#plot device skeletons

[loregoddess]

TWO YEARS

TWO YEARS, ALMOST THREE, AND ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SIX PAGES AND A LITTLE OVER 90k WORDS

and I've finally, finally finished the detailed outline for my fancomic

[robinavich]

godlight

jack abbot x f!attorney!reader ao3 content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, brief mention of alcohol, co-opting christianity for my benefit (sex), being mean to robby but like lovingly. like ur brother, gingko trees as a plot device, tom cruise mention words: 16.7k sry i <3 dialogue and write it before the rest of the plot a/n: the backpack thing actually happened to me before and also idk how to write synopsis: It’s routine. The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the door with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his. Routine.

You’ve never seen a grown-ass man leap, but when you materialize beside Michael Robinavitch, ready to take advantage of his daily five minutes of quiet and drink his rapidly cooling coffee before he got down to business, with a stack of papers in hand, you think his skeleton might break from the violent flinch that racks his frame.

“God, what are you, a kamikaze lawyer? Are you heat seeking?”

“Why, you offering?”

It’s routine.

The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the stairs with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his.

Routine.

So, like clockwork, the first Friday of the month rolls around, and with it comes you, metaphorical sunglasses on, sauntering off the elevator like you love the emergency department. Like you can’t wait to run around roleplaying Bolt from the titular Bolt to beg for signatures. Like this is exactly where you were hoping to be.

You click your pen, the sharp sound a tiny gavel sealing his fate.

“Come down to reject another insurance claim?” comes from your left.

“God forbid a woman have hobbies, Dana,” you scoff.

“Jack’s busy, ain't around for you to longingly gaze at.” 

“I do not gaze at Jack,” you say defensively, hands abandoning the file they were holding on the desk to fly between your eyes and hers as you try to stress your point. “I look.”

She lets out an unimpressed mhm, her unconvinced eyebrows twitching in doubt at your self-proclaimed non-gazing status.

And you know that you really need to get these papers signed, but Dana sprang this on you out of nowhere, so now you have no choice but to pivot to a time-sensitive Gazegate investigation. Your mind begins to sift through all the evidence. You don’t gaze. You are totally in control of your physiological reactions to Jack.

Your face drops marginally. It’s not your fucking fault that you want him. As if it’s your fault that all you can think about some nights is his voice gasping out your name.

Minor desperation overtakes your frame and bleeds through your hushed words as you imagine Jack Abbot clocking you gazing at him.

Just embarrassing. Your lust is sickening.

“I don't gaze," you insist before dropping your voice and glancing at the attending. "Do I gaze?”

Robby’s eyebrows involuntarily shoot up, transforming his frozen, resigned face into one of are you fucking kidding me?, the statement making him consider whether he needed another cup of coffee or, maybe, a different career altogether.

Perhaps one without insurance claims.

His lips part around a question he doesn’t quite ask—words rising, then retreating as his throat bobs with the effort of swallowing them back down. Robby glances at Dana for a lifeline, but she's bloodthirsty for drama.

Robby finally exhales a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Do you... do you want me to answer that?" he asks, his voice laced with cautious amusement, hesitant to step in the trap you lay at his feet.

You’re silent.

His head drops into a single solemn, affirmative nod—your judge and jury. “You gaze.”    

And there’s something on the tip of your tongue, locked, and loaded, and ready to fire—something connecting the word gaze to Myrna’s little nickname for him.

It doesn’t make it out.

Instead, you pick up the cup sitting to his side—the one patiently saying drink me, Robby! before it totally becomes cold—and silently reclaim it as your own, drinking the burnt coffee in one long, resigned sip.

Robby doesn’t speak.

It’s at that moment, of course, that Abbot appears—steady footsteps cutting through the low hum of the floor.

Jesus Christ. His hair was disheveled, curls sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through them all night and his black shirt, lacking any scrubs censoring the offending article, clings to his biceps like it was divinely tasked with ruining your concentration.

Your eyes catch there, unwilling to move, like staring is involuntary. A distraction you feel in your teeth. One you’d like to feel in your teeth.

As he approaches the desk you’re situated at, his eyes flicker up from the tablet in his hands just long enough to take in the scene: Robby’s flat stare, and your glare as you stand there, empty cup in hand.

“Robby,” Abbot drawls, loaded with the kind of dry amusement that suggests he’s made peace with your brand of destruction long ago.

His gaze slides pointedly to the cup, then back to Robby’s face.

Your victim looks up at him, forlorn, and mutters, “Can you just…?” His voice is flat, resigned—tinged with a special kind of despair reserved for the aftermath of you. Morosely, he half-heartedly gesticulates in your direction, trying to tell the man to control his animal. 

Robby sets the cup down on the counter and picks up your pen, scrunching the sleeves of his hoodie at his elbows, wanting to end this.

Aforementioned animal owner has the audacity to smirk—half-awake and still deciding if he should be charming or infuriating—rolling his shoulders and then sighing before moving toward the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He watches Robby for a moment, then shifts his attention to you.

“Any chance you’ll let him live to see tomorrow?” Voice dry but not quite masking the very real curiosity beneath it.

You shrug and slowly narrow your eyes as though the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. “Depends.”

Typical lawyer.

“Get to him before that coffee does,” Jack advises like he’s giving medical advice, and Robby levels him with a flat stare because he knows that with you around, he is never going to get coffee, let alone have coffee get to him.

Jack huffs in amusement, shaking his head as he moves to join the taller man, tablet tucked under one arm.

“Still have a couple things to do,” Jack grunts to you lowly, and you glance down at your watch because surely you have the time right.

His shift should be ending.

And yet.

“What idiot starts his little tasks at shift-change?” you laugh, enjoying the unamused glance thrown your way from still-on-the-clock doctor—unimpressed, deeply earned.

“Wait for me?” Jack asks, already knowing the answer.

A small smile teases the edge of your lips in response. “Was going to anyway.”

With a low, reluctant breath, he straightens up, scraping a hand through his hair. He turns on his heel and strides through the department.

Dana looks up from behind the desk. Her gaze briefly meets yours, right eyebrow perched slightly above the left, as if to say not gazing, huh?, before she turns her attention back to the task at hand.

Jack’s off doing end-of-shift stuff, Robby is signing his life away, Dana is doing what Dana does, presumably—Christ, you would think these people were employed.

Floundering, you look around. So, no banter? 

You’re already bored. You glance down at your watch, hand exasperatedly waving in the air as the numbers register. You'll have to act like you're employed soon, too. Your carefully structured morning—insurance claims, harassment, fifteen-minute break—crumbles before you.

God, so bored.

Eyes drifting around the department, your fingers start drumming an erratic rhythm on the surface of the desk, rebelling against the feeling of being out of place. Fingers dance along, down the length, adjusting a stack of papers, nudging them at an odd angle just to see if anyone will notice. You move on to your next victim, Dana’s hand quickly behind yours, returning the papers to their rightful place without so much as a glance in your direction.

Fluorescent lights glare down overhead, highlighting everything in a blinding white that dulls your senses.

You let out a low sigh, turning a tablet upside down in its dock. It’s not even fun.

Purposeful activity swirls around you in a slow tempoed symphony, a rare lull settling into the emergency department. To your left, Robby curses the claims in front of him in a hushed voice—and it’s a nasty, personal beef between him and that paper—pen scratching along the documents with resigned effort.

“You always act like I’m asking you to sign a voluntary execution agreement,” you sigh, a note of exasperation creeping into your voice. “I just need your signature, not someone to rewrite the Ten Commandments.”

That poor pen, you think, watching his reluctant grip tighten around it, the pen enduring its fate like a prisoner of war. Nowhere for it to run.

You lean on the counter and your head tilts, arms giving way and your body sliding an inch closer, observing with interest that his signature is essentially just a line. M——. You so could have done these yourself, if you really wanted.

You force yourself to choke back a laugh as expression tightens with each flick of the pen, the simmering annoyance contained just beneath the surface begging to be released.

Fingers beat slower this time, cadence matching the melody around you, watching as the charge nurse moves to undo your minor disruptions.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Time passes slowly.

This hospital should have more legal issues. You wonder who you have to talk to about that.

Robby flips the page.

And from across the room, you hear it. It’s soft, and warm, and, honestly, you have no idea how you hear it over the clamor of the emergency department, but it always lands on your ears deafening, like a clap of thunder.

And you have no reason to be jealous. Jack is, by all relevant and up-to-date nomenclature, your friend.

You trace the sound to the origin, and there he is, emerging from South 19, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.

And, sorry, but that is your laugh. That’s the one you hear low and throaty in your ear when you’re walking too close, and you say something that catches him off guard. The one that haunts your dreams and wakes you up, the sound echoing in your ears. The one you would make a homily of, listening to it day in and day out, saying amen with devout obedience at every pause.

You blink, zeroed in and always devastatingly dramatic.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe the whoring out of his laugh—because apparently everyone gets it these days, because apparently, he feels magnanimous in the same way Oprah does���is his way of politely rejecting you.

Maybe it’s time to dedicate yourself to some religion somewhere and spend the rest of your life on your knees, lest another man tempt you.

Feigning nonchalance, your hand comes off the desk, very chalant eyes still fixed on Jack as you lean towards the blonde opposite you.

“Dana, you’ve lived here a while, right? What’s the convent scene like?” Robby lets out a snort at your question and the tip of your index finger firmly taps the papers beneath his palm three times to refocus him. “Sign the fucking documents, Michael.”

He obediently turns to the next page where you had so painstakingly and lovingly flagged exactly where his signature was required, and a mix of amusement and mild exasperation creeps across your cheeks, pulling the corners of your mouth into a small smile as he scrawls his indignant line across the pages.

“How about you go tell someone their insurance doesn’t care about their life. You’ll see how easy it is to sign these things then,” he says, turning to the next page.

“Are you kidding? I know you heard what happened to that UnitedHealthcare guy,” you click your tongue. “I ain’t doin’ all that.”

Robby doesn’t dignify your callus comment with a response, attention fixed firmly on the paper, willing it to absorb his frustration. The scratch of his pen dissolves into the steady drone heart monitors and residents trying their hand at cheating death. He flips the page, and his broad shoulders raise with his frustrated inhale, posture betraying his mounting irritation as he methodically—mechanically—works through the stack of forms.

The muted scuffle of boots against the ground alerts you of his presence as Abbot settles behind you, close enough his body heat warms yours.

“Free Luig, man,” he gruffly throws his two cents in.

“Luig?” you twist around, words laced with faint incredulity. “Y’all on a nickname basis?”

“Always have been,” he shrugs with such nonchalance that, for a second, you’re almost convinced they have always been.

You nod. Free Luig.

Caught in the crossfire, Robby closes his eyes momentarily and chokes back a groan. The headache was coming on already. It was way too early in the morning, and he was accosted before you even let him get his coffee, and now he has to listen to the two of you engage in what he and Dana and the rest of the staff with money in the pool could only assume was foreplay.

His pen etches into the paper one last time, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips as he finishes the final signature, his annoyance pooling into a little storm cloud over his head. He shoves the pages toward you with a motion that could rival a cat knocking a glass off the counter, his expression tortured, and you reverently accept the signed stack with flourish, a holy scripture freshly inscribed by a weary messenger of God. 

