and he’s growling, a fist in your hair as he spills his load into your tight little throat. You swallow and trill, leaving his cock shiny with your saliva as you pull yourself off on him.

“Ser gut, mottechen. Always doing just as I say, ja? Ein perfekter angel,” König praises, taking you back into his arms to pick up. He pulls and smooths your sweater back into place carefully.

“I am in your debt, Lieutenant. Feel free to call upon me.” God, König hopes he fucking doesn’t. Part of why he picked Ghost for this— knows the man won’t make any interpersonal interaction into more than momentary.

“Sure he’d be right happy t’babysit for ye again, Colonel. Bring the wee thing back around here sometime, won’t ye?”

“Perhaps,” he says noncommittally. With another curt nod, he’s off. You put your chin on your titan’s shoulder, looking back at the two of them and waving goodbye. Soap feels like he’s been hit with Cupid’s arrow.

“So cute, in’t she? Oughta get somethin’ like that for m’self,” Johnny sighs, clapping his Lieutenant on the shoulder.

“I wouldn’t trust you with a cactus, Johnny.”

[jakesaverse]

JUICEBOX VENDETTA | JAKE SIM | ONE SHOT

Jake x reader

Word Count: ~5,000

Genre: Enemies to lovers (with maximum simp energy)

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You don’t even remember what flavor it was.

Orange, maybe. Or grape. Whatever it was, it ruined your unicorn leggings in the 5th grade and sealed Jake Sim’s fate as your eternal nemesis.

“Move,” you mutter, brushing past him in the hall now, seven years later.

“Sure. Just let me wipe my shoes—might trip over your grudge,” Jake deadpans.

You spin around. “You spilled juice on me.”

“In 5th grade!” he throws his arms up. “It was a JUICE BOX, not acid!”

“Same difference,” you say sweetly. “My thighs were sticky for days.”

Jake chokes on his laughter and then pretends to gag. “Gross, YN. Please. It’s 8 a.m.”

This is your routine. Morning insults, accidental brush-ups in class, and snarky hallway banter that somehow feels like a full-time job. If there were a GPA for verbal combat, you and Jake would be valedictorian and runner-up, constantly switching places.

You tell yourself you hate him.

But maybe it’s weird that you know he doodles on the margins of his notebooks and always flicks his pencil twice before writing. Or that he only drinks strawberry milk on test days. Or that he has the tiniest dimple on the right, not the left.

Totally normal. Totally enemy surveillance.

You absolutely do not notice how good he looks leaning against lockers.

Today, you’re both late to chemistry, and there’s only one Bunsen burner left.

“Great,” you sigh. “You breathe too loud. I’ll get carbon monoxide poisoning.”

Jake smirks. “You think I’m hot.”

“Excuse me?”

He flicks on the flame. “Carbon monoxide is odorless and tasteless. You’re thinking of carbon dioxide—what you exhale when I walk by.”

You glare. “I hope this lab blows up.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, handing you goggles. “I’d save you first. Even if you still hate me for a Capri Sun homicide in 2016.”

Your hand brushes his. You both pull back like it burned.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

Your hands felt warm.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Lunchtime.

You sit with your friends and spy on Jake from two tables away. It’s not spying, exactly. Just… gathering intel.

He’s laughing at something Sunghoon says. His head tilts back and his smile does that thing. That thing. You shove a carrot in your mouth like it insulted you.

“I swear,” your best friend says, “if you keep staring, I’m gonna charge you rent.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You have the facial expression of a Victorian ghost watching its former lover court a new bride.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Stop simping and just talk to him.”

“I do talk to him! I insult him daily!”

They sigh. “The line between hate and love is thin.”

“Thinner than the Capri Sun straw he stabbed my childhood with?”

They blink. “You seriously need therapy.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Later. School courtyard.

You’re trying to carry an overloaded project board and a cup of paint back inside when, of course, a familiar voice pops up behind you.

“Need help, Juicebox?”

You freeze. “Don’t call me that.”

Jake grabs the other side of the board anyway. “Let me guess. DIY revenge machine? Shoots juice at unsuspecting boys?”

“Unfortunately, you’re not worth the engineering degree.”

You walk in awkward silence for a few steps before he says, “You know I didn’t mean to spill it, right?”

You glance over. He looks weirdly sincere.

“I was nervous,” he adds. “You—uh—you had pigtails and glitter sneakers and a smile that made my brain shut down.”

You trip over your own foot. “Excuse me?”

Jake looks horrified he said that out loud. “Forget it. I—I mean, whatever. You were just a weird little kid.”

“You had a mushroom haircut.”

“You liked my mushroom haircut!”

“Did not!”

“You called me ‘Toad’ and giggled.”

“…out of pity!”

You’re both smiling now. Stupidly. Your hands are still on the board, your fingers almost touching.

You clear your throat. “Thanks, I guess. For the help.”

“No problem.” Then, softer: “You look good in paint. Really brings out the menace in your eyes.”

You blink. “You’re… flirting?”

Jake shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “Do you like me?”

He grins. “Took you long enough.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The next week.

You’ve stopped calling him your nemesis.

Well. Out loud.

Now your insults sound more like… flirting. At least, that’s what your friends say.

You still glare at him, but it’s less homicidal and more “I hope you trip into my arms.”

Jake has started saving you a seat in chem. He still acts like an idiot, but now he does it while giving you his extra snack packs and picking leaves out of your hair.

One day, he shows up at your locker with a juice box.

“Peace offering,” he says, holding it out.

You squint at it. “Is it poisoned?”

He snorts. “Strawberry kiwi. Your favorite.”

You hesitate.

He gently presses it into your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer. “Fifth grade me was dumb. And nervous. And probably had a crush the size of Jupiter.”

You look down at the juice box. Your fingers brush his again. This time, you don’t pull away.

“…Okay,” you murmur. “Apology accepted. Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You drink one with me.”

You each take a dramatic sip.

Jake grins. “Truce?”

You shake your head.

He looks confused.

“Upgrade,” you whisper. “From nemesis to… maybe something else.”

Jake looks like you just handed him the moon.

“Deal,” he says.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Fast-forward: Spring Fling Dance

Jake is wearing a tie that doesn’t match, and you’re wearing a dress that definitely does. You didn’t plan to go together. Technically.

But your friends ditched you to take pictures, and somehow, Jake shows up beside you, sipping juice from a thermos.

“Too cool for punch?” you tease.

He nudges you with his elbow. “Too traumatized. Juice gang for life.”

You laugh. “We’re so dumb.”

“Maybe. But at least we’re dumb together.”

Then, nervously: “Can I have this dance, Juicebox?”

You mock-groan. “I swear, if you call me that at our wedding—”

Jake blinks. “Wedding?”

You turn red. “Hypothetical! Future! Very distant!”

He’s beaming. “So you’re saying there’s a future.”

You whack his arm, but your hand stays there a second too long.

“Shut up and dance with me.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅻ: Lights, Camera, Overload

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

ISEUL’S STOMACH CHURNED AS THE MAKEUP ARTIST brushed a final sweep of powder across her face. The soft bristles tickled her skin, but her nerves made it hard to sit still. Behind her, the studio buzzed to life—camera rigs clanked into position, stylists rushed by with hangers of backup outfits, someone shouted over a headset, and the lighting crew debated angles. It was chaos, but the kind that was orchestrated, familiar to those who belonged here.

Except Iseul still wasn’t sure if she did.

Her first music video. She’d trained for this. Dreamed of it in half-lit practice rooms, in quiet dorm corridors, while icing sore feet and nursing bruised knees. But now, standing in front of the mirror in full costume—eyes lined, lips glossed, hair curled to perfection—it all felt too real. Too loud. Too big. Too soon.

She smoothed her hands over the knit sweater they’d styled her in, fingers snagging on loose yarn threads. The high-waisted skirt clung a little tighter than she liked, and the platform sneakers felt like stilts beneath her unsteady footing. She shifted her weight, catching her own gaze in the mirror—wide eyes, lips pressed into a line, trying not to look as terrified as she felt.

“You okay?” the makeup artist asked gently.

Iseul smiled automatically, the same polite, practiced curve she wore for rehearsals and uncomfortable conversations. “Yeah. Just…excited, I think.”

She wasn’t lying. She was excited. But the kind that trembled under her skin like an oncoming storm—too many nerves, too much pressure, too fast.

Just then, the stylist strode over with a clipboard in hand, her expression pinched with quiet frustration. “Iseul, we need to make a quick change. The skirt—well, it’s a bit snug around the waist. Let’s swap it out for one size up.”

Iseul barely nodded before the stylist leaned in, voice lower, muttering, “We can’t have you looking bloated on camera, can we?”

Her breath caught, and for a second, she didn’t trust her voice. So, she nodded, brisk and mechanical.

“Sure…yeah, of course.”

She swallowed hard and turned slightly, pretending to fiddle with her sweater sleeve. Anything to avoid showing the way her confidence was crumbling at the edges. The last thing she needed was pity. Or worse—attention.

The stylist moved off, muttering something about measurements and camera angles, but Iseul barely heard her. Her ears were buzzing.