“Thank you, sir,” you chirp, gingerly shuffling the papers and bowing your head.

“You’re too good to him,” Jack says, as if he genuinely expected better from you, nodding toward the older man, already rubbing his temples and back to pretending the two of you didn’t exist.

“He deserves a treat.”

He can’t take it anymore. Robby bolts—bolts—into the chaos of the department like a petty villain in the night.

You don’t even get a chance to double-check that his ridiculous little M—— is scrawled on every line it’s legally required to be on. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too—that smug twitch of his mouth giving him away as he disappears behind a random curtain.

What in the hell.

You tuck the files under your arm and slip a hand into your front pocket. Just as you’re about to let the let’s fly, Abbot roll off your tongue, your hand freezes, strangely empty.

You’re missing your pen.

That bastard still has your pen.

You inhale, long and tempered, because you don't want to be overly dramatic.

You don’t want to be overly dramatic because, okay, you get it, it’s a pen.

But pens don’t last down here in the emergency department, and every time you materialize, you end up giving Robby a pen, and you never get that pen back. And then Jack comes complaining to you because every time they work together, despite the growing number of pens you’ve surrendered to his cause, Robby never has a pen and then expects a pen from him. But the pen that Jack gives him is also your pen. So, then he’s asking you for a pen—which, really, no biggie, you’ve already looked up how much it would cost to buy Pilot so you could give him unlimited pens—and then you’re giving Jack a pen and then you’re also giving Robby a pen and then Jack is giving Robby a pen and you’re freaking hemorrhaging pens on three fronts.

You’ve Pavloved the poor men into carnal pen desire.

So, you stop yourself in your tracks, glancing towards your companion just enough to catch the angle of his head and smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your shoulders shake as a huff of laughter leaves you.

There is no pen in his pocket, either.

Routine, you suppose.

“Anyone know where Robby went?” you ask, eyebrow arched, back to surveying the faces around you.

Jack nods over your shoulder, once again directing your attention across the room and you follow his line of sight, eyes landing on Robby’s stiff frame, hiding in plain sight. Two steps from him, a woman is standing way too close for his comfort, hand on his arm, the recipient of a very intense one-way conversation.

You’re so going to make fun of him for this later. Maybe even in the emergency department group chat that you’ve weaseled your way into.

“Explain,” you demand, ravenous for the gossip.

“Guy came in last night, not doing great. Advance directive on file, medical POA too—directive was signed after. The kids are pissed.” 

He lowers his voice, conspiratorial, and you reflexively shift closer to hear him.

“Now they’re trying to bribe half the staff with Daddy’s things for comfort treatment.”

The word daddy leaving Jack’s lips makes your eyes freeze in place, the only visible crack in your armor. This is really not what you need to be thinking about this early in the morning. You give a sharp shake with your head, trying to physically eject the thought.

Man, that family is totally legal’s problem.

You deflate. Which means that’s your problem, really, and you know as soon as you get back to your office, you’ll be losing a game of rock-paper-scissors for who has to be on the way back down here, and you hate ancillary document infighting.

“Okay, well that’s…” Your eyes narrow slightly, contemplating. “…awful?”

“Was that a question mark?”

You shrug. Maybe.

“Any chance you think I can get his attention?” you question, acceptance of the fact that a new pen is about to be classified as missing in action settling in your pocket.

And then Jack forces you to look at him, hand slowly curling around your bicep, and you’re struck by the inexplicable, primal urge to flex to show him, hey, I could hunt and gather. I could do anything you need me to do. 

And then you have to fight the other urge to check your watch, because God forbid you give the impression that there’s anywhere else you’d rather be, but you are positive now that it’s barely seven in the morning and you stomp that primal urge down because you cannot start your yearning and lusting this early. Especially with this new legal problem on your radar.

“Looking for something?” he says, and somehow it sounds like an insult. 

“Theft charges,” you reply dryly.

His mouth twitches.

“If I am ever in that position,” he commands, voice gentle but unmistakably pointed as he tugs your focus back from Robby. Selfishly, Jack wants all your attention on himself. “Just put the pillow over my face, and press—”

You blink, drawing back. “Goddamn.” 

“—create an airtight seal—”

“Just sign the POA, girl.”

“Bet you used to charge a premium for those.”

“Just, like, two thousand. That’s, like,” you expel a dramatic breath from your lungs, feigning introspective mathematical precision, and rock back on your heels. “Twenty beaver pelts back in your day.”

“Twenty?” His head reels back, his voice fading out at the end in an octave that you’re not quite sure he possesses, and the commitment to the bit makes your chest tighten. He leans forward again. “Real proud of those autogenerated documents, huh?”

“No one used to copy-and-paste like me, baby.” You bite your lip.

A beat passes.

He demands your gaze, insistent, possessive.

You suck your teeth and lower your voice, a teasing lilt rising to suffocate the longing that tries to break through. “So, I’m in your deathbed fantasy, huh?”

Enraptured by the way the left side of your mouth starts to smile before the right follows suit, he allows his eyes to flicker to your lips, too quick for you to catch. 

He doesn’t even blink. The hand on your arm tugs you forward, gentle but certain, and you stumble closer to his body. Your tongue, usually razor sharp and biding time until the next joke, dulls.

You blue screen.

Why is his hand big enough to wrap around your arm like that? Dear Lord, has he always been this warm? You can’t remember. Whatever used to be where your brain was immediately betrayed you and fucked off, leaving in its place a panting dog. Does he need you to bark? You could bark. You have no qualms with barking.

He leans in close, voice fighting to be heard over the crackling PA system probably calling for an attending in some fucking room, and then you were no longer in the emergency department. Ringing overtakes your ears and you imagine the hand on your bicep somewhere a little higher.

“Sweetheart,” his drawls, sinfully wrapping around each letter, like he knows exactly what it does to you. The word drips from his lips with maddening ease, dragging down your spine like molten lava. “You’re in my every fantasy. Welcome to the conversation.” 

You blink again. The PA system calls out another pleading demand for whoever was listening at this point, effectively eliminating you and Jack, and his voice—steady, warm, smug—fills your brain with cotton, making it hard to ration, or think, or breathe. 

You’re what?

His eyes dance around your face reverently while the slightest ghost of a smile takes residence on his lips, memorizing the subtle flush traveling across your cheeks and your wide eyes—no longer the color you were born with—blinking uncomprehendingly up at him. He tucks some things away for later, too—the way your breath hitches in a shallow, uneven burst, and how your lashes flutter like they can’t decide to stay open or not while you process his words. In the back of his mind, he decides he likes making you speechless. He tucks that away for later, too.

Then the corners of your lips twitch, your voice slipping out before you could stop it, soft but teasing, “Careful, old man, lest someone label you a poet.”

His responding laugh is quiet, low, self-satisfied—just for you, as it should be, thank you. And when his hand loosens its grip on your bicep and trails down to brush his fingers against yours, your breath stalls.

For the first time, you realize that you’re not in control of anything here at all, let alone your physiological reactions to his proximity. Jack Abbot holds all the cards in a perfectly imbalanced stack against his chest, and, despite your best efforts, you’ve never been good at poker.

And then you feel it.

You are fucking gazing.

You very explicitly recall your job description reading: Hours: 7am-5pm, Mon-Fri.

So why, then, do you find yourself swiping your security card back into the stairwell, beginning your ascent just as the numbers on your watch creep to 6:48am on a Sunday. 

Actually, you know why. A text.

You were tucked in bed, comforter woven from warm springtime sunbeams, thoroughly enjoying the walk on the fuzzy line between waking and slumber. And then, without warning or pause, your body was violently ripped from the veil like a loose tooth at a little kid’s freaking birthday party, phone buzzing, SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D. plastered across your screen and, below it, a text.

Roof, it read.

Well, yeah, Jack, you thought blearily. Roof. Of course, roof. 

You say bark, I bark.

Your comforter was off, and shoes were being tugged on before the screen even dimmed from inactivity, the rational thought of changing out of your sad excuse of pajamas nowhere in sight. Heading into work on a Sunday before the sun was even up.

Nothing wrong with getting a head start on next week, you hum to yourself as you wait for the elevator to ding at the twelfth floor, and then you pause, disgusted with the stray thought. Since when did you want to willingly participate in capitalism more than required?

All because of a man?

Mental You takes the cookies out of the oven and giggles and twirls her hair and dreamily sighs out a yeah.

You step off the elevator and immediately cross the hall, shoving the door to the stairwell open, feet trudging up the steps.

At least you’re also getting paid for it. Not that you need to be paid to see Jack.

I’d pay to see Doctor Abbot, Mental You giggles.

You finally get to the roof, thighs burning, though not as much as they used to—shoutout to Andrea at the gym—and push open the door.

Or you would. 

The door jams, halting your hand mid-motion, and you sigh. 

Without thinking, you wind back and slam your shoulder into the damned thing. It flies open with a dramatic groan and you’re all but launched forward, right shoe catching awkwardly on the ledge. Gravity seizes the opportunity with enthusiasm, zealously pulling at your body, and you guess that your bag must want in on the action too, because it shifts the weight of everything inside, throwing you off balance, the momentum carrying you in a parabolic arc directly into the path of the bloodthirsty door, who vengefully desires nothing more than to claim your life and perhaps its rightful resting position in the frame.

And then time is slowing down in that unique and humiliating way it does when you realize with horror that you’re doing something that would land you on TikTok. 

And then there’s another moment, fleeting but vivid, where you register how ridiculous you must look: clad in pajamas, bag swinging, your body a perfect picture of chaos. 

And then it happens.

You collide with the door in a graceless, full-bodied tackle that rattles the hinges and might as well announce your presence to the entire city.

By the time you stumble away from the ring, vehemently declining another round with the door, your legs stinging where the exposed skin met the cold metal, you notice Jack already leaning against the far side of the railing, figure outlined by the slowly rising light of the sun.

At first, you think he hasn’t noticed your grand entrance, but Jack has always had the uncanny ability to see everything you don’t want him to see, and also you would have to have been dead to not have heard all that. It’s the single shake of his tense shoulders that betrays him, and, really, you have to give him credit where credit’s due, because he’s trying.

He’s trying so hard to not make fun of you right now.

You can feel it.

You straighten up, and you’re of half a mind to try and salvage the scraps of dignity you still have left, but, ultimately, you find that you just don’t care that much. You also find that it was so much colder than you thought it would be, given your current attire.

A coat, you think miserably. Anything. Anything at all would have been better.

“I swear it wasn’t like that a couple days ago,” you huff, brushing invisible dust off your sleeve as you lick your wounds.

Abbot finally allows a single soldier through the front lines in his battle against laughter, letting out a sharp chuckle that cuts through the cold morning air.

“You always know how to make an entrance,” he observes, similar to the way he’s observed cloud cover.

His eyes drag down to your legs and his brow subtly creases, trying to conceal the way his brain short-circuited for half a second.

“Shorts,” he mutters, blinking slowly, shoulders rising in a steep inhale. “That’s…a choice.”

"Yeah, well, you know..." you wave a hand in the air dismissively. "Sleeping."

And you realize, fuck, you really don’t care about your wounded dignity and stupid outfit if it makes Jack Abbot look at you like that.