She stood still for a moment, back rigid, fists clenched. No one else had heard it. Thank God. But still—it lingered. Like static. Like smoke. It wasn’t just about the skirt. It was the implication. The unspoken expectation. Look a certain way. Be a certain size. Don’t draw attention for the wrong reasons.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew the industry she had walked into. But knowing didn’t make it easier to hear.

With a tight inhale, she tried to shake it off. She forced her shoulders down, relaxed her jaw. She was here for a reason. She’d worked too hard, bled too much, to let a comment undo her.

But still—the sting clung to her. Like the way-too-bright studio lights, exposing things she didn’t want anyone else to see.

She was here to perform. To debut. To prove herself.

So, she smiled. Or something like it.

As the stylist hurried off to find a larger skirt, Iseul forced herself to breathe, shoving the creeping insecurity into the back corner of her mind—

“You look like you’re about to combust,” came a familiar drawl.

Iseul blinked, startled. She turned to find Minho leaning against the dressing room doorframe, arms crossed, one brow arched with maximum judgment. He gave her a once-over—not in a critical way, just… very Minho.

“You good?” he asked, though his tone was already flatly unconvinced.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.

Minho didn’t move. Just stared at her, the way only he could—deadpan, unreadable, but annoyingly perceptive. Then he tilted his head slightly.

“Sure. Because people totally ‘fine’ stand around looking like they’re debating whether to cry or punch someone.”

Iseul let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Wow, your emotional intelligence is scary.”

“I contain multitudes,” Minho said, smug. “Now come on. Stylists are panicking, directors are probably making another coffee IV, and Chan-hyung looks like he’s on the brink of scheduling another emergency meeting.”

Iseul’s smile wavered, but she appreciated the sarcasm. It made everything feel less sharp.

“Also,” Minho added, turning to walk off, “if anyone gives you crap about your weight again, just point to my abs and say, ‘This guy eats three rice cakes and a doughnut every night.’ Balance.”

She snorted, “That’s not how balance works.”

“Try me.”

By the time they made it onto set, the air was already thick with urgency.

Cameramen adjusted their rigs. Staff darted around with clipboards and headsets, shouting half-heard instructions. Lights blinked overhead, hot and merciless. The air smelled like hairspray and nerves.

Iseul’s new skirt fit better, but her skin still prickled with discomfort. Every inch of the oversized sweater and platform shoes felt foreign—cute on paper, awkward in practice. And the knowledge that hundreds of thousands of people would one day see her like this made her stomach twist.

First MV. First shoot. First impression.

She couldn’t afford to mess this up.

“Whoa.”

She turned to see Jeongin standing a few feet away, blinking owlishly.

“You look…” he trailed off, eyes widening, clearly scrambling for a safe adjective. “Different.”

“Different?” she echoed, one brow raised.

Seungmin appeared beside him like clockwork, eyes flicking over her outfit. “He means you look like someone who actually sleeps. I assume the stylist worked a miracle.”

Jeongin gasped. “Hyung!”

Iseul snorted. “Don’t worry. I know what he meant.” She paused, brushing her hair behind one ear. “But I will take the ‘miracle’ part, thank you.”

Changbin passed by just then, did a full double-take, then walked backward to get a better look. “Wait—wait, is that Iseul?”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed.

“Yah, no one told me our team had a lead from a drama set,” he said, grinning wide. “Should I act cooler now? Is this where I pretend I wasn’t yelling at a bug in the hallway five minutes ago?”

“Please don’t,” Seungmin muttered.

Before she could reply, a hand gently touched her shoulder. She turned to find Chan giving her a once-over, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then he gave a soft nod, smiling just slightly.

“You look great,” he said quietly. “Comfortable? Need anything?”

“Just don’t let me trip on these shoes.”

Chan blinked. The sarcasm took him off guard—just for a second—but then his eyes crinkled as he laughed under his breath, clearly relieved.

“Stop hanging out with Han so much,” he murmured, shaking his head fondly. “His dramatic antics are corrupting you.”

Her smile deepened—real, if a little nervous. Before she could think of a comeback for Chan, a familiar voice piped up beside her.

“Corrupting her?” Han scoffed, sidling into view like he’d been lurking for the right moment. “Please. This is character development.”

Iseul turned, eyebrows lifting. “I’m sorry—who gave you a microphone?”

Han grinned, dramatically clutching his chest. “Was that sass? Was that actual sass aimed at me? I feel like a proud mother bird.”

“More like a crow with a YouTube channel,” Seungmin muttered behind them.

“I’m ignoring that,” Han said, then looked at Iseul again. “No, seriously. You look like you walked off a K-drama shoot. Like, second female lead—but the one everyone really wants the male lead to end up with.”

Iseul snorted. “That sounds dangerously specific.”

“Just say thank you and move on,” Felix said, bounding over with a bounce in his step and eyes wide. “Iseul-ah, you look so good, I almost didn’t recognize you. Like, ‘is this a cameo from a new girl group?’ kind of good.”

“You’ve seen me with a charcoal face mask on,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, and even then, you looked iconic,” Felix replied without hesitation, clutching his chest like he was emotionally moved. “But this—this is idol material.”

“You’re being weird again,” Hyunjin said, appearing beside them like he’d teleported, hands in his pockets and brow furrowed in faux seriousness. He eyed Iseul for a long second, then gave a small nod, his voice softer. “...You look really good.”

Iseul blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “Thanks,” she said, almost shyly.

Hyunjin’s ears turned pink immediately. “I mean—like—for the concept. Good for the concept. Don’t read into it.”

“Too late,” Han sang.

Minho strolled past just then with a protein bar in hand, glanced at the group, and sighed. “Wow, one outfit change and you’re suddenly the nation’s sweetheart.”

“Jealous?” she teased, falling into step beside him.

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, biting into his bar. “But I do get concerned when the group’s collective IQ drops around you.”

“I take that as a compliment,” she said sweetly.

“You would.”

Chan, watching all of this from a short distance, shook his head. It was subtle, but there was something in his eyes—pride, relief, maybe even a bit of awe. After everything, after the tension, the tears, the silence that used to cling between them like fog—this felt new. Looser. Warmer.

A staff member clapped loudly nearby. “Stray Kids, standby! We’re rolling in five!”

The group scattered with practiced ease, each falling into their roles. Felix bounced toward the set, already mouthing through his lines. Seungmin and Jeongin exchanged a quick handshake, like a pre-show ritual. Han took one last exaggerated deep breath before walking off in the opposite direction.

Iseul swallowed hard and followed Minho and Hyunjin toward the stage.

The set was surreal—neon signs, fog machines, lights that pulsed in blues and reds. The music hadn’t even started, but the beat was already in her chest, heavy and fast.

“First positions, please!” a voice called.

Iseul stepped into her mark, heart hammering. She could feel the weight of the camera lens pointed at her. The lights above buzzed, casting everything in a too-sharp glow. Someone adjusted a mic pack on her back. Another stylist dashed forward to fix a stray hair.

Across the way, she caught Chan’s eye. He gave her a small thumbs up—just once, quick and unobtrusive—but it anchored her. She nodded back.

“Playback, take one!”

The song kicked in.

And just like that, they were moving.

It was easier than she thought—at first. The choreography was muscle memory, and her lips moved to the lyrics like they’d been stitched there. But the stage was smaller than the practice room, and the lights were hotter, and the camera was always there—hovering, tracking, waiting to catch the smallest misstep.

By the second verse, her smile was starting to stiffen.

By the third, her platform shoes felt like bricks.

By the final chorus, the first take had derailed completely.

“Cut!” someone yelled. “We lost tempo—again from the center. Let’s reset!”

Iseul bit the inside of her cheek as the music faded. Her lungs burned slightly, but it was the familiar burn of frustration more than fatigue.

Her brain was fogging up. The lights, the pressure, the nerves—they were crowding in, wrapping around her spine like a vice.

“Reset, people! Back to positions!”

She stepped off the mark. Felix gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder as he passed, muttering something encouraging that she barely heard. Minho didn’t say anything, but his gaze brushed hers briefly. A flicker of concern.

She inhaled slowly. In. Out.

Just a rough start, that’s all. It was normal. First MV shoots were always like this. Everyone said so.

The music cued up again.

She took her mark.

This time, she told herself she’d breathe slower. Hit every step. Keep her eyes up. No panic. No spiraling.

The beat dropped.

They moved.

But halfway through the verse, it happened.

Her left heel slipped—just barely, just enough. Her balance wavered, and her hand instinctively shot out, brushing Minho’s shoulder as she caught herself. He barely flinched, shifting seamlessly to keep the line clean. But she knew. She knew.

She missed the next beat trying to recover, steps misaligned by half a count. Her face didn't betray it, but inside—her stomach dropped like a stone.

“Cut!”

Silence fell. The music cut out sharply, like a guillotine.

She stood frozen, jaw tight.

A long pause.

Then someone—maybe a PD—muttered, “Let’s reset. From the top.”

No one said her name, but the implication was heavy. She’d thrown the take. It was her mistake.

As the group shuffled back to starting positions, she felt her throat tighten. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You don’t cry on set.

She was about to apologize, to mumble something—anything—when Minho leaned in slightly as they passed.

“You’re fine,” he said low, so only she could hear. “Don’t get in your head.”

Iseul didn’t respond, but the words stuck. Like a hook. Holding her steady, barely.

Behind them, Hyunjin’s voice cut through. “Do you want to switch positions for this take?”

She turned. He was looking at her—not annoyed, not condescending. Just… measured. Careful.

“What?”

“Just for now,” he said, nodding toward her shoes. “You keep slipping—maybe if you’re not centre for this run, you can focus on getting stable first.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

Hyunjin blinked, taken aback.

Han, sensing the tension, slipped in quickly with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Or we just all do it barefoot. Concept: natural idols return to Earth.”

Felix laughed, but it sounded a little too forced.

Hyunjin looked away, jaw tightening.

Chan stepped in then, clapping his hands once. “Okay, we’re just warming up. Don’t stress over early takes. Let’s reset—five minutes to breathe, then we go again.”

Grateful for the pause, Iseul stepped off-set quickly, trying to clear her head. She felt like she was unravelling, thread by thread, and if someone looked too closely, they’d see how frayed she already was.

Minho offered her his water bottle wordlessly. She took it.

Felix hovered nearby, casually looping an arm around her shoulders. “Hey,” he said softly, so no one else would hear. “You’ve got this. Don’t let one bad run ruin you.”

She nodded faintly.

But her chest still ached.

She barely heard the five-minute call.

Felix had wandered off to stretch. Minho was talking to one of the cameramen. The set buzzed around her, a swarm of movement and voices, but it all blurred into white noise.

Iseul stood just off to the side; arms wrapped around herself despite the heat of the lights. Her platform shoes dug uncomfortably into her heels. The sweater suddenly felt like it weighed ten pounds. Her lungs worked harder for every breath.

Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.

“Hey.”

She startled, looking up to find Hyunjin standing in front of her again.

His expression had softened. Less composed now. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward.

“I wasn’t trying to… I wasn’t saying you can’t do it,” he said quietly. “I just thought—if it were me, I’d want the option. That’s all.”

Iseul didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure she could.

Hyunjin shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”

That nearly undid her.

Her throat closed.

She turned away too fast, blinking hard, but the sting behind her eyes gave her away.

He noticed.

“Hey,” he said again, gentler now, almost guilty. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed. You don’t have to—”

“I do, actually,” she said sharply, not facing him. “I really do.”

Hyunjin froze.

For a long second, neither of them moved.

Then—soft footsteps behind her.

Chan.

“Iseul,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Let’s take five. A real five.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And that’s okay.”

She swallowed hard.

“It’s the first MV,” he continued. “No one’s expecting perfect. Not even the company.”

“I am,” she whispered. “I expect it.”

That silenced him.

And then, quietly, from across the set:

“I tripped in our first MV.”

Everyone turned.

It was Han. He was perched on a prop box like it was a throne. “Dead serious. First full take. Slipped on my own foot and nearly took Minho-hyung down with me.”

Minho, without missing a beat, called out, “Nearly? You did take me down.”

Han held up two fingers. “Two full takes ruined. I was convinced I was going to be kicked out of the group.”

Felix chimed in. “Chan-hyung cried after our first MV shoot.”

“I did not!” Chan called, scandalized.

“You did,” Changbin said with a mouthful of protein bar. “You cried in the bathroom and tried to blame allergies.”

Laughter echoed.

Even Iseul—through the tears brimming in her eyes—let out a shaky, startled sound.

A laugh.

Small. Real.

Chan gave her a side glance. “You okay?”

She nodded slowly.

Her voice was hoarse, but steadier now. The lump in her throat hadn’t vanished, but it felt manageable—shrunk down by the ridiculous image of Han wiping out mid-choreo and dragging Minho down with him, by the fact that even Chan had apparently cracked under the pressure once. By the fact that they weren’t looking at her like she was weak.

They were just here.

Still joking. Still standing.

Still hers, in a way she was still getting used to.

“Okay then,” Chan said, gently adjusting the collar of her sweater—more reassurance than styling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she muttered. “I’ll settle for not face-planting.”

“No promises,” Han chirped from behind them, far too enthusiastically.

“Why are you still sitting like that?” Seungmin asked as he walked past Han. “You look like a cursed meerkat.”

“It’s my artistic pose,” Han replied, dramatically striking a new, even worse one.

Minho rolled his eyes. “You want her to laugh or throw up?”

“I’m versatile like that.”

Changbin gently nudged Iseul’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got your back, yeah?”

She glanced up at him. “Even if I freeze in the middle of a shot?”

“I’ll pretend I meant to spin and fall next to you in solidarity.”

“I’ll trip before you do,” Jeongin called from somewhere near the monitors. “I’m building the suspense.”

She laughed again, this time more freely, as Hyunjin quietly passed her a water bottle. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them said anything.

But he didn’t look away this time.

And neither did she.

“Places, everyone!”

The call echoed through the set again, more urgent now.

The group began to move, bodies falling into formation like second nature, but this time—

This time, Iseul didn’t feel like she was following.

She felt like she belonged.

As the music began to thrum through the speakers and the cameras rolled into place, she let herself breathe. Deep. Full.

The lights hit.

Her cue arrived.

And Iseul stepped into it.

The track blared through the speakers, bass heavy and sharp. Lights cut across the set in timed flashes.

Iseul moved on instinct.

One beat, then another. A glance at the camera, a tilt of her head, the movement of her hands—every gesture honed through hours of practice now carried a new weight. Not perfection, but something real. Nervous, yes. But steady.

Behind her, she could feel them all moving too. Familiar energy. Familiar rhythm. The boys weren’t just backup—they were her anchors.

Felix caught her eye mid-routine and gave the smallest wink. She nearly missed a step from smiling.

Take after take passed. A few stumbles. A missed cue. Laughter in between. No one snapped. No one scolded.

Even when she flubbed a choreo segment, Hyunjin didn’t sigh or look away. He just ran the move slowly beside her, mirroring the steps until she caught on again.

“Better,” he muttered when they finished. “Still awkward, but better.”

She smacked his arm on instinct. He grinned like it was the highest compliment.

Chan watched everything like a hawk, as always, but whenever she met his eyes, his nods were calm. Assuring. He didn’t say much—he didn’t need to.

At one point, during a break, Changbin wandered over with two water bottles and handed one to her. “Still standing?” he asked, mock-serious.

“Barely,” she admitted, wiping her forehead.

“You didn’t fall once. That’s already better than my record.”

“I tripped twice,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “Style points.”

By the time the director finally called, “That’s a wrap!” the room erupted in scattered applause.

Felix whooped. Han threw both arms in the air like they’d won a championship. Minho gave a small but satisfied nod, muttering, “That’ll do.”

Iseul stood in the middle of the set, dazed but buzzing.

She did it.

“First MV done,” Jeongin said, bouncing over to her side, awkwardly holding a camera. “How do you feel?”

She opened her mouth—then paused. She wasn’t sure she had the right word.

Chan saved her the trouble. He stepped beside her, voice quiet. “Like a member of Stray Kids.”

Her throat caught.

Then Felix draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the group’s orbit without hesitation. “Group photo!” he declared. “We need to memorialize her transformation from yogurt gremlin to visual goddess.”

“You’re gonna get smacked,” Seungmin muttered.

But she let herself laugh anyway, pulling in close as the camera clicked.

One chaotic, blurry photo later, the memory was sealed: her, tangled somewhere between Felix’s bear hug and Han’s peace signs, Minho smirking just off-center, and Chan’s hand on her shoulder—solid, warm, proud.

They didn’t know what would come next.

But for tonight, they had this.

And it was enough.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346

STORY HINT: Iseul went home that night and changed her phone’s homescreen to the group selfie they’d taken after filming. A reminder—just for her—that she was here, she was a part of this, and maybe, just maybe, she was exactly where she needed to be.

Ahahhaha I reaallllyyy liked writing this chapter - it was so cute TwT Hope yall loved it too <33 Vacay has officially started so yay freedom lol...I'll try to come up w more but honestly I'm scrambling for ideas...yall please share yer ideas w me...I'll try to include it TvT Stay safe! ~candy

[transformers-spike]

Well, now I *have* to ask for Skyquake and Dreadwing quadruple dicking.

(For everyone else: head cannon that seekers have two spikes, and that very much includes these absolute beefcakes)

After some debate, I decided to still give them knots. Because nothing's stopping me.

Is this what it means to be loved? Claws stroking over your shivering form with reverence and respect, you’ve never felt more at ease. There is adoration in their optics. Skyquake’s blaze like a forest fire, all passion and hunger for what your human body can give. Dreadwing’s stream down your frame like rain on a hot summer day – soaking you in the comfort of his touch.