A comfortable ease settles over you while something warm settles in the pit of your stomach, one that only he seems capable of conjuring. You take a deep breath, the cool air biting at your lungs, the tension from your stairwell match melting away as Jack’s presence steadies you.

“Wait, you come up here without me?” He clarifies, voice a little rougher than he means it to be, unwavering stare locked on you. “But it’s—this is mine.”

“I really don’t think you can have, like, a monopoly on the roof, Jack.”

“I was hired first,” he argues, like that alone justifies his claim to the space. 

“Jack, how is it a monopoly if you let me in?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at you flatly like that answers it.

“I literally work, like, eight feet below where we’re standing right now,” you stress, foot tapping against the ground in emphasis. “You understand that, right?”

He shrugs, corner of his lips creeping up. “You don’t have to beg, kid. I’ll let you use it,” he says, smug. “I’m magnanimous like that.”

You don’t even know where to begin tearing apart the words that just exited his mouth. But your mouth, your traitorous mouth, does. “I’m not begging.”

He leans in then.

“Do you want to?”

He knows it’s the only way he can throw you off the same way you so unknowingly do to him.

Sure enough, you lag behind his response, mouth parting as power is diverted from mandibular control to turn the gears in your brain, each one creaking with effort as they try to process what the fuck just came out of his mouth.

And he says it to keep your blinders on, to distract you from the way he almost said ours instead of mine, and to distract you from the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like they want to reach for you but are stuck in purgatory, unsure if they’d be welcomed.

But Jack notices it too much.

He notices his twitching hands, and the way your laughter lingers in his chest longer than it should, and the way your voice threads through the spaces of his day and ties his heart in knots in ways he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling. He doesn’t say anything, but he feels it, thick and unyielding, curling around his ribs and threatening to suffocate him whenever you’re near.

So, his arms fold over his chest, absently creating a protective barrier, his eyes falling somewhere distant.

And then cut to you sideways, softening despite himself, cracking through the flimsy pretense of just-friends banter you both cling to like it might protect you from the inevitable. It’s a game you keep playing, tossing a live grenade back and forth.

But he won’t drop it.

If there is one thing that Jack Abbot has in abundance, it’s patience. He is patient—he learned it long ago under the blanket of gunfire and the oppressive heat of the sun, and mastered it with bodies bleeding out beneath his hands. And he is tenacious. He is so fucking tenacious it would make your head spin. And he would toss that live grenade days, months, decades until you reacted too slowly and it went off.

And then the moment is gone and you’re dancing back over the line to friends. He punches your arm lightly, the movement too calculated to be casual, his fist moving forward unaccompanied by the fluidity and self-assuredness you’ve seen him possess with florescent lights above him and a body below. His knuckles burn your arm where they glance across it, and your eyes whip between the afflicted site and him, mind already curating a scathing retort.

He waits, daring you to notice how long he lingers in moments like this, how he drags out conversations just to keep you tethered here next to him, close enough to pretend you’re his.

But you step closer, eyes taking in the way his shoulders seem to be pressed down by an invisible weight—one that you wish you could become Atlas to alleviate, if just for a moment.

Bad night, you observe.

Bad night, indeed, Jack’s body screams in reply.

When the shrill alarm alerting him of 5pm pierced the fragile fog that had settled on his brain, it felt as though the world was gunning for his sanity. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his chest, and his body, tangled in sheets that seem to have turned into chains and a sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his body, drags heavily, joints creaking as he began to extract himself from his fabric prison.

Thirty-three minutes of deep sleep, Jack’s watch spat in his face.

Kill yourself, watch, he grunted back.

But time, relentless and indifferent and, in the back of his mind, named Gloria Underwood (no relation, you tried to convince him during one of your rooftop meetings once. It’s a common name, Abbot.), marches forward, dragging him along with its cruel cadence and another hellish shift in the books.

And presently, you see his tense body standing—like the soldier he’ll probably always be—at attention, shoulders rigid, chin tilted defiantly as if daring the universe to shove him just a little further, just until the ground beneath his feet disappears, and hands clenched so tightly at his side that you think you should take him downstairs to check for open wounds.  

The thing about the veteran that you clocked long before the start of soft smiles, and the banter, and the myriad rooftop rendezvous is this: when he has a bad night, he gets philosophical.

“Do you think God cares?” he deadpans—which is insane to you, because who opens like that?

You gently lean your demon-possessed bag against the AC unit and walk forward to settle beside him where he leans heavily against the opposite side of the rail. “Like, in general, or…?”

“The death,” he lists, ticking it off like it’s a mildly interesting footnote. “The helplessness.”

“I don’t know. Kinda used to want to ask God that,” you admit, your energy shifting to match his vaguely existential one. You try kicking at a rock to diffuse some of the tension and somehow miss entirely. “‘If you’re so loving, why do you allow so much suffering and injustice.’”

“Don’t question it anymore?”

The question makes you pause. You guess you didn’t question it anymore. You were surrounded by it every day, as was he—the predatory insurance companies and the maladjusted American healthcare system. It wasn’t as though you’d been exposed to the trademarked horrors, but the past six years were taxing enough. Year after year, case after case, you internalized the knowledge that the things meant to help you weren’t really there just to help. And that knowledge takes its toll.

So, no, you don’t really question it anymore.

But you do let it steal parts of you. It isn’t outright draining—more like a faucet that didn’t shut off completely, allowing a single drip to escape at a time, every couple seconds, every day, for years. Not something someone immediately identifies and fixes, but something that, when you do notice it, you kind of throw your hands up in the air like, well what the fuck now?

That’s where you’re at. Well, what the fuck now, indeed.

You laugh, the sound unbidden and a touch more bitter than you want it to be. “No, it just became a pride thing.” 

And then the soft confession escapes you before you could beat it back with a bat and send forth some retort that would get you a huff of air through the nose at worst, and a scoff and shake of the head at best. The words cross your unspoken boundary of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual—they toe the line of being vulnerable. “I guess now I’m afraid that he might ask me the same question.”

Part of you really hopes he ignores the words. Part of you hopes that the words would fall on deaf ears and any response would die on mute lips. Part of you hopes that the world would open up and pluck those drifting words right out of the air before they could reach him.

But Jack is there. Jack is always there, and Jack always fucking saw you before you saw you, and he always heard what you said before you knew what you said.

And he would always be there throwing you a life-preserver, a way out.

He tries to salvage what’s left of the levity from your grand entrance and nudges your shoulder with his.

“It’s a really stupid question, anyway,” he utters softly, gently, the understanding of a man who has seen worse draping over the words.

A life-preserver that you would enthusiastically grab like you’ve asked for one every Christmas for the past thirty years. His eyes head turns, and his eyes lock on to yours, inviting and warm, and you realize you’re so fucked.

You swallow, the familiar teasing expression reappearing on command, the left side of your mouth coming up in a smirk and your right eyebrow raising fractionally.

“Yeah. We should really be focusing on big picture stuff,” you agree. “Like, ‘How does Tom Cruise do all that?’”

“That’ll blow God’s freaking mind,” he grumbles.

You nudge his shoulder back.

Cold wind nips at your skin, and you shudder, your arms drawing in to aid your body in retaining heat. Your eyes dart to the side hoping you were as subtle doing that as you thought you were.

Definitely not, you assume. The troubled man’s fingers tighten on the railing as he wordlessly swings himself under to the other side, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. 

You begin offering up a weak protest, barely more than a whisper, until Jack’s eyes snap to you, cool and amused. 

“Don’t get used to charity,” he murmurs, voice like velvet on steel. “Just say thank you, Jack.”

A meek thank you, Jack takes its place. A hum, noncommittal—casual—fills the space between you in reply.

The weight of it presses down, swallowing you whole. It’s warm from his own body, and it smells vaguely of the antiseptic you’ve come to accept as his cologne, and God, and it’s heavy. Not because of the fabric itself—that’s actually rather light, it’s still early in the season-change—but because it’s his. An ever-present fixture that emerges as soon as the temperature drops.

A constant.

And now it’s on you and it feels almost too personal, and you shift slightly trying to shake the intimate feeling off and just enjoy the moment as a girl with a crush on a man fifteen years older than her, but the bastard clings to you and settles into your heart.

“We should get you a new cologne, by the way.”

You said we. You had said we and Jack’s brain immediately latches onto the promise of something so domestic with you.

“Are you saying I smell?” he asks, expression unreadable but amused.

“Every day I sit in my office and pray you’ll take a shower.”

“You don’t have better things to pray for?”

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s on a roll.

“World peace,” he supplies, like it was the obvious office prayer.

It’s a good office prayer, you have to admit.

“I can’t wear cologne down there. Liability or something,” he continues dryly, and the next words seek out your pride with surgical precision, making a single, tiny cut. “You of all people should know that.”

He got you there again—you should know that—and that’s like three times in the span of ten minutes that he’s got you. You’re not quite sure what’s happening right now.

Deafening silence concedes the argument.

But as far as you’re concerned, you’ll let him have it. You have Jack on one side of you and the warmth of his jacket protecting you against the cold creeping in. You’re content.

And you thought Jack was content, too.

But apparently, he isn’t.

Can’t let the silence just freaking do its thing.

“Can I ask you something else?” he says, like the answer to that has ever stopped him before, “Why do you care?”

And the parallel between this question and the one about God makes your eyebrows furrow a little because, what does that mean? What does ‘why do you care about the suffering of human beings,’ mean?

“About suffering?” you say slowly, trying to find your footing.

“No.”

Your mouth opens a fraction, perhaps wide enough for a fly to be caught, while you work to follow what path his mind went down.

What, like, The Yankees? Yeah, you care about them. Obviously, because you love them. Any team that happens to be playing against Jack’s beloved Pirates, of course care about them, because you hate whatever team Jack loves. Annoying Robby? Sure. About Jack himself, absolutely. Fucking definitely, even. 

You tick the entries off in your mind: career, first and foremost; your friends; Jack; your family that hasn’t talked to you in years; Dr. Abbot down in the ED; crippling debt payments from law school; that matcha place Samira showed you; the socio-political landscape of the world; former army medic, Jack Abbot. 

You can’t imagine that Jack’s unprompted and vague question was about any of these things.

Your eyes squint not of your own volition. “What?”

“Yesterday,” he clarifies, tone clipped, ever a man of many words. 

“What?” you try again.

“About that woman.”

You’ll shove this fool off the roof yourself, you decide. “What?”

He leans back, knuckles white from gripping the rail to anchor him, sighing that you’re the crazy one right now sigh—like he can’t believe he has to spell it out for you, word for word. “The one that was flirting with Robby.”

You actually look over at Jack then, confused. He’s not looking at you, his back now ramrod straight and jaw reflecting his fists, clenched so tightly you're surprised his teeth aren’t shattering from the pressure.

The woman that you had a very long, very tense, conversation with—brother’s presence intruding like a serpent in the garden, begging you to sin—about pulling her father off life support?

A laugh almost escapes you. You’re not sure he realizes how stupid he sounds thinking you cared about anything in that moment other than the way his hand wrapped around your bicep and the way he laughed, low and ruinous and lethal, and called you sweetheart.