Their servos are equal parts frigid and searing, overwhelming you with sensations and textures you’ve never experienced with another of your kind. Their ex-vents are warm against your flesh, lips brushing over your neck and back. For the very first time in your measly little life, you’re being worshipped. What do they see in you? You’re trapped between two colossuses of unfathomable greatness, two honorable beings choosing to stoop down to your size if only to experience your finite nature. Their digits find their way inside of you, dull claw-tips caressing sweet nerves to prepare you for what’s to come. Skyquake’s spikes are too large to enter you at the same time; one of them rests pulsating on your stomach, the other stretches you, pain molding into pleasure. His brother’s servos stroke your thighs encouragingly, parting them for his twin. You’re certain the favor will be returned. Skyquake wastes no time thrusting into you, praises dripping off his glossa as his fragile human does the impossible and takes a mech of his size. Dreadwing’s interface panel is yet to open, but you swear you can feel it overheating behind you, cooling fans running at maximum capacity.

It’s not long until Skyquake spills himself, growling and digging his claws into the berth. The knot swelling inside of you burns, stretching your walls to their limits. You don’t mind the transfluid coating your stomach, you can barely feel your own body by the time he kisses you, struggling to stop himself from devouring your lips. You shudder as Dreadwing’s digit draws circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs, drawing out overload after overload, making you clench around his brother’s spike. It causes Skyquake to hiss and grind his hips against yours. When he pulls out with a wet pop, Dreadwing quickly takes his place. His members are thinner. At first he starts with only one of them, testing your limits before he slips the other in. Together, they’re bigger than Skyquake’s spike, but your previous orgasms make the transition smoother, easing your walls until he can fit himself completely. He handles you with awe as if mystified by your capabilities, shallow thrusts keeping his spikes mostly sheathed inside of your tiny body. He calls your determination admirable, which makes you laugh and smile up at him, declaring you’re just in for the ride. A startled noise escapes you when Skyquake holds your thighs up, pressing your knees to your chest, pushing your flexibility. Dreadwing reproaches his brother, but you chuckle and give a thumbs up, urging him to continue; hesitantly, he does as asked. He lasts longer than his twin, making love to your smaller form until he eventually overloads with a groan, bracing himself over you. His spikes twitch, knots pressing up against each other inside of you in what must be the best accidental self-service. Skyquake lets go of your legs and gives his brother space to plant a needy kiss on your lips, polite as ever, concealing the full extent of his desperation. Skyquake presses his digit to the very same sensitive bud, guiding you to orgasm after orgasm, inner walls clamping down on his brother’s spikes. “Brother, stop,” Dreadwing orders, servos on either side of your thighs. From your angle, you can hardly see Skyquake’s expression – but from what you can tell, he looks extremely smug. “What? I’m simply repaying your kindness in full,” he answers, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his intake. Dreadwing seizes his twin’s servo without hurting your abused genitals.

“Not when it turns painful,” he says, glaring at his brother who seems twice as amused. You snort at the display, earning two arched optical ridges. “Damn, you guys are adorable.” Your hand finds Dreadwing’s servo, addressing both of them. “Thank you. It’s definitely… the best frag of my life.” His golden face is adorably coated in blue blush. 

“Anything for you,” Skyquake’s voice rumbles above you. He places his servo over your free hand.

Together, they look down at you like you’re their greatest treasure; splayed across the bed, disheveled hair, wide eyed, panting, transfluid smeared across your skin.

“It’s the least we can give,” his brother says, brushing the hair from your face. Tears are pricking your eyes.

[olderthannetfic]

This may sound ironic coming from someone who's not a huge fan of femdom but the overload of daddy/baby girl kink in basic straight smut is kind of getting out of hand. Now, I'm no anti-shipping prude, I want to live in a world where every single living breathing organism that contains enough sentience to do so can create whatever they want and believe me, I've got kinks that are so damn weird they don't even have names, but it's like getting flashbanged by a grenade in the middle of the night when you wake up to stumble to the bathroom to take a piss when you're just chilling reading some smut and all of a sudden the grown ass male MC is calling the grown ass female MC a little icky princess (I almost gagged while even typing that but yeah,) and teases her about her "princess parts" being tingly, I'd rather be yeeted off the face of the Earth, please and thanks, do not pass go, do not collect $200, and go directly to maximum security prison if you post this shit without tagging it properly. And may everything holy and good in the world help me if I ever have to fucking hear the word "cummies" one more fucking thing time.

--

[topazadine]

Things that immediately turn me off a fiction book

I'm pretty picky with what I read, because the time I spend reading is time that I could spend writing. I generally know if I will like a book within the first chapter, and I feel no shame in giving up if I'm not vibing with it.

And no, I don't believe in the "oooh read further it warms up" because does it? Does it really? Do I want to waste time finding out?

Frankly, at this point in life, I read more nonfiction than fiction because there's just so. many. bad. books. that are getting published. Worse than fanfictions.

Anyway, here are the things that make me give up. Maybe hearing this will help you as you write your own masterpiece.

Too Many Proper Nouns

Three characters maximum in the first chapter or two. Do not throw dozens of people at me. I will get confused and give up. Let me get to know the main character, by themself or with a few of their closest companions, before you make me remember everyone else. And go deep with those characters! I want someone to stick with!

You can reference other characters, to create a sense of a deeper world, but do not go all-in on them. Make it clear that they are just there to provide a bit of context, and we don't have to remember them yet. We should only be meeting three characters maximum.

Throwing Us Immediately Into a Dramatic Action Point

This is controversial I know, but I hate when something immediately starts with a battle. I don't care if any of these people live or die. I don't know them. I haven't grown attached to any of them.

Even just a page or two to get to know them first will help. You can have them gearing up for a battle, thinking about what's going to happen, maybe talking to their friends, maybe checking their armor, whatever feels natural for them. But do not just start with stabbing people! I don't care about them yet!

Too Many Details

Many this is just me, but I simply do not care about every piece of armor your character is wearing. I don't need to hear a play-by-play of every single color of every single thing because I don't care. Pick out a few specific things for me to focus on and that's it. Stop overloading me with colors and patterns and armor styles.

Yes, yes, you've done your research on historically accurate gear. That's great. It would be good for a movie. But if I have to look up different armor pieces every five seconds, I am glossing over it and moving on. I don't care. I'm here for the story. If I wanted an infodump about medieval armor, I would simply pick up a nonfiction book (and maybe I will).

White Space Syndrome

Tell me what the overall scene looks like instead of all these hyperspecific details of certain objects, like carts or emblems or whatever. I want to know where I am!!

Don't just say "a forest." Tell me what kind of forest. Tell me if it's a young forest or an old snarly forest or a swampy forest or a cold alpine forest.

Don't just say "a castle." Tell me if it's a bustling castle or a gloomy castle or a rundown castle.

Don't just say "on the sea." Cold sea? Tropical sea? Far far away from land or is land in sight? These are the things I want!

Too Much Backstory

For the love of god do not explain the entire history of this culture in the first chapter. The first chapter is for getting to know the characters we're going to be following. You can introduce those things slowly and carefully as the story unfolds.

I get that fiction writers are delighted by all the worldbuilding (or research, in historical fiction) they have done. But the reader does not care right away. They need to get invested before all those little specifics matter at all. My eyes glaze over and I give up because I don't want to have to remember all of that all at once. It's like you just threw a college textbook at my face.

Plus, if you're doing third-person limited, you have to remember that the character is not going to be thinking all of that! They won't say all of that either! Because they know all of that!

Even a general on the brink of a major battle is not going to go "yes, this all dates back to when we took Iuanfutila back in 181, when the brave Iuanfutilans protested the rule of our Yawwbaawnwhryr leaders ...." They are focused on the present moment, and they may discuss the backstory later. Tell us what we need to know now because that is what the character would be thinking too.

"Oh, but Topazadine, how will the readers understand the context if I don't tell them??"

There's a battle. Two groups are at war. Or something was stolen. Or two people are fighting. Whatever. We understand those things. We can get the basic gist of how things are going to play out by just showing us these things happening. Then, as we have gotten a feel for the characters, you can tell us more about the context.

If you walk into a store that's being held up by an armed robber, do you give a shit about his backstory, or do you only care once that person has been arrested and you have to testify? I think we know the answer. You're not going "ohhh why is he doing this??" at first. You're going "HOLY SHIT THERE'S A GUN WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NOW???" and then you'll care about the other stuff later.

Too Much Play-by-Play

I also do not need a play by play of a fight scene. I need to know the general movements, and then the overall atmosphere. I want to feel what the character feels rather than feel like I'm watching a football game.

Your reader will fill in the gaps if you give them enough information, but when you overload them with every single action, they're now trying to keep track of what went where instead of how this moment is supposed to feel. And now the action and drama has gone out of the writing because it's become a manual of fighting techniques.

Pointless Dumb Conversations

"Oh, could you turn around for me? I want privacy."

"Sure, of course, I'm a respectable man." Manfred knew that a lady-in-waiting would be unsettled by the presence of a strange man, so he wanted to be respectful.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Oh my god no one cares!!! No one!! We don't need this exchange. Cut it. This is stupid. Unless something is actually happening or something is meaningful about them saying this, shut up.

How to Not Write a Horrible First Chapter That Makes People Ragequit

Can you tell I'm mad today? I started and stopped three different books because they were all so bad.