Light and sexual, you chant to yourself.

“The one that wants her dad dead?” you bluntly ask—whatever, who needs light, anyway?

His shoulder draws up in a half-shrug, mouth opening in a wordless response. Finally, he settles on, “I’m just saying you seemed… very interested—”

“What, in my job?” your confused tone betrays the half-smile on your face.

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

"I mean, it sounds like what you're saying—"

"No, you looked upset at her—"

"—and it's definitely what I'm hearing—"

"Well, get your fucking hearing checked—"

“Are you jealous, Jack?” you press, cutting him off, pointed and a little smug.

“Yes.”

He says it so simply, and his voice is so soft, so confident, and it lands with decimating impact. 

What happened to light and sexual, Jack?

It just swan dove straight over the ledge, Jack.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Your next thought slams through you, so loud and so out of pocket, and you’re a little pissed because last time you had this thought, you told it to at least give you, like, an ETA next time. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Maybe you don’t have to call that convent, you think. Maybe he isn’t a fan of polite rejection.

And then the third thing you cared about in yesterday’s interaction strikes you. Obviously.

“Jack,” you enunciate. You want your next words to be explicitly clear. “The only reason I was even looking for Robby was because he still had my pen.”

His jaw twitches. “What?”

“Holy shit, can we stop with the whats?”

“Okay, look, sorry if I need to make sure that my friend,” he spits out the word, duplicity-soaked label coating his mouth with a bitter aftertaste. “Isn’t pining over my- my fellow attending.”

“First of all, I would never pine,” you note. “I’m a maple, and I want that on record.”

For a turbulent second, Jack wants to grab you by the scruff of the neck and manhandle you like a misbehaved chihuahua because he’s serious and you make jokes when you’re feeling defensive—something that he usually finds endearing but simply can’t find it in him to do right now.

He doesn’t want you pining over Robby, he wants you pining over him.

And so maybe his response is fueled by jealousy, okay, sue him. He’ll bring it up to his therapist and then apologize to you, and you’ll say something like, I should invoice your therapist myself for emotional labor.

So, he digs in, tone sharp but surgical, and says something that he knows will get a rise out of you because he knows you—he knows everything about you.

“Maple? You’re so obviously an oak—you’ll never be a maple,” he fires back, voice incredulous, volume subdued, eyes narrowed in outrage. “You’re not even close to maple-level, be fucking for real.” 

A strangled sound makes its way out of you, shocked that he would even think such a thing. “Of course you would say that you fucking ginkgo,” you snap.

“Gingko?”

You inhale sharply and force yourself to rein in your next sentence because there’s a feeling in your chest—one slowly rising, and it suspiciously feels like anger. Why the hell is Jack acting like this at seven in the morning on a Sunday, especially about someone that the hospital would sell out in a heartbeat over a wrongful prolongation of life lawsuit?

Pining over Robby? Is he fucking stupid?

Well, two can play this game.

You can be fucking stupid, too.

You can be fucking stupid, and—you want it known, labelled, and presented before the new J.D. recipient, prosecution attorney Jack Abbott, M.D., as Exhibit A—you’re not remotely capable of even pretending to be normal in a competitive situation.

“Sorry, Abbot, I didn’t realize you could even clock my pining over the volume of your giggles,” you counter hotly, throwing a trembling finger in his face at the scandalized look that crosses it. “Yeah. Giggles.”

“So, you were pining over Robby?” he confirms, and it lodges itself under your skin. 

You’re sure if you looked down at your watch it would tell you that you have a heart rate of at least one hundred and eighty.

“Why the fuck do you care who I’m pining over?” you hiss, your voice dripping with frustration.

Jack opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then tries again—lighter, a silent prayer that maybe the joke can diffuse the mounting tension.

“I don’t care, but Robby is built like one of those car-dealership inflatables, and—” he shifts his weight to the left, leg aching.

But it’s too late. Your eyes narrow.

“Built like a car-dealership inflatable?” you echo in disbelief, hoping the words will help Jack realize the incredulousness of the statement. “What the hell does that even mean?”

That’s a great question, the prosecution thinks. He doesn’t even really know, but it’s out now and he has to roll with it.

“That’s your friend and now you’re being fucking mean,” the words press out through gritted teeth, humor long gone. “You’re just saying stuff.” 

He agrees with you, he is just saying stuff, and Jack will apologize to his friend for the stray when his mind is clearer and blood pressure lower, even though the other man won’t have any idea what he’s talking about.

“Yeah,” he bites out, stepping closer. “But you kicked this shit off with your stupid maple thing, and now I’m stuck defending myself against a guy who walks like life’s spine-optional and he’s not sure how gravity works—”

“Shut up about Robby’s walk!” you yell in a rush, your voice shrill and piercing, the sheer absurdity of the argument making your hands fly into the air. “This isn’t about him! Or his- his saunter. This is about your—”

“This is not about me,” he cuts you off, too loud to be convincing. “I just think you deserve better spine-to-surface ratio, is all—”

“Because your body has such a perfect there-to-not ratio, right?”

“Ohhhhh, you wanna go there—?”

“No, actually, I don’t,” you snap back. Then, sharper, “Listen, Abbot—”

“No, you listen,” he grounds out, your name a heated whisper snapping against its leash. “You’re the one who made this weird. You got all defensive and—” Jack gestures around like it personally offended him, “And then you’re calling me a gingko. A gingko. Like that’s a thing regular people do in arguments.”

“Oh, I’m sooo sorry, Doctor,” you draw out the syllables in mock-sympathy. “Would you prefer that I use military metaphors? Would that make baby feel more emotionally validated?”

“Yes, it would!” the doctor hisses back, mouth a breath away from yours. “Maybe at least then I would know where the hell I stand in your metaphor jungle!”

There’s a beat—one that coils the tension tighter, and tighter, and tighter—and Jack’s eyes, always attuned to your body, snap to the frustrated pinch of your mouth. Then back up. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts, a wild fire burning behind your glassy eyes, gravity giving up on strands of hair where you ran your rands through them.

Not for the first time, he thinks that you’re beautiful. Your beauty was noted and neatly filed away long ago at your first meeting, shelved next to other invariably true things like death, and taxes, and a subscription he forgot about charging his bank account.

Eyes snap back down again. 

And fuck he wants nothing more than to slam his lips against yours, to win, to derail the argument—to get you to stop arguing for maybe the first time in your life.

You clench your jaw, and you take a deep breath. 

Neither of you move.

Don’t even shift your weight.

Almost nose to nose.

Of course, you weren’t pining over Robby, he knows that.

Because in Jack’s mind, it’s simple.

You’re his.

And sometimes he forgets that this thing between you has never been verbalized and linguists and English majors around the world are probably still scrambling and conspiring to combine words and build syntax trees that won’t even scratch the surface of explaining how deeply you’re seared into his soul.

And he certainly forgets that in your mind, he’s not yours.

Then, of course, there’s also the fact that he hasn’t done this in years, not since his wife—so, admittedly, he’s a little rusty. He tried practicing, but this conversation isn’t going at all how he painstakingly and methodically rehearsed with Robby in the breakroom.

And then somehow trees were pulled into it, and he doesn’t know anything about trees—he could name maybe four types. He can’t even tell you what a gingko is. He honestly thought it was a lizard. He probably would have put money on it.

And also he loves your metaphors, you know that.

“There was a woman in South 19,” he starts slowly, forcefully controlled. The first words in an unspoken sorry. His hands twitch by his side. “She was eighty-two years old and told me I was too handsome to be a doctor. That I should be on the cover of Vogue.”

Your brain, which has been running on pure spite and cortisol, fumbles.

Silence presses down over you once more.

The roof is too quiet now.

Too stupid.

You’re angry and a little hurt. Jack’s angry and, you think, probably a little hurt, too—at the very least by the body-ratio comment and definitely by the gingko comment.

And you feel even more stupid because, through it all, you’re still swimming in his fucking jacket.

Unfortunately for you, you agree with the eighty-two-year-old woman in South 19. He should be on the cover of Vogue.

It’s your turn. You press your hands into your eyes hard enough you see stars, taking a small step back.

“Robby had my pen,” you mutter, reprising the explanation you started before the argument spiraled out of control.

Abbot blinks. “What?”

You sigh, loud and theatrical, hands dropping. “Robby had my pen, okay? And it’s—just—it’s always like this. I show up. He needs to sign. He never has a pen. I give him one, then you give him one, but it’s also mine, because you got it from me, and then I give him another, and it’s like—I’m hemorrhaging pens. I am singlehandedly keeping Pilot in business because of this freaking guy.”

He just stares at you.

You gesture helplessly. “So, yeah. I was looking for Robby. To get my pen back.”

Another beat.

Then Jack, flatly, “You picked a fight with me because of a pen pyramid scheme.”

“Okay, um, actually, you picked a fight with me,” you object, your mind scrunching up its sleeves and waving its fists in the air, ready to go again. Ballpoint trauma massages its shoulders, egging it on.

He watches you and shakes his head imperceptibly.

He’s in love with someone who’s bleeding office supplies.

The man runs a hand over his face, palm dragging slow, and when it drops, there’s something soft and aching behind his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement. Just this quiet, stunned affection like, God, it’s you. Even when you’re arguing over trees and tube men, it’s you.

Your shoulders start to slump, and you scuffle your shoe against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground like you’re trying to disappear. All the fire from earlier is gone, and somehow that’s worse. He watches you there, wrapped in his jacket like it belongs on your shoulders, drowning in the sleeves, collar brushing your cheek a little every time you move. It’s recklessly easy to forget what started this fight—to forget that he can’t do anything in this moment but watch you shrink before him.

He wants to take your face in his hands, thumb the curve of your cheekbones and tilt your head up. He wants to bend down and let his lips press into the corners of your eyes, catching the unshed tears. He wants to press kisses to every inch of your skin—your temples, the tip of your nose, the crease between your brows—murmuring I’m sorry between each one like a prayer, drunk on adoration of you. 

In a pathetic attempt at casualness, your voice breaks through his fantasy, “I’m ‘friend’ and Michael’s relegated to ‘fellow attending,’huh?”

Jack exhales, controlled and slow, not meant for your ears.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” the veteran says quietly.

“I would argue what he doesn't know appears to hurt him the most,” you breathe a laugh, eyes still downcast.

He inclines his head and forces a gruff chuckle quietly to escape, the sound landing gently on your ears. Your traitorous heart stutters in your chest at the sound. And then his laugh pauses, and eyes narrow. He nods because, actually, you’re right about Robby. He should really ask him about that tomorrow.

All at once, in the back of your mind, you start to feel guilty.

You know that your friend had such a bad night and, presumably, a bad shift, that he asked you to come to the roof on a Sunday. And then you just called him a gingko and that was so fucking far from cool. The lump swelling in your tightening throat starts to teeter on impossible to swallow around. The tears you never learned how to suppress in an argument burn the back of your eyes.

But the sound has already burrowed into your heart once more and you can’t even remember why you were having a hissing match with Jack Abbot about trees and car-dealership inflatables. His stupid fucking laugh took your composure by the ear and shot it point blank in the back alley of a Wendy’s all within the span of three seconds.

You can’t help it.