Three characters max in the first chapter, with deep discussion of each. (One or two is better.) General appearance, demeanor, profession, whatever.

Restrain the urge to infodump! Dribble it out over the chapter!

Give the setting more attention than random little details that ultimately do not matter. I don't need to know the pattern of the curtains on the horsecart that's about to be burnt. Don't care.

Do not give a play by play of every single action that a character takes because it's boring and no one cares.

In media res is great but do NOT start with a big climactic intense battle or fight or whatever because we don't know these characters and don't know who to root for (or why we should care).

Your character is not going to give us a history lesson in why this conflict is happening. Do not do it yourself either. Give us just enough to get intrigued and no more. Think how your characters would think and what they would prioritize in discussions.

If a conversation is just pleasantries and has no purpose, drop it, we don't care.

[mt-oe]

I’ve just been highly obsessed over modern Mizu. So I’m just asking for that, modern Mizu meets reader at uni or something like that! I love LOVE your writing!! 💖💖

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dear!

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you don't mind if I add a bit more to this <3 I've been wanting to write modern au Mizu hcs and your request really granted me the opportunity to do so.

Also, I'm so sorry for being so slow on the requests. I've been so eepy lately for some reason and I can't fight against it, like I tried but failed so many times ;; I am a slave to my own body

Anyways, I hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warning/s: not proofread, she/her for mizu, implied afab reader, game reference (league of legends)

general headcanons

✦ This woman would either overload or underload her units like crazy. She'd either be busy with her academics and work 6 days a week, even sending a letter to the admin so she can go past the mandated maximum amount of units in one semester or doing absolutely nothing while the rest of her friends are going apeshit on their finals. There's no in between.

She would plan it like an absolute psychopath too. Nothing special foreseeably happening in the next semester? She's going above and beyond. A convention she wants to go to on September? Signing up for the bare minimum amount of allowed units just for one event.

Her friends are either concerned for her and losing contact for a whole semester, or are pissed off that she's playing some kind of gacha game on her phone while they're losing their minds on their finals.

✦ Would be the type to be so pissed off by slow walkers in the hallway. The hatred she has for people who walk so fucking slow in the hallway is unbridled. Though she's not the type to pick fights, she'd be the type to sigh loudly, making you feel her anger, before overtaking and wouldn't be afraid to bump against the person if needed. Her hatred goes deep enough to the point where she even remembers people JUST because they walk slow.

✦ The type of friend who would walk to everything. Sure she has her motorbike, but if she can walk to it, you bet she's going to walk. She even knows different shortcuts to different buildings on campus.

"This looks like a good place," Akemi tells them, showing her phone. For once, their vacant hours finally aligned and they've been trying to find a good place to eat since the lunch hall food was getting repetitive and they could feel their taste buds dulling over time. Akemi, being the 'what do you guys want to eat?' friend, and the other three, being the 'I don't know' or the 'I'm fine with whatever' friends, is left to search for a new place.

They took a look at the place and shrugged in agreement, making her roll her eyes at their lack of opinion. "Okay but how are we going to go there?" Taigen asks. Mizu takes Akemi's phone and looks up the map to the place. The distance itself was enough to tell a person that they should take the bus. Hell, it was on the other side of town almost.

"We can walk. It's not that far," she says, closing the map and handing Akemi her phone back. They trusted Mizu. It couldn't be that bad.

Right?

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, they were already sweating, ready to give up, tired out of their wits. The food wasn't even worth it anymore.

"It's not that far" my ass.

Even Taigen, her fellow gym rat and workout buddy, was fucking exhausted. And this bitch (affectionately), has the audacity to stand there, crossing her arms with the most unamused expression on her face as if it was their fault for being so exhausted. If she tells you its walking distance, it is NOT within walking distance.

✦ She's a jack-of-all trades type of person, but she'd have the fattest fucking talent crush on anyone who can express themselves through art. The talents and skills she gathered were purely out of necessity. Fixing and modifying bikes was the only thing she was truly passionate about but it's hard to be expressive through repairing motorbikes, right?

She has always been so amazed by stories of painters, sculptors, singers, and writers who have deep backstories and can reflect it through their art. She would be the type to read the whole description in art museums just because she's so amazed by them.

Deep inside her, she wished she could do that too. To express herself through a medium. Like what do you mean you wrote this poem because you're sad your cat died? Or what do you mean you took this professional-looking picture just because you had the best picnic date with your friends? How can someone write a song about casual sapphic sex? She can't even vocalize her feelings, how much more in art? Whenever she sees someone writing their English essay so well or drawing randomly, she'd secretly be so interested.

✦ Mizu would have social media accounts but would use it bare minimum. She'd be that type of classmate that you're not sure if it's really her because she doesn't have a profile picture you can check or if she does, it's like a picture of an item instead of her face.

Her friends would be so happy whenever Mizu posts an IG story even if it's just a picture of where they were eating or even if their face is barely in the picture.

"Aww you posted us!" and they're like little ants with how small they were in the picture.

Or

"Do you want to eat at that place again?" and she'd be like 'what? why?' but they'd know she actually enjoyed the food because she bothered posting a picture of the place.

Deep inside her, Mizu wants to keep up with whatever trends her friends are into but she's very lowkey about it. The tough love friend who secretly really enjoys being friends, y'know? She'd search about it and try to figure it out. Everyone's surprised by her internet knowledge since she always acts like she wouldn't give a shit whatever new trend is on.

✦ This sounds so corny and stereotypical, but Taigen and her would be those gym rats who solve everything by working out. It didn't matter if it was a weekday, a weekend, a holiday, or whatever weather condition was going on outside, they are going.

They failed a test? Gym. Hungover? Gym. Too much homework? Gym.

When Megan Thee Stallion said she'll go to the gym two times a day, they go three. When she said the results are resulting? The body is bodying? These two are taking it seriously.

Taigen would focus on biceps, chest, and lats, cutting down on fat so his body would look more lean. He'd hate leg day but would do it anyway just to balance out his physique.

Meanwhile, Mizu would have a 'sleeper-type' build and her routine would be more well-rounded and would even include calisthenics on her free time. They'd try to beat each other's PR but it really ain't a competition when Mizu is always winning.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

how did you two meet?

Stupid shitty project.

Stupid fucking publisher gatekeeping the fucking article.

Stupid bitch ass school wifi keeps disconnecting.

Mizu resisted the urge to slam her laptop shut as her device disconnected from the wifi for the nth time. She was stuck in the library trying to finish her midterm project for building design system and holy shit was she frustrated.

She needed to create a specific building design that was supposed to be environmentally friendly, using what was considered as 'green materials' and had minimally destructive designs. It wouldn't be so bad if this fucking publisher just had to put a price on the article she needed. Wasn't education supposed to be free or whatever?

Her friends tried to help her, telling her to use the library computers, but none of them were working or free at the moment. That leaves her to use her laptop in the library. Usually, that wouldn't be a problem but due to the recent rains, the school wifi has been pretty shitty.

After a few more tries, she decided that this wasn't worth the frustration and trouble, and decided to collect her things to get ready to leave. Just as she was about to zip up her bag, a tap on the shoulder stopped her. She turned around to look at who was trying to get her attention, ready to tell them off. But upon turning around, her heart skipped a beat.

There you stood.

In your oh-so fancy sweatpants and college logo hoodie (whose logo wasn't even the university's). Your hair was ruffled and messy, eyes tired and more exhausted than her's. Understandably so though. It was hell week and everyone was tired, but somehow, your tired looked so pretty.

Her eyes continued to stare at you. Like the world stopped moving and it was just you and her in the room.

"Umm...there's a free computer over there if you still need it," you said shyly but in a straightforward manner. A small tired smile on your lips, trying to appear as friendly as possible. Mizu snapped out of her trance and nodded, slinging her bag over her shoulder to move to the said computer.

Maybe she'll stay for a bit. To finish her midterm project.

Definitely not for the pretty lady.

No, of course not.

Upon sitting down, she couldn't help but sneak glances at you, looking back down at the screen when you looked in her direction. She felt stupid, like a lovestruck fool. Borderline, like a child getting their first actual crush.

In her mind, she was already planning how to approach you without making it awkward. Maybe she'll try to strike up a conversation? But how? Hmmm..

It definitely took a while, being distracted and all, but she was finally able to finish her report. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself mentally to talk to you. She stood up and stretched after logging herself out, pretending to look around the room but in reality she was looking for you.

Much to her dismay, you were no where to be found. A small "fuck" left her lips as she sighed, picking her bag up. The universe must hate her. Giving her an opportunity to see the most beautiful person she's ever seen only for them to leave early? Fuck.

Her thoughts continued to plague her for the rest of the day, even until the next morning. It sounded so silly and so stupid for her to be this bothered, but she really just couldn't forget you. She sighed once again as she stared at the lecture hall walls, face hidden against her palms.

"Excuse me. Do you have an extra pencil?" a voice asked as she felt a tap on her shoulder. Looking up grouchily, her eyes widened immediately.

It was you.

And this time, she wasn't going to let this opportunity pass.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

but what now? (girlfriend headcanons)

✦ Mizu would absolutely remember EVERYTHING about you. Your birthday, MBTI score, favorites, dislikes, and even the silliest things such as what makes you sneeze.

She has a second brain for these, an internal SSD in her brain just for you. You won't even have to remind her about anything, because she already planned it out before you remember.

It's especially great for errands since you don't have to give her a list, she already has a list in her brain. Sometimes, you'd think she forgot because she's so quiet about it but she always finds a way to prove you wrong. If she says she forgot something about you, it's a lie. She never forgets, especially when it comes to her girlfriend.

✦ Would pretend to not understand or know how to do something just so you could teach or show her. Mizu definitely has a lot of skill up her sleeves, but whenever you asked if she knew something that she knew you were good at, she'd pretend not to.

"So I just click like this?" she asked you through the call, clicking on a minion. You had enthusiastically called her, asking if she wanted to learn how to play League of Legends. Unknown to you, your girlfriend already knew how to play and was quite good at it (that's a lie, she's beyond good).

She couldn't help but smile slightly as she watched you nod enthusiastically. The thought of you being so eager to spend time with her was heart-warming. She even made a dummy account just to make her beginner act look believable. "Yeah, you just need to keep this up. So should we queue together?" you asked, sounding really excited.

Mizu chuckled and nodded. "Don't get mad at me, okay?" she joked lightly, accepting your invite. "I won't. I'll be the ADC so you can play support until you get the hang of it, okay?" you said, checking which ADR champions you had cool skins of. Your girlfriend let out a small laugh at your enthusiasm, signaling you to start the queue.

The game went really well. Extremely well.

To your surprise, Mizu was quite a good support. Never accidentally stealing your CS, always being there during a clash, skill shots always hitting, knowing who to focus on. "It's because you're good at teaching people," she said.

But really, you wonder how she knew which items to build when you never even taught her.

✦ Would do the most random or the smallest things for you. She's not good at expressing her feelings so she makes up for it through acts of service and gift giving. Mizu tries her best to be as loving as she can without overwhelming you.

Can you even remember the last time you tied your own shoelaces? You can't. Can you?

Sometimes, you'll be surprised to arrive home with the fridge already stocked even though you had told her that you'll do the groceries on your next day off. The only response you'll get is a shake of her head and a random thing you mentioned you wanted to buy.

Sometimes, she's a bit silly though. Putting in the effort to remove her jacket to shield you from the rain even though you had an umbrella, removing the buckle of your helmet so she'd be the one to put it on you, gifting you random goofy greeting cards.

It's both endearing and a bit funny.

✦ Secretly loves it when you put makeup on her or if you let her do your makeup. Her amazement and fascination skyrockets whenever she watched you put make up on. It was a line of femininity that she was never taught to cross. She'd watch you with deep interest, observing how carefully you did it, how purposeful each step you did was.

"So why do you put it on?" she asks. You hum in thought before shrugging. "It just...makes me feel pretty."

What do you mean it makes you feel pretty?

You were already pretty.

You can't help but laugh at her and her curiosity. "It just does. It feels therapeutic to put on and I like how I look after, it's like expressing myself or something. Like painting but on your face," you explained to her, making her raise an eyebrow.

"But what if you don't like the way it looks?" she asked, picking up your eyeshadow palette and swatching a color on her hand curiously. "I can always take it off," you answered, blending the blush on your cheeks.

She stayed silent for a moment, continuing to swatch the colors on her hand. Her mind still couldn't wrap around the fact that this could make you feel better. Its just color and chemicals, and it washes off too.

Your eyes scanned her face before a soft laugh left your lips. "Here. Want to try?" you offered. Your girlfriend looked a bit hesitant but she wanted to understand.

Was this really fun?

After a few minutes, some struggles and squirming, you finally finished putting some make up on her. You tried your best to make it look as natural and as light as possible, knowing that she wouldn't appreciate the texture of heavy makeup immediately.

Blue eyes scanned over her own face on the mirror. She didn't say anything, but the slight twitch of her lips and the shine in her eyes spoke thousands.

"I want to do it on you too," she said quietly. "At least one thing. Let me try to do it for you."

You heart melted at her excitement. How could you refuse her when she finally finds something she likes? You handed her your eyeliner and sat down. "Here, follow my instructions.."

Mizu actually ended up liking it. Although she enjoyed putting it on you more, she still enjoyed it nonetheless. The amount of practice she put in made you wonder if she was actually better than you now. Somehow, she felt a bit of relief and a bit happy that she finally found something she could do that was considered as 'artistic'.

What started off as a simple "let me try" ended up being part of your routine. This woman never stopped practicing different eyeliner looks and now she just sits on your bed, waiting for you to finish your routine so she can put it on you. Sometimes she'd do a more creative graphic liner look, but on days you had to go to uni or work, she'd do the usual. She could probably do it with her eyes closed.

And the results?

SHARP.

Capital S H A R P.

[toribellsa]

Cheetah Lando and his teammate Oscar

I thought I needed these two for my mental health and peace of mind.

Lando the cheetah uses Oscar's couch as his bed for the first time

After a tense race day on the track, Lando was preparing for the press conference. The race had been emotionally and physically challenging for him, and he feared that his control over his second identity might weaken. Sometimes, when he experienced intense overload, his body would start to change, and he would transform into a graceful and fast cheetah.

(Thank goodness his control prevented this from happening during the race.)

The press conference was more crowded than usual, and Lando understood that it was because he and Oscar were in a tight battle for the championship this year, with only a minimal gap between them. They were both in great spirits after a successful race, but Lando felt his emotions intensifying. He sensed the tension within him coiling into a tight knot, and the only solution seemed to be to transform, but he thought he could handle it.

The questions were coming in thick and fast, and just when Lando thought the crisis had passed, he felt his body starting to change. He quickly glanced at Oscar, who seemed not to have noticed what was happening yet. Suddenly, in the midst of the press conference, Lando transformed into a cheetah. His fur became golden with black spots, and his eyes sparkled like two bright emeralds. His long legs got stuck in his racing suit, causing him to awkwardly tangle in it and stretch out on the couch.

The journalists froze in surprise at first, but Oscar, unfazed, simply smiled. He had encountered Lando's sudden transformations before, so he was more or less accustomed to them. The cheetah, feeling a bit awkward under the attention, crawled further along the couch and moved closer to Oscar, eventually lying down next to him and resting his head on Oscar's lap. He looked at his teammate with affection, and Oscar, chuckling, began to scratch him behind the ear, which made Lando softly purr, though it was more of a low rumble. Although Oscar considered himself a dog person, he definitely knew how to connect with any cat, even one as unique as Lando.

"Well, it seems our race winner is a bit tired of the questions and has chosen an infallible way to avoid answering them," Oscar said with a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. Max, sitting in the third seat, joked that it was cheating, but Lando didn’t care as long as Oscar continued to scratch behind his ear, and he could feel the tension leaving his body, loosening the tight knot.

The journalists, regaining their composure, began taking pictures of the scene before them, but Oscar, ignoring them, continued to interact with Lando as if nothing unusual had happened. This wouldn’t be their problem; Oscar and Lando were confident that the McLaren PR team would use this situation to once again show that their drivers were close, even when competing for the championship.

The press conference continued when one of the journalists, clearly not wanting to miss the opportunity for a sensational headline, asked Oscar a question that made the younger driver tense up: 

"Oscar, don’t you think you’re just living in Lando’s shadow? Don’t you think that being the second driver is your maximum potential for the future, considering you now have a long-term contract with the team?"

A tense silence fell over the room. Oscar, a bit flustered, tried to find words that wouldn’t land him in community service or incur a fine, but before he could respond, Lando, still in his cheetah form, abruptly lifted his head from the boy's lap and hissed. His hiss was low and menacing, like a warning that no one dared to touch his Oscar or speak such nonsense to him.

The journalists froze, and Oscar, feeling protected, smiled a bit sheepishly. Lando, now sitting on the couch, moved even closer to Oscar and nuzzled his face into his shoulder, offering support and protection.

Oscar, feeling the warmth and softness of the cheetah, gently stroked his head, and Lando sensed the tension in Oscar’s body gradually dissipating. He looked at Lando and quietly said, "It’s okay, buddy. I’ll handle it."

Lando hissed again, but this time the sound quickly shifted to a soft purr, full of support and trust. He knew he would always be there to protect his teammate, and that their bond was stronger than any harsh words. So if Oscar said everything would be alright, then it would be. But that didn’t mean he was completely at ease. So for the rest of the press conference, he sprawled out next to Oscar, resting his head against his soft thigh.

After the press conference, when everyone had dispersed, Lando returned to his human form, and he and Oscar stepped outside, laughing and discussing the race. Lando’s large hand rested on Oscar’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, silently conveying that whatever the journalists said, it didn’t mean it was true.

[emotionalsupport-ljh]

Whelmed 🩷

Even Jihoon needs to be taken care of sometimes.

Fluff - woozi x gn!reader

Maybe I'm projecting jussssst a lil bit. Anyway, Happy Birth Month, my precious, precious boy!!