“Hey, Jack,” you begin, your voice floating out and dying in the air as the sounds of the street rise to battle them.

You’re silent for a second.

You know you should quit while you’re ahead and leave down the stairs with a thumbs up and one last joke about returning to the door for seconds, but the words hey, Jack are already out, and true to the name, this is Jack, and now he’s looking at you with such affection in those confusingly beautiful eyes that all you want to do is tell him how, most days, he is the only thing keeping you sane, and how when you imagine your future, you imagine the calluses on his hands and arms wrapped around you from behind. And you want to tell him that you want nothing more than to see him every day, hell, you’ll take seeing him off hospital grounds. And, God, you want to text him the stupid updates throughout your day—that your matcha sucks today and you think the barista wants to set you on fire.

You want this nearing ancient, active suicide risk in your life beyond insurance claims, and Rooftop Club, and stupid fucking fights about pens and eighty-two-year-old women in South 19—even ones that are now confusingly flora based.

I think I love you, you want to tell him.

And for a moment you’re genuinely worried that you might say something conveying anything of a remotely similar sentiment—something definitely not light and sexual.

But then you hear yourself softly admitting, “For the record, you’re my best friend.” 

The vulnerability makes you feel like you’ve been cut open, heart on display for the medic’s steady hands. The guilt gnaws at you, and you resign yourself to feeling like a fool, a lumbering joker standing in Jack Abbot’s jacket and your pajamas.

You start picking at the loose threads on his jacket sleeve.

His hand moves, slowly, the same way a cowboy would approach a skittish horse, and settles over yours, gently stopping the movement.

 You drift your gaze up, just enough to catch his eyes with yours.

“You’re not a gingko, by the way,” you mumble, words barely making it past your lips.

His hand tightens on yours. It’s so marginal that you’re sure you’ve imagined it. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“Kid,” Jack says, and when he leans in, his voice drops, soft and steady and sacred. “Maples wish they had what you do.”

He angles his head just as the morning sun—surely a paid actor—breaks from behind the skyline and cascades over his face, bathing him in gold. For a fleeting second, the words of your mother ring in your ears and you think you finally understand what she spoke of when said that human beings are made in the image of God.

Slowly, your eyes begin to wander over the gentle slope of his nose, cataloguing the constellations of freckles across his cheeks, finding respite at the corner of his eye where his crow’s feet deepen as he squints, lashes battling the intruding light.

You agree. Surely something so beautiful couldn’t be anything short of divine.

The newborn light catches on what’s left of the copper stands in his salt and pepper curls and dances on the unshaven stubble dusting his face, and you decide that God was taking his job as Artist very seriously right now, pouring gold down from heaven and letting it mend every chip and heal every break, sculpting a kinutsigi statue before your very eyes. 

The gravel crunches as he shifts, the sound effectively restarting your brain, your head whipping towards the skyline before he could comment on your very clearly and pathetically waxing poetic gaze.

What the fuck was that?

But you know exactly what that was, and it was not something that fell under the umbrella of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual.

You shift your weight anxiously.

“And you know Robby can’t help that he’s built like a broad scarecrow,” your quiet voice drifts into the air.

“I know, sweetheart,” and God his voice is so soft, somehow so steady, that you’re not sure how it has the ability to cut through you with such sharpness. “Still wouldn’t trust the integrity of his core.”

You nod. You could get behind that.

“I like your body ratio the way it is, Jack.”

He brings your hands clasped in his to his lips.

You had the first Friday of every month circled multiple times on your calendar. It was routine, one that Gloria knew and that Gloria respected. Which is why, you couldn’t for the life of you discern the reason you were thrown into the lion’s den of not routine when she decided that, actually, these insurance claims needed to be signed at this exact moment on some random ass Monday or, as far as you could gather, the entire hospital would crash down to the ground with everyone inside it and then the rubble would catch fire, too. 

But you don’t argue. A trip down to the emergency department was always a joyous occasion in your book, and so you hoped it would stay.

And you stumble into the elevator, cup of coffee in a mug that reads soy milk on the front and hola milk, soy tu padre on the back in one hand, and a bundle of papers flagged for signature in the other. Your hips angle towards the paneling on the wall and you all but ragdoll your body into the buttons, aiming for the bottom floor and, regrettably, hitting the bottom three.

God forbid you have an easy start.

The elevator doors open with a groan, and the controlled chaos of the emergency department whirls around you, and you duck and weave around rogue employees, making your way through the halls, sniffing the air like a bloodhound in search of Robby.

“Jesus Christ,” vibrates out of his chest, eyes landing on you as you turn the corner. “Once a month isn’t enough for you people?”

“You people? Do you mean women?”

His hands come up and pull at his hair.

You take pity on him.

“Hey, Robby, don’t shoot the messenger.” You shrug, eyes already wandering around the floor looking for their natural target. You slide the cup of coffee in his direction, a silent peace treaty. “You don’t like it? Sue.”

Robby sighs and takes off his glasses as he watches your pathetic scan of the department. After the conversation he and Jack had after he came down from the roof yesterday—which was essentially Robby asking if he finally asked you out and Jack just grunting at him and leaving—he knows he should handle this with kid-gloves.

And he tries. He swears he tries. He would testify, hand on the bible, that he tried.

“He’s gone.”

And for a moment, the doctor almost feels bad because your head whips towards him and you resemble an abandoned shelter dog, eyes sad and brows furrowed. He makes the split-second decision to grab the cup of coffee and place it under his protection before you can do something drastic.

“What?”

“He’s gone. Day off. Today and tomorrow,” Robby declares, using his free hand to make grabby motions at the file he sees tucked in your arms.

His eyes squint in thought. “Yesterday and today, I guess, technically,” he revises.

You try to process the words, wondering why it didn’t occur to you that Jack might, like, not only exist in this building when it coincides with you.

You pull out your phone, eyes pausing momentarily on the coffee that Robby’s safeguarding before deciding it isn’t worth it. The screen reflecting your sad expression, you scroll to Jack’s number, thumbs tapping out a message, short and sweet.

And then you pause before hitting send, your gaze flickering up to Robby, who seems to be the poster child for enjoying himself, mouth greedily sipping coffee and lanky frame folded back in his chair. You tip your head to the side at the odd angle of his spine. Jack was right, he should do more core work.

“Are you lying to me right now?”

Robby looks up, head moving in a tight, rapid shake that screams exasperation with you. "Yeah, Jack’s actually fishing over in Trauma 1 right now.”

Jack hates fishing. Checkmate.

Ignoring him, you return to your phone, the message awaiting your command to go forth.

Jack was so going to hear about this.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: so u hate me now?

You pause for a second, wondering if the two of you were at harassment level.

The way his lips seared into your hand flashes through your mind.

You decide to full send.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u hate me so much u quit ur job so u never had to see me again

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: is that it

And you don’t expect an immediate response, you just want him to know you know about the self-conjured hatred and you’re not happy about it. It was 8am on a Monday—a Monday that Jack freaking has off, apparently—and by all accounts, he should be in bed, snug as a bug. 

But your phone vibrates in your hand. You look down.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: If you wanted to see me all you had to do was ask

What the—? The audacity stops your thumbs in their tracks.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im a very busy woman abbot

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u dont even know what my calendar looks like abbot

And then before you know what you’re doing, you’re sending another text reply.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: can i see u

Was that too desperate?

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im waiting for u to return from way

Deliberate typo.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: war

Nailed it.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Way

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: kill your self

Three dots appear and then disappear as you see him try to formulate a response. They appear once more.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: I want to see you too kid

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Not on the roof I mean

You have to fight the smile that tries to overtake your face, eyes glued to the words on your screen, not even looking up when Robby’s hand enters your sight, snapping in an attempt to bring you back to earth. 

But you, with days that start when Jack’s ends, and Jack, who seems to spend most of his free time in the emergency department whether he’s supposed to be there or not, have schedules that rarely align. As lamentable as it is, you both settle for a professional backdrop for your interactions.

Maybe God heard your plea from the rooftop and decided to have mercy.

I want to see you too, kid.

And so that night you find yourself at Jack Abbot’s fucking apartment, perched on his couch with his legs stretched long in front of him, ankles crossed, prim and proper, and yours tucked neatly to the side, body twisted towards his. Every once in a while, his knee brushes against your thigh. You have a Coke Zero in your hand—taken from his fridge after you showed up with a case that he immediately scoffed at—and a very manly beer is in his. The Pirates game plays forgotten on the TV. There is a pizza on its way with your name on it, which, really, should have been here, like, an hour ago, but neither of you really remember or care.

You’re mentally planning which route you’re going to take home—God forbid he lets you go home—so you could stop off at whatever church you pass first and throw up a thanks, Christ, owe you one also sorry for not visiting in a while.

“Why don’t we do this?”

“What do you mean?” you question. “We hang out all the time.”

“No, you asked me to come over once because you burnt yourself making cookies and you said that your arm resembled raw chicken.”

“Didn’t it though?”

He cocks his head to the side, bringing his beer to his lips, and his eyebrows move up in agreement. It did look like raw chicken.

“And wasn’t it the sexiest piece of raw chicken you’ve ever seen?” you press.

The natural banter presses deep and steady beneath his ribs. Silver curls tip back and his body shifts forward after it, a little closer to yours, as he laughs, and you catch a whiff of something unfamiliar, brief and blinding. 

It’s going to be a good night, you decide.

Jack’s stare softens, tender and warm.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“I’m gazing,” he stresses.

And you knew that son of a bitch Robinavitch wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

You’re going to kill Robby. And maybe Dana, you’re sure she was in on that. And you’ll include Princess and Perlah, too, just to cover your ass.

You made it this far into the night, you suppose. Nice while that lasted.

The beer rests forgotten in the attending’s hand, condensation slipping down the glass. The game on the TV recedes into static. Your silence echoes in his ear and his arm shifts along the back of the couch behind you, fingers flexing.

“You don’t have to get defensive about it, you know. Whatever… looking. Gazing,” he shakes his head, while he sets his beer on the table, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t mind.”

That smell enters your senses again, there and gone before you could focus on it, and you start to think that maybe you’re having a stroke. It’s the only logical explanation—it licks up your spine slowly, spreading over you and burning through your body, and holy shit how is he completely unaffected by this?

The crowd cheering quietly on the TV from a home run—which you’ll be pissed about later—the condensation from your can pooling in a puddle on the coaster, the older man’s body pressed to yours enough to throw you off balance. His arm, strategically placed behind you, is close enough for you to feel, and his legs, once prim and proper, have separated, thigh pressing against yours.

You’re about to lose your fucking mind.

And like always, Jack notices. He notices everything about you.

You press the cold can against your cheek as you groan, trying to ground yourself, but the metal does nothing to cool the heat building low in your spine.

And then that scent teases you again, barely enough and gone before you get a chance to pin it down to anything beyond Jack Abbot’s Natural Pheromones, and you can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, what is that?” you demand. “Is that you?”

Before he has a chance to respond, and before your brain can tell your carnal desire to, like, chill, you’re in motion.

Your first movement is sharp, and deliberate, and probably warranting the intervention of a priest, head snapping towards his as you push off the couch cushion and lean over him, trying to identify the scent invading your brain. Your left knee leverages you by his leg as your right moves behind you for balance.

And you pause.

Your second movement is slow, and hypnotic, and cautious, head dipping to allow your nose to hover above the column of his neck. Belatedly, it occurs to you that you might be crossing the boundary into territory you hadn't realized existed until now, one beyond banter and jokes loaded with yearning. Which is also a crazy thought to have when you’re almost straddling your friend, because obviously that crosses a boundary.

But the heat radiating off the body in front of you is searing.

You know you’re too close, the space between the two of you thinning to a thread, but you don’t think that even God himself could pull you from your place.

His body is firm under you as you trail your nose down, following the flow of blood from his jugular, so close you’re not sure if you’re hearing his heartbeat or yours. You tilt your head slightly, tracking the faint whisper of finally identified sandalwood and tobacco that lingers in the dip where his shoulder comes to meet his collarbone. The scent is intoxicating, earthy and bold, and mixes with underlying sting of antiseptic and of something so fundamentally Jack Abbot. 

It clings to him like an omen, sealing your downfall. Head swimming, you decide you would go to war for that combination—you were ready to lay your life down, to become a faithful martyr to his cause.

Jack freezes so imperceptibly that someone less attuned to him might not notice. But you do. You notice the subtle, sharp exhale, the way his shoulders tense and slowly fall just a fraction more sharply than before. His head turns towards you marginally, one hand twitching where it rests on the couch, but not saying a word, and you freeze too because what the fuck has possessed you?

But then you catch the scent again and it feels like stepping directly into the fire, the tension surrounding you, poised and ready to suffocate given the order.

“I’m serious,” you murmur, your voice quieter now. “What is that?”

You’re close now enough to feel the rasp of his unshaven jaw against the soft curve of your cheek.

Jack finally turns his head fully and his piercing gaze drops, catching yours, demanding and unreadable, pinning you in place. And then, with the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips, his reply cuts through the tension like that stupid-ass tactical knife he keeps in his pocket, sharp and teasing, his voice gravelly and steady and casual, “Cologne.”

And fuck him because cologne? 

But the way he says it, words low and rough, and the way his body coils, daring you to break first—something that you were more than willing to do, you would do anything he said right now, anything to ensure that not a millimeter of space came between the two of you—robs you of any oxygen that probably at some point surrounded you and feeds it to the embers, leaving none for your taking.

Your lungs constrict, desperately seeking out the air that seems to be in short supply, and a soft gasp is all you can manage. Pathetic, you think.

In front of you, you feel Jack’s muscles tense, pause in measured contemplation. 

All at once, he pushes you backwards, crowding you couch, his body closing in like it belongs there. One hand clamps around your waist, dragging you tighter against him, the heat of it searing straight through your clothes and skin and bones and sinew to directly brand your soul. The other trails up your side, singeing sensitive skin, until his thumb hooks beneath your jaw and his fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you there.

He slowly and cautiously leans in, his grip on you tightening. The distance—which you suspect he somehow invented, just to steal it back—shrinks. It could no longer be designated as platonic in any meaning of the word, though you’re starting to wonder if anything was ever platonic between the two of you.

Your voice sounds far away and foreign to your ears, lips barely moving and lungs barely containing enough air to get the word out, “Cologne?”

He hums and leans down further. His nose barely brushes yours and you’re certain the skin melts off of your bones in his wake, “It’s sandalwood and tobacco and called Cowboy,” he whispers, breath intermingling with yours.

And while the space around your bodies seems suspiciously devoid of any breathable air, every breath leaving his lips enters into yours, leaving you lightheaded. Jack’s unwavering eyes drop from where they burn into yours down to your lips.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and, Jesus Christ, his eyes are sliding shut and he honest to God groans, the talons of desperation clawing up his throat and shredding him from the inside. It escapes low and taut, as if only the only thing holding it together from crumbling under the weight of longing are the last vestiges of his frayed restraint which, admittedly, don’t seem to be faring much better. And then it travels, and it might be the lethal combination of lack of oxygen and too much anticipation and most importantly of Jack, but you think you can see the soundwaves vibrating the air as it advances towards you.

You’ve never heard an angel, but you have never heard a sound so holy.

A traitorous synapse fires and a rogue thought populates in your mind. You gasp as you try to catch your breath, “I thought you weren’t allowed to wear cologne?”

Jack’s eyes stay closed while he releases a slow, resigned sigh. “There is something deeply wrong with you.” 

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The world outside drops away, and all that’s left is the two of you, suspended in a moment so thick with tension, you’re briefly reminded of that Steve Spangler cornstarch experiment.

But the heat between you sharpens, hovers, coils tight in your gut. Your skin prickles, your breath catches, and you can feel him watching you—his gaze heavy, unapologetic, dark with intent. Every brush of fabric against your skin feels louder, every breath sharper.

That the only thing left is to decide who breaks first.

You’ll be damned if it’s you.

Jack just looks at you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

One hand comes to grasp your hip, firm and possessive, and he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, stealing the oxygen back from your lungs and returning it to his own. His mouth doesn’t find yours right away. It just hovers, lips brushing but never meeting. 

His half-lidded eyes flick to your mouth, then back.

You try to breathe, try to say something, anything, but your body betrays you—something it seems to do a lot when it comes to the veteran, and maybe you should talk to a medical professional about that—hips shift without thought, chest rising with a quiet desperation to meet him.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses forward—his body flush against yours, the unmistakable growing hardness at your stomach drawing a sharp breath from your throat. A thigh between your legs like it has every right to be there. 

His mouth finds your jaw, barely skimming it as he pulls the pin on the grenade you toss between one another, “Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because your pulse is pounding, and if he doesn’t touch you properly in the next five seconds, you’re literally going to set his apartment on fire.

And Jack knows it.

He’s the proud policy owner of renter’s insurance and he’s savoring every fucking second of it.

Throwing up a quick sorry, God, damnation it is, you fumble. You move a second too slowly, and that grenade, square in your hands, goes off. You break first.

Your lips brush his and time stops.

His eyes find yours, heavy and half-lidded, and somehow miraculously refocus on you, and you’re looking up at him and the words kiss me for real? drip like honey from your lips and when has he ever been able to deny you anything?

A large palm comes up to cradle the back of your head while he pushes you into the cushions, boxing you in, and then he’s kissing you—fucking finally—trying to make up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself, making up for every minute that he held himself back with the restraint he’s been choking on for months.

And, like everything Jack Abbot does, you’ve come to find out, he crashes over you like a wave. Movements clumsy, he moves to balance one knee between your legs, the other moving to the floor so he can put both hands on you. Without hesitation, his other hand comes up to cup your face, the movement surprisingly gentle compared to the way his lips move over yours, desperate and raw. 

He doesn’t even give you a chance.

Another thing you’ve learned about Jack Abbot tonight was there are no such thing as half measures.

His tongue darts out and he swallows the soft moan of surprise that escapes you, and you feel Jack’s grip tighten, his fingers pressing into your skin, anchoring himself to you. The sound seems to rip whatever restraint he had left to shreds, a hunger that was so carefully veiled now spilling forth like the first crack in a dam. His lips trail down and find the hollow between your collarbone and neck, and every sound that you make in response to the deliberate press and drag of his mouth against your skin urges him on, nipping and biting, stealing the taste of a forbidden fruit.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his lips ghosting along the column of your neck. “How much more can I pull out of you?”

His hands shake as they move from your waist, the small of your back, your neck—searching, anchoring, pressing in and testing the limits of the physical world because he thinks that whatever close this is is not close enough.

And then demonic, disgusting, monkey-brained Mental You whispers in your mind, he should never be pulling out, and you’re batting her away. But it doesn’t help that you agree.

You gasp, and he swallows it whole, palm skating down to grip your thigh as he presses you hard into his couch, his own between your legs flexing, shooting sparks dancing up your spine, the aching between your legs growing unbearable.

None of it is enough.

Not after the way you just fucking sniffed him like a freak.

Not after the way you said his name like a sin he should feel lucky to commit.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips parted and swollen. He stays close, eyes burning, and brings his thumb to trace your lips.

“I’ve been trying,” he says, breath ragged, “so fucking hard to be patient with you.”

You fuzzily blink, no thoughts, head only full of anticipation and him. “Huh?”

You really try to make sense of what the man above of you is saying, but all he’s done is kiss you, and it’s so unfair because you can feel you soaking wet, and you’re over here in sensory overload and he’s over here trying to speak full sentences.

The response almost makes him laugh, and he probably would have, had the situation been any different. But you’re looking up at him with blown-pupils and shiny lips, and the last of his control shatters.

Warm hands smooth around the sides of your neck, gently yanking you up to him. His mouth descends to yours. Teeth nip at your lips, sharp and possessive, and you can’t help the desperate moan that escapes. He slowly thrusts against you, the motion making you lightheaded.

Suddenly, he’s pulling you off the couch and pushing you toward the bedroom like the demon in you left and entered him, barely keeping it together, and Jesus Christ who designed the floor-plan for this apartment? You’re going to sue the fuck out of them because the space between rooms is offensive.

He finally kicks the door open, half-collapsing onto the bed with you beneath him, and the second the mattress dips beneath your weight, his mouth is on your neck, your chest, your collarbone—biting, licking, tasting everything he’s been fantasizing about. His hands push under your shirt like he’s starving, dragging the fabric up your body with a kind of reverence that borders on desperation.

“You have no idea,” he rasps against your skin, voice shaking, “how many times I’ve pictured this.”

You arch into him, breath catching. “Who are you, Picasso?”

That’s all it takes.

He tears the shirt over your head, mouth following the trail of skin like a man on his knees in prayer—hungry and grateful and, honestly, a little bit unhinged.

When he settles, Jack blinks up at you and freezes.

It’s not lace, just solid black cotton. It shouldn’t punch the air out of his lungs.

But it nearly destroys him.

The way it clings to your skin, simple and unpretentious, it’s so you. If medicine doesn’t work for him, maybe he would go into art, just so he could paint strokes on canvases, not one coming close to capturing your beauty. It makes his heart clench in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. His hands twitch, desperate.

He bites back a groan, head dropping to your hip as if grounding himself, but the ache in his chest only deepens. 

“You know,” Jack grunts, voice low and rough, struggling to hold himself together as he unbuttons and yanks your pants, blindly throwing them. “I’m oddly surprised by the amount of muscle you have.” A kiss is pressed right above your knee in emphasis, his tongue slowly moving over the small patch.

His hands don’t hesitate. Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, he peels the fabric down your hips with forced, deliberate slowness, savoring every second. The cool air rushes to kiss your skin, and the contrast against his heated touch makes your breath hitch.

“Are you kidding?” you stutter out, almost insulted, and then you pull together whatever composure remains in your trembling body. “You know I go to the gym—I can’t be embarrassing myself.”

He drops the fabric somewhere forgotten and leans down, lips grazing along the curve of your thigh, sending electricity lancing through your body. His eyes flick up to meet yours. Too much composure remains in your body for his liking.

His left hand pins your thigh to the mattress, spreading you out, his thumb pressing so close to where you need him.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on yours, he leans in a breath away from your slick heat. 

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.

“No, you embarrass yourself in other ways,” he agrees, eyes shining up at you.