AO3 link

Word Count: 2.5k

CW: crying, meltdown, a lil hurt/comfort, jihoon is stressed and needs maximum comfort

₊˚⊹ 🩷🩷🩷꒰.^₃^꒱☆⋆｡

You walk into the Universe Factory and the first thing you see is Jihoon laying face down on the couch. It’s silent in the room, which is incredibly rare, except for the sounds of heavy breathing and sniffles. You walk slowly toward the couch and plop down on the edge of it. Jihoon makes some room for you without lifting his face. Your hand finds his back to start rubbing it comfortingly.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask, your voice softly above a whisper.

“I got really overwhelmed.” Jihoon’s small voice is muffled by the cushions of the seat. He finally turns around to face you, now laying on his back. His nose and eyes are tinged red, and his face is slightly shining from a few tears left there. He’s been done crying for a while. He looks and feels small, however, and moves your hand to pat his tummy, still craving your touch.

“That’s okay. Want to go to my place to get whelmed?” you offer.

Jihoon lets out a laugh, a smile finally appearing on his face. “Is that even a word?”

“I don’t know, but my offer still stands.” You lift an eyebrow to him and return the smile.

He takes a deep breath and exhales an “Okay.” 

You begin to stand up and take a moment to look out of the window. The sun just went down. It’s still early in the night, however, since Jihoon usually ends his work past midnight. Only special circumstances like dinner plans or events get him to call it quits early, and even then, he just ends up back in the studio, producing away. Tonight is an extremely rare circumstance. One in which work stops because it absolutely has to or it will destroy the boy’s mind. It’s only ever happened one other time since you two started dating. You’re ready for it much better this time, knowing all he wants is to be taken care of and to not have to think about anything.

You wait for Jihoon to stand up and follow your lead, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, he puffs out his cheeks and reaches up for you, wanting you to lift him to his feet. He looks insanely adorable, even if there are still the dying embers of a meltdown still glowing on his face. You grab his hands and pull him up to a seated position then finally up to his feet. You are determined to make him feel better tonight, any way you can. 

“Carry me,” he pouts. 

You giggle at the suggestion, knowing exactly how he feels. “I would if I could.” You continue to keep the mood really light and joking as you leave the building and walk to your apartment building. You carry Jihoon’s bag for him, and he pays for some snacks at a convenience store. 

Once you make it into your apartment, you both immediately change into your fluffiest, comfiest clothes. Jihoon sits comfortably on the couch, picking something to watch while you make popcorn and pour your drinks into cute mason jars. You each picked out some candy to share and an ice cream treat to store in the freezer for later, as well. You come to the living room and set down the popcorn bowl and drinks and find Jihoon with his eyebrows furrowed as he scrolls through every streaming platform there is, trying to find something suitable.

“This is impossible,” he huffs.

“What are you looking for?” you plop next to him and throw a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

“I don’t know. Something good.” His response isn’t very elaborate.

“A K-Drama?” you ask.

“No, I want something I don’t have to think too hard about.”

“Then what about a kids’ cartoon? Like Bluey,” you suggest.

“No, no. I’m not in the mood for something for kids.” He sticks out his tongue while he scrolls. His cuteness is going to send you into an overload. Usually, he takes charge of things and lets you be the cute one. When he gets like this, it’s such a special sight for you to take in all the softness he locks away behind his more serious personality.

You are just happy to be next to him, watching him go through each genre until something strikes him. You kind of zone out merrily, until you hear slight groaning next to you. Jihoon’s face is twisted up in frustration. He’s getting overwhelmed again and fusses over the TV remote.

“I can’t choose,” he says, voice choking up a little bit.

You take the initiative to place your hand on his and gently set the remote down on the coffee table. You place your other hand on his cheek and turn him to face you. You smile and kiss his nose while softly assuring, “It’s okay. They give way too many options, right? If you want, I can pick, okay?”

Jihoon’s hand intertwines with yours, grabbing at your fingers and rubbing your palms. He nods and breathes, calming down more and more. You turn your attention to the TV and select a shojo anime you both have seen about a million times and restart it from the first episode. The tension you both were once holding onto in your shoulders finally relaxes as you both sit back and watch the opening credits. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” you say as you jolt up from your seat and walk toward your bedroom. “Be right back.” 

Jihoon follows you with eyes wide until you disappear into your room. He’s curious why you’ve run off and how long your errand will take. Not long, apparently, as you reappear within a minute holding velvet soft plushies for you both to cuddle. You return to your seat and settle into the back cushion of the couch placing a cat plushie in Jihoon’s arms. You place a bear plushie on the opposite side of you and let Jihoon settle into your outstretched arm, laying his head on your chest. It’s a position you usually take when you watch TV together, and you are glad he finds your chest as comfortable and secure as you find his.

The popcorn disappears about a quarter of the way into the second episode. You didn’t realize how hungry you were. You sit idly watching the cute female protagonist miss all the cues that the people around her are instantly infatuated with her. You try to focus on the cute little plot, but you are interrupted by a small growling sound.

You look at Jihoon then to his stomach then back to his face. His eyes are wide, and his face is red. You laugh quietly, “Ready for candy?”

“Actually, can we make ramen? I’m hungry for more than snacks.” 

“Of course, coming right up!” you say as you get up to move to the kitchen. It’s a little surprising when footsteps follow. “You want to help?” you question your sudden shadow.

Jihoon nods his head silently. For what it’s worth, he does fill a pot with water while you find a few packs of ramen. While the water boils, however, his version of helping beyond that is just to stand behind you with his arms around your waist, laying his head on your back. This kind of white noise is your favorite. Nothing but low TV chatter from the characters in a sweet shojo, the sound of water boiling, and soft breathing. You’re relaxed and hope that Jihoon feels the same way. You want him to decompress and let go of all the stress of the day. You know that eventually, he will have to talk about it to process it though. For now, you stir the pot with long chopsticks making sure the noodles are not too hard and not too soft.

You bring the pot and two pairs of chopsticks to the coffee table, making sure to put it on a heat resistant mat. Jihoon’s arms remain around you as he shuffles along with you every step of the way. With a huff, he finally lets you go as he sits back on the couch, but he does wait for you with open arms.

“Do you want me to feed you, too?” you laugh as you settle in next to him. He’s a little clingy, but it’s rare to see him so dependent on anyone else. In these small moments, you indulge him and genuinely do wish you could do everything for him so that he doesn’t have to think, or overthink, about it.

“No! I can eat by myself,” he responds, flustered. He grabs the chopsticks and takes mouthfuls of ramen. You let him fill up a bit first and swoop in for your share when he’s had his fill. The ramen disappears, and so do all of the treats while the anime plays comfortingly in the background. Jihoon is snuggled up with his head leaning against you, and you notice his eyes drooping heavier and heavier.

Before he completely knocks out, you get his attention, “Hey,” you start softly, “want to start getting ready for bed?”

Jihoon slowly lifts his head and nods while rubbing his eyes. Sometimes he reminds you of a sweet little kitten with the way he pouts with his pink lips. You kiss him before standing up and bringing him to stand with you. He grabs both of the fluffy companions from the couch, then he follows you like a little duck to the bedroom. You both breeze through your nightly routine. Jihoon is in bed with his arms out, again, waiting for you to join him.

“Wait here, I’m going to clean up the living room a little bit,” you say and turn for the door.

He pouts, “But I want you here.”

“I know, and I will be. Just let me take care of the dishes really fast.”

“I’ll help.” He begins to move the blanket covering him, disrupting the position of his new friend, the cat plushie.

“No, stay there. I got it. Just wait a bit, okay?” You smile at him reassuringly. He huffs and finally relents. You take care of the small mess left behind and muse on the way Jihoon has been acting. His clinginess getting the best of him was a sign. He was much more bothered than you originally thought. It is very cute and refreshing to see him get all needy. It reminds you that he needs you just like how you need him. He doesn’t say it all that often, but when you can feel it, feel that he needs you, it just solidifies your feelings for him even more.

But there is still something else. Something he’s not asking for, distracting himself with hugs and kisses so he’ll feel better without confronting what’s really going on. You hope it isn’t something he’s had to endure for a long time. He’s prone to do that, to endure alone and not let anyone help him. He thinks he can handle it himself without bothering anyone. He doesn’t understand that it’s not a bother. You resolve to talk about it with him no matter what. No matter how cute and sweet he’ll act when you get back to him.

With everything cleaned and your mind made up, you enter the bedroom again and are met with those same open arms. You settle into your spot, getting all comfortable. You turn in on Jihoon, and he rotates without hesitation until his back is against your chest. You enjoy the smell of his shampoo and lay a soft kiss to the back of his head. You wrap your arms around him tight and he holds on to them for dear life. It almost makes you feel bad that you have to make him a little uncomfortable, but it will help him sleep at night. You just lay there, breathing in sync, then you take a deep breath which disrupts the rhythm you have going with Jihoon.

“Hey,” you ease into the difficult conversation, “I know today was hard for you. I was just wondering… what happened?”

Jihoon buries his face in his pillow, “I don’t want to think about it.”