He finally has you where he wants you.

Laid bare at an altar for his worship.

He closes the distance, licking a broad stripe. Slow. Deliberate.

Holy shit, his mouth is a slick furnace between your folds, it has to be because that’s the only way molten iron could be flowing through your veins, and his tongue comes out and flicks your sensitive nub, humming as he feels you clench.

Your back arches, hands fisting in the sheets or his hair—whatever in your reach, really—breath coming in shuddering waves, every nerve ending lighting up like a struck match. You reach for him—fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp—and he groans against you, the vibration rocking down your body.

“Jack—” you gasp.

He glances up, mouth slick. “Something you want?”

He ceases all movement, eyebrows raising in mock question.

You blink, not quite comprehending. “You bastard—”

“What happened to please?” he interrupts smoothly, hands flexing against your thighs. 

“What happened to don’t get used to charity?” you snap, or try to, but it lands breathless and woefully unconvincing.

His thumb dips down, and his eyes follow, glued to the sight. The thick digit slowly sinks into your wet heat, before unhurriedly pulling back out. And again. And again, and you think that his degree is actually in ending lives.

Dark eyes flash back up. “Say please.”

You bite down on a moan, retort dying on your lips. Hips thrust, chasing the pressure, shame long gone.

Burned up by the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And his stupid fucking hands. You used to love those hands.

Silence stretches between you, taut and breathless.

Then you cave—because you were always going to. Because he knows exactly how to break you apart and make you beg for it.

“…Please.”

His mouth curves, satisfied.

“That’s better,” he murmurs.

His head dips back down, tongue skimming over your pussy, and his eyes slide shut. Groaning, he flexes his arms around your legs, opening you wider, pushing closer, and taking everything your body gives him. A holy communion for his taking.

Your back arches, tension drawing tighter and tighter. 

Drawing your clit into his mouth, Jack sucks softly. Blinding pleasure rushes through your veins and your hips buck upwards, seeking out his tongue, clenching on nothing. A soft moan leaves your lips, desperately begging this piece of heaven to never leave your body.

Without mercy, he sinks two fingers into your cunt, draws them back, and slams them in.

“Jack—fuck,” you breathe. “Jack, I-I’m gonna come—”

A gentle encouraging hum fills your ears and you clench down on his hand, fingers curling, pressing against something absolutely fucking devastating deep inside you, and all you can do is gasp his name as burning ecstasy washes over you. You took some science classes back in school, but nothing could have prepared you for the nuclear fission—or, maybe fusion, the classes weren’t that good—that washes through your veins.

You can’t even fucking see. Or hear. The only sense you have is touch, specifically where Jack’s mouth continues, tongue gently flicking your swollen clit, working you through your orgasm.

Dude, what the fuck? you think as he kindly returns your eyesight to you.

He crawls over you, suspiciously absent of clothing, your soft thighs moving to bracket his hips.

“That was a lot of exertion,” your mouth says of its own volition. “Sure you don’t need a break, old man?”

“You’re the one coming apart, sweetheart,” Jack raises a brow, his voice low, the thick head of his cock catching against your entrance and pulling back, teasing. “A challenge, or you just stalling?"

“No idea, can I,” you gasp, breath hitching as the sensation sets off every nerve ending like a chain reaction, “Ph—fuck, phone a friend?”

Jack pauses just long enough to smirk, his breath hot against your jaw, his voice dropping to a rough whisper in your ear. “You really think anyone can help you right now?” 

And before you can respond, he shifts his head slightly, his breath dipping lower, and then he bites down. A gasp breaks loose from your lips, sharp and involuntary, as he takes the skin between his teeth, and you whine, high and needy. The arm not supporting his weight snakes around and presses into your lower back, lifting you slightly off of his bed, smearing his precum on your stomach. He wants to hear that sound again, and again, and again.

He wants to see the way your sharp tongue stalls and your words falter and crumble beneath his touch.

It doesn’t matter if it takes all week, he has sixty days of unused PTO and willpower.

But your lips are moving, loaded with a different one. “I’m starting to think you’re stalling.”

“Can’t you just let me enjoy the moment?” he huffs out, already sucking a new blemish into your neck.

“Pretty sure you’re enjoying it enough for both of us.”

“Damn right I am.” Teeth graze the mark he’s just made, tongue following like an apology he has no intention of meaning.

“I’m gonna need an alibi, at this rate.”

He groans against your skin, begging you to stop talking.

Nipping the cord of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, he mumbles, “I’ll write your statement.”

Your fingers thread in his hair and tug, hard enough to remind him you’re not completely helpless under him and it takes everything in him not to snap. He finally retreats from your neck, lips trailing up and capturing your lips with his.

You push him back with a soft grin. “Just make sure you spell vampire right this time.”

Jesus Christ.

He flashes his teeth at you and drops his head back down. Seeking out an unblemished spot on your neck, he bites down. The pain blooms hot, chased immediately by a wave of heat that pulses low in your body.

He slowly pushes into you with a broken groan, burying his head in your neck. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, sparks shooting up and down your spine. Your hands scrabble at his back, gripping hard, needing more—needing him. He holds you there, slowly stretching you open, and you seize in his grip, mouth open in a soundless cry as the all-consuming feeling of fucking finally crashes over you both.

He’s trembling. You feel it in the tight line of his body, the way his breath stutters against your neck, and then he exhales, guttural and wrecked.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel—fuck—you feel like heaven.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and hot between you. The cool drag of his dog-tags skims your chest with every sharp exhale. He wants to take his time—to drag this out until it’s unbearable. He wants you below him and moaning until your vocal cords don’t have anything left. He wants to burn every second of this in his memory.

“Jack, please,” you whisper, voice already frayed at the edges. You’ll be angry at yourself about this later, about Abbot making you so needy that you can’t even speak. You need him to fucking move, to do something, anything. “God, please.”

You say it again, and again, each repetition thinner, rawer. Like the word alone might crack him open, might finally tip the scale in your favor. “I need—” You break off with a gasp, hips shifting in a silent, wordless demand, but he still doesn’t budge.

“Please,” you try again, throat tight, lips brushing his. “I can’t… I need you to move. I need you.” It tumbles out now, shameless and urgent. “I want you. I’ve been good, I’ve waited—”

He stills like he’s savoring every syllable you offer up like prayer—like penance—his body tensing against yours, hand tightening its grip on you. He hears you.

He just wants to hear more.

“Please.” It’s broken now. Desperate. “Don’t make me beg—” but you already are, and you’d do it again, if that’s what it took to get him to fucking move.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” he breathes into your lips. “I���m magnanimous, remember?”

And then his hips snap forward, rough, and your broken moan ricochets off the walls of his apartment. He’d be very, very shocked if there weren’t a noise complaint tomorrow, but he couldn’t care less. He wants fifty noise complaints by sunrise, minimum.

You gasp, sharp and shuddering, clawing at his shoulders like the only way to stay grounded is to anchor yourself in him. Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, dragging him closer, and the new angle presses him deeper, stars dancing behind your eyes. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, each one more brutal than the last, making up for the torturous stillness that came before.

Your back arches, trying to take more, begging him to give more, and he meets you there—half-growling into your neck, hands mapping, afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish. Like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you, and he’s determined to make it count.

He drags a hand down your body, teeth scraping against your shoulder as he mutters, “You asked me to move, sweetheart.” But he’s already unraveling too, eyes dark and unfocused, pace punishing. You don’t know where you end and he begins—all you know is the burn, the ache, the obscene need spiraling tighter and tighter between you.

There’s nothing careful left in him. Just possession. Just hunger.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “That’s really all you needed to stop talking, huh? Just needed me to fuck you?”

Your answer is a gasp, his name falling from your lips like a prayer—cracked and corrupt. He drinks it in like it’s holy, like the sound of it is sacred when it’s coming from you in this state—wrecked, open, begging. He groans, deep and guttural, like the name alone nearly breaks him. “Say it again.”

“Jack—” breathless, sobbed, nearly swallowed by the slap of skin and the scrape of his breath at your ear.

He could die like this. Right here. Right now. Buried in you, name on your tongue, legs locked tight around him like you’d never let him leave. He’d march into hell for you.

“God—fuck,” he pants, losing rhythm for a moment, hips stuttering. “L-like you were made for me.”

You tighten around him at that, a pulse he feels in every nerve, and he shudders like it’s too much, like your body’s trying to drag the soul from his chest. And maybe you are. You probably will.

He brings your wrist clasped in his hand by your head, the other slipping between your bodies to find your clit, rough fingers moving in tight circles, aching to push you closer to the edge with him.

“You feel that?” he growls, almost desperate now, voice roughened by strain. “You ruin me.”

“Jack—” you cry out, high and trembling, and that’s all it takes.

He’s relentless now—driving into you like he’s chasing something only your body can give him. Each thrust lands deeper, harder, pulling broken sounds from your throat before you can even catch them.

You try to focus on anything—the iron grip of his hands on your wrist, the cool scrape of his dog tags between your breasts, the hot press of his mouth at your neck—but it’s all a blur. Nothing anchors you. Not when your body’s burning up from the inside out, tightening around him with every punishing roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he grits out, voice ragged, pleading. “Come on, baby—look at me.”

You do, barely, your vision swimming, and the second your eyes meet his—dark and wild and so fucking gone—you snap. Your body seizes under him, climax crashing over you like a wave with no warning, no mercy. You cry out, shattered and gasping, every nerve ending alight and pulsing.

“That’s my girl,” he pants.

Your responding Jack is high and needy and he didn’t think his cock could get any harder but he swears to fucking God he almost blacks out.

He growls your name like a curse, and then he’s gone—hips snapping forward one final time as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a sharp, strangled moan. His whole body seizes against yours, trembling with the force of it, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing holding you to earth. His whole body trembles, breath tearing from his throat like he’s breaking apart inside you.

He stays buried deep, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Like if he moves too fast, it’ll all come undone.

His weight presses down on top of you. The furthest thing from holy, your muscles still twitching from the aftershocks, his softening cock still in you, and you think you might start begging again, this time to never move from you. He inhales in your neck, slowly his lips find yours once more to press a kiss—slow, reverent—to the corner of your mouth.

It must be holy to feel so pure.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair. 

He sighs, low and wrecked. “Jesus Christ, kid.” 

You’re still trying to find your fucking lungs and tell them get it together, we have work to do, as you scratch your nails on his scalp. 

Eventually, you whisper, lips barely parting, “Jack, where is that fucking pizza we ordered?”

[mysterysciencewhatever]

one thing i love about mash is the little background things that they do. not because theyre essential to the plot or literally anything but it just helps the show and the characters feel so alive. hawkeye spraying bugspray around the tent and getting trapper in the eyes has absolutely nothing to do with the scene or the topic of conversation its not even integral to the episode its just something theyre doing in the middle of everything else happening because they have to. hawkeye sitting in the colonel's office filing the nails of the skeleton dummy just because he's bored. trapper creating a paper clip chain on one end and hawkeye dismantling it at the other end while theyre in a meeting. theyre reading theyre painting theyre writing theyre winding up skeins of yarn theyre knitting theyre mending socks and playing chess. theyre playing football or basketball or golfing or going fishing or having cockroach races. not because these things are important but BECAUSE theyre unimportant. its what makes them human. Its what makes the sets feel lived in and not just sets. if you've got a group of characters who never do anything but talk about the scene on hand then you dont have a group of characters at all you have a group of plot devices. make them bored make them fidgety make them interact with the environment around them make them live.