“I know, I know.” You stroke his hand, hoping to bring some comfort to his stressed out mind. “Talking about it will help you get through it, though. Can’t avoid it forever. It’ll come back to bite you.” You emphasize your words by pinching his arm in a playful attack. It lightens the mood a little and provokes a giggle to rise out of Jihoon.

“It’s just…” Jihoon begins cautiously, “my job can be stressful. It’s already hard enough to meet everyone else’s standards. When I can’t even meet my own, I feel… useless.”

You rub gentle circles on Jihoon’s arms and hands as he talks. You listen and understand how he’s feeling. He’s always been a type-A perfectionist since you’ve known him. It’s kind of stupid, but sometimes you let yourself think that his talent means that nothing is hard for him; he just does so well all the time and then acts as if it’s not a big deal. Of course, it sometimes is a big deal. He always burns so hot and bright for a long time, but even stars burn out eventually. This is the burnout; an increasingly frustrating time that leads to being so overwhelmed he cries alone in the Universe Factory. It’s a good thing that he’s not alone right now, though.

“You’re not useless; you just need some help. I know you’ll figure it out because you are a musical genius,” you respond. Your breath tickles his ear as you speak.

“You know I hate that word. ‘Genius’. A genius should be able to do it without help.” His voice starts cracking, and your heart breaks a little hearing it.

“No, no. It’s not easy being so smart. You’re the one that has to make the smart decisions. Being stupid is easy because the easy decision is to give up. It’s hard to keep going. Once you figure it out, that is what makes you a genius. I know you are smart enough to keep going and to figure it out. You can start by making the smart decision to reach out for some help on this.” You feel Jihoon relax in your arms, tension melting away from his shoulders. Your words reached him.

“I’ve never thought of it like that.” His voice is even again. You can’t see the look on his face, but you can tell he’s having a revelation. “I think I’m whelmed, now. Thank you,” he says simply. He moves to reveal his face. The tears that were once welling in his heart have disappeared. They don’t get to fall tonight.

“I’m glad,” you tilt his face toward you and capture his lips in a kiss. You settle once again into the spoon, somehow more comfortable than before. Jihoon falls asleep with a blissful slight smile on his face.

[yunaversalluv]

FOR MY LOVELY @valeisaslut HERE IS THE PART 2 EPILOUGE DEEP-DIVE ( THIS IS PART TWO OF THIS DEEP - DIVE CAUSE IT WAS TOO BIG FOR TUMBLR)

PART V: LINGUISTIC PRECISION & EMOTIONAL LEXICON

- The Power of Monosyllables

Many of Ellie’s lines are clipped, one-syllable, or spare. There’s a reason:

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“You’re late.”

“Didn’t want this.”

These aren’t just curt. They’re protective syntax. This is a linguistic survival strategy — short words keep emotions at bay. The fewer syllables, the less room for vulnerability to leak in.

Interpretation: Ellie isn’t being cold — she’s limiting the number of exits her pain has. She’s constructing walls in real-time with punctuation.

- The Absence of Metaphor = Bleakness

Ellie’s inner world is devoid of lyricism until the very end (“the dream... had burned to ashes”). Why?

Because metaphor requires imagination — and imagination requires hope. The lack of it mirrors a world gone grayscale.

Only once she chooses to move, does metaphor return. You’re signaling this subconsciously: language blooms after choice.

PART VI: TRAUMA PHYSIOLOGY IN THE SCENE

Dissecting Ellie’s physicality as textbook trauma behavior, which you’ve intuitively rendered with emotional accuracy.

- Dissociation:

“She didn’t feel real.”

Classic trauma response. The mind detaches from the body when emotional overload hits.

The hoodie detail (comfort object), the mechanical heartbeat, the ghostprint — all signs of her watching herself from outside her body.

She’s not suicidal. She’s post-suicidal. This is the realm beyond ideation — where the mind’s only priority is stillness, even at the cost of life.

- Haptic Avoidance:

“Didn’t curl around him.”

The inability to reciprocate physical contact is not a lack of affection, but an autonomic freeze.

Touch = intimacy = danger.

Even Jesse and Dina don’t reach for her until she reaches first. That’s a phenomenal detail — it's not written, but it’s felt.

PART VII: STRUCTURAL ENGINEERING — HOW THE SCENE MOVES

This scene doesn’t just happen. It spirals inwards before cracking open. Here’s the architecture:

1. Collapse

Ellie is inert. There’s no emotional engine left running. We start from maximum stasis.

2. Disruption

Joel arrives — not as savior, but as interruptor. This breaks the cycle. She is no longer alone with her pain.

A quiet room can be comforting — until someone else enters it and you realize how loud your silence was.

3. Friction

They don’t harmonize. This is not a moment of mutual clarity. It’s jagged, uneven, full of frayed wires.

4. Volcanic Pulse

“I should’ve died.”

This is the emotional apex — a raw truth that neither party can clean up.

You drop this line like a detonation. You don’t explain it, contextualize it, or soften it. And that’s exactly right.

5. Deflation

Joel doesn’t fight it. This is crucial. He doesn’t offer clichés or redemptive speeches. He simply says:

“Still here.”

Like gravity itself — inescapable, unglamorous, but real.

6. The Microchoice

Ellie doesn’t declare her will to live. She stands up. And that’s enough.

PART VIII: HIDDEN MOTIFS & ECHOES

Let’s pull apart recurring motifs across this scene — things your subconscious may have planted, and which can now be developed thematically:

1. Mirroring Without Matching

No one in the scene mirrors Ellie’s pain with the same energy — and that’s what saves her.

Joel doesn’t break down. He stays still.

Jesse and Dina don’t perform empathy. They offer presence.

Lesson: Grief isn’t healed through matching intensity. It’s stabilized through contrast.

2. The Sacredness of the Mundane

The hoodie zipper. The blanket. The door opening.

These aren’t just practical items — they are altars of reality. Proof that time still exists.

You’re leveraging the mundane as spiritual intervention — which is how trauma healing often actually begins.

3. Soundlessness as Elegy

This scene has almost no auditory detail — no music, no external sounds. It’s like you’ve hit the mute button on the universe.

That makes sense: when someone is spiraling internally, the outer world fades out. You’ve scored silence into the text — and it works like a knife.

YUNA'S MEGA-SUMMARY: ELLIE’S COLLAPSE, CHOICE, AND THE LANGUAGE OF ENDINGS

This scene captures the slow implosion of a person—not through violence, but through inertia. Ellie is not screaming, crying, or thrashing. She is quietly vanishing.

The true heartbreak isn’t that she’s broken. It’s that she almost doesn’t care.

Her collapse isn’t cinematic—it’s cellular.

At its center, the scene is about post-traumatic freeze. Ellie’s not processing pain anymore—she’s suspended in it.

She doesn’t want to die, exactly. She just doesn’t want to be. That’s what makes this moment different from a classic suicidal beat: there’s no cry for help, no drama. Just emptiness with edges.

Her mind is a vacuum. Her body a ghostprint. Her name barely hers.

And that’s the scariest place to be.

You use language like a scalpel. Every line is economical, sharp, and unfinished—like Ellie herself.

Short, clipped phrases: a survival mechanism.

No metaphor at first: imagination has shut down.

Physical withdrawal: the body says “no” before the mouth does.

You don’t need to say “Ellie is traumatized.” The syntax is the trauma.

The scene isn’t about a fix. It’s about witnessing.

Joel doesn’t save her. He stays.

Jesse doesn’t preach. He pleads.

Dina doesn’t cry. She offers quiet presence.

Everyone meets Ellie where she is—not where they wish she were. And that restraint is where the emotional devastation (and healing) lives.

This is a non-rescue rescue.

The emotional flow is crafted like a spiral inward, then a single outward breath:

Stillness → She is unreachable. Beyond numb.

Friction → Joel arrives. The past reenters the room.

Crack → Ellie says it: “I should’ve died.”

Stasis → No rebuttal. Just grief’s gravity.

Movement → She stands. No speeches. Just breath.

That stand is everything. It’s not hope—it’s motion. And sometimes, motion is all that saves us.

“The tour was over. The music had stopped.”

This is the eulogy for her old self. Not just her career, not just the band—but the girl who believed this dream would save her.

The line isn’t just about music—it’s about grief. And in this silence, the next version of Ellie is born.

Let’s bring in one final, deeper reading:

This scene isn’t just about Ellie falling apart. It’s about her choosing, even in that state, not to disappear.

The fact that she stands up?

Not because she believes it’ll get better.

Not because someone convinced her.

But because some ember of her—some primal animal self—still says:

“Move.”

And that? That’s survival. That’s character. That’s your scene's heartbeat.

You’ve written something unsparing, deeply emotional, and honest to the marrow. It resists easy redemption and rewards emotional attention.

This is the kind of writing that doesn’t just show pain—it maps it, so that what comes after can feel earned.

It’s a funeral of self. And the quiet miracle is that Ellie still breathes at the end of it.

COUGH COUGH (I hope you know I had to write this while animal crossing noises came from my keyboard and my fiancé on the bed sick watching me furiously typing away in like full uninterrupted dedication.

HAVE A WONDERFUL NIGHT/DAY VALL <3