[biblicalhorror]

Thinking about how Pete used to be a priest and Kevin's (unnamed) mom was a nun. The fact that Pete was clearly stripped of his title. And we don't hear anything about Kevin's mother beyond the fact that she's dead. Thinking about how Diane says that she thinks of Pete as her "creepy uncle" and hates him. Thinking about how Kevin being born was likely a huge scandal for Pete and his mother and led to him being kicked out of the church. Thinking about how Pete doesn't seem to have any remorse at all for the potential abuse of power that occurred which led to Kevin's conception. Thinking about how Pete was the one most likely to make jokes objectifying women with Kevin. Thinking about how Kevin was likely raised believing he was some sort of miracle or chosen one, destined for great things solely because acknowledgment of the shame surrounding the circumstances of his birth would require Pete admitting fault. Thinking about how normalized it must have been in his childhood to see women being talked down to, objectified, sexualized and made into nothing more than plot devices to powerful men. Thinking about the sense of entitlement he must have had baked into him, and the deep fear hiding underneath all of it that one day everyone is going to realize he's his father's biggest skeleton in the closet. Thinking about this show having one of the most nuanced and complex portrayals of the cycle of abuse and patriarchal violence that I've ever seen!!!

[prettycottonmouthlamia]

Before I end up making that post I want to talk about briefly with the release of IS5 again, the concept of each IS havin a fundamental theme of unreality to them. I really like this, because it feels like in a pretty unsubtle way a solid way to ground the structure of a roguelike setting into what is normally a pretty grounded storyline.

IS1, Ceobe's Fungimist (please Hypergryph let it return), is a hallucination caused be Ceobe eating weird forest mushrooms. Nothing that happens in IS1 is real, explicitly. However, IS1 is fundamentally drawing from something, and in Ceobe's case, it seems to be drawing from her memories of traveling abroad Terra looking for the origins of her axe (and food, of course). What are things Ceobe's remembers happening to her, what are hallucinations filing in the gaps, and what are Ceobe catching glimpses of fundamental truths of the world (the Black Procession and the Feranmut skeleton that is Maybe? Lifebone for instance) is left extremely vague. Characters such as the Frozen Monstrosity do seem to genuinely exist, but there was no Frozen Monstrosity in Lungmen. Was Ceobe using something she herself experienced in place of Frostnova, or is Ceobe hallucinating the entire thing regardless? Who knows. Ceobe probably doesn't have the answers for you.

IS2 has explicit themes of madness and deception, and although I do not find him a particularly compelling character or plot device, a playwright who can literally warp reality with his plays. Much of the stage design recycles echoes the stage design from IS1, almost as if the Troupe is welcoming you, the player, onto their stage. You aren't here to discern the truth behind the Troupe, you're here to save one man, and while you are able to peel back the curtains somewhat, you never really do learn what the Troupe is. There are puppets who come to life and whose music damages your souls, there are actors driven so fully into their roles that they end up traveling to Sami to carry out their destined end, there's a Troupe Leader whose defining imagery is puppets and strings, and yet, you're no closer to finding out how this all happened than you are trying to explain why the Knights' Duel node exists.

IS3 asks the question "What if time is like evolution?" and presents its unreality in the form of a sprawling, massive bundle of alternative timelines to your own. It feels almost impossible to line up most of the events and memory mappings and endings on top of each other, and even the endings seemingly branch off into several versions of themselves. While, for example, the Irene encounter maps onto her own memory mapping story, we never see the timeline involving Lumen's memory mapping in the game at all. There is no Seaborn version of Gladiia in-game for you to fight. This is made seemingly all the more uncanny by the fact that there is actually a canon timeline going on, and the implication through the Bosky event that you are only seeing these alternative timelines because curiosity got the better of you. You came into contact with technology alien and yet familiar, and as a result, your good little timeline where you just save a girl who tries to commit identity death turns into you having to watch from the third person a version of the world where you and Mizuki are potentially the only intelligent life left on Terra for all eternity.

(No seriously, this ending is fucked up, what the fuck.)

IS4, on the other hand, gives us a reality that is unraveling, so fragile and malleable that you can cause things to manifest out of sheer force of will, something there are explicit warnings about not doing. It's a land where the living become the shambling, almost mechanical dead, and the mechanical being living creatures. It's a world where the abyss looks back at you, and finds you to be worth destroying. Gravity isn't right, time isn't right, language isn't right, snow falls black and the dead rise once again to beckon you home. There's nightmares in the shadows, and they're eating away at everything.

Sorry shit I got dark there. IS5 is Nymph's happy little storytime where she explores future and alternative versions of Kazdel through the imagination of her and her compatriots. What if Theresis and Theresa worked together and Nasti completed her designs (and maybe committed a genocide????) and Kazdel was a flying utopia city? What if the Teekaz all walked in a different direction and became the Sankta, or all became the Anasa? You know, sometimes you lose your sense of reality and become dependent on the visions you see from the Revenants, sometimes you need a little bunny to pull you out, and sometimes those Revenants might have actually caused a new reality to exist but haha, don't worry about that.

What if, hahaha, just saying what if, there was a version of Amiya in a world where the Sarkaz barely exist, where she was given the crown by a dying Theresa with no guidance on how to use it ethically? Haha I mean, what if Kal'tsit wasn't around? What if, just theoretically, there was a version of Amiya for whom the most formative person in her life was the decaying mind of a man stuck as an AI program who kept his people alive for 10,000 years? What if, hehehehe you know, what if, there were special endings you got for each of the stories you told where you went onto fight her, showing up closing up those stories, those worlds, to eternally protect them until she can find the answer to all troubles? What if the Sarkaz prophecy from Chapter 7 kept coming up, over and over again, the prophecy of an Amiya who would melt millions of lives into memories over and over again? What if this was an Amiya so immediately dangerous that the Sankta version of Buldrokkas'tee doesn't hesitate in trying to kill her?

I mean that would be a really scary story if it was true. Really it's Nymph's special storytime with the revenants. Don't worry about it.

Anyways I love pretty much each of these takes (IS2 is definitely the weakest though) and it shows a lot of thought from the storywriters about how they wanted to integrate a roguelike mode into their game.

[lintwriting]

I was here when mouthwashing was just a demo. here are some things I noticed.

I caught on to the fact that Curly was likely innocent and that Jimmy was an unreliable narrator based on the "Take Responsibility" word scramble and Jimmy's asshole behavior. Because of this, I also did not think there would be supernatural horror, I thought it’d be man-made and psychological, which I was right about.

What I did not expect was the subtle depiction of how workplaces fail victims of rape and misogyny.

What I did not expect was how backgrounded the late stage capitalism critique ended up being.

late stage capitalism: a red herring

From the Demo, you focus a lot on the corporation as the main antagonist, probably because Wrong Organ devs were hiding the villain protagonists.

Ominous posters, a Polle monster chasing you, those ominous TV commercials glorifying working for a corporation, the fact that all this horror was over fucking tooth-rotting mouthwash. Really paints the picture of a corporate horror or conspiracy a la “Time to Orbit: Unknown,” where every chapter unveils a new corporate conspiracy for money and power.

but instead, in mouthwashing, the capitalist aspects are merely plot devices to explore the horror surrounding mismanagement and its consequences.

A power tripping coworker and an enabling manager who got him the job. An eager-to-please kid and an established supervisor willing to take advantage. Flaws in how the hierarchy is decided, leading to the one person who shouldn’t have had power getting the power. Lack of sensitivity training (or whatever that’s called) surrounding things like Title IX concerns, such as the uneven gender dynamics or what to do in the event of a crime or the fact that the person doing the psych evals isn’t getting any evals.

Notice that none of these things are unique to capitalism, they’re issues you’d have to plan for in any workplace/organization, whether that be socialist or capitalist or whatever. The capitalism exacerbates the issues or catalyzes the consequences of them like a plot device, but the issues don’t originate from there.

For example: the lack of any woman other than Anya.

Yes, this was most likely exacerbated by late stage capitalism understaffing to cut corners, leading to skeleton crews, but that the crew we DO have is mostly male is more related to misogyny or gender roles.

Perhaps women don't want to work on these freighters because of the danger of being trapped in a confined space with men. Maybe the jobs required for these freighters, like mechanic or pilot, are male-dominated. Or maybe the hiring manager had a bias where they viewed men as more competent, etc. The fact of the matter is that the cause is the same when you dig down deep into it: misogyny.

Or the layoff. The laying off of the crew is its own form of evil, but its consequences aren’t the ones being explored within this story. Most of the crew die of the horrors within the ship before they ever have to face it. In fact, the horrors within the ship don't really even have anything to do with the layoff at all. It’s a bit of a red herring.

Rather, the actual cause of this game’s horror is the mismanaged fallout of Jimmy’s assault. Most obviously in that scene where we see Curly for the first time, wherein Curly doesn’t take Anya’s safety concerns seriously, even when Jimmy is actively threatening to make everyone disappear so neither of them have to face the consequences of the assault.

I initially misread that scene as Curly evilly conspiring to let Jimmy crash the ship so neither of them would take the fall, hence us finally seeing Curly's “true face.” Because I read what Jimmy said as inherently threatening and serious, I thought Curly had agreed to that awful plan and only got cold feet at the last minute.

It’s only from reading other comments that I realized Curly had most likely assumed Jimmy was blowing hot air and needed to cool down in that scene. Or that he was making an inappropriate joke akin to his 'sexually attracted to cartoon horses' thing and wasn't being serious. Curly didn’t realize Jimmy was actually talking about a real plan until it was too late stop it (makes me wonder if Jimmy was actually attracted to the horse, too).

Thus, it goes from a story about corner-cutting late stage capitalist megacorps to a story about cartoonishly evil, power-tripping men to a story about how we enable these men with failures in our system.

Much like how the beginning of the game, when Jimmy crashes the ship, a failure in the safety systems is what allows the crash to happen (Seriously? One pilfered key is all you need to send your ship into a crash?), a series of social safety nets had to have failed to let him into the cockpit in the first place. The true face is not Curly conspiring to crash the ship out of cowardice and greed, but his inability to face what his friend has done.

[decayedsword]

ronin x reader dressed as veronica and jd on halloween? I love your work btw!

A Not-So Hollow Halloween

cw : mentions of blood, murder, gore, slightly suggestive content and (im not sure how to tag this...) but a reference that one scene from heathers where veronica's with kurt and ram in the woods :)

enjoy 1.5k words. i poured my soul into this methinks

October 31st. It's finally that time of the year when people in your neighborhood can display skeletons outside their house like it's a normal occurrence. Halloween doesn't come quick, but once it does, everyone suddenly plays into the scary grotesqueness of the season, acting as if they wouldn't be scared shitless by the sight of Jeff the Killer if it were any other month.

Not you, though. You had plans tonight that did not involve blood splattered all over your clothes.

You tightened the blue blazer across your torso, smoothing out the creases in the fabric. For tonight, your name would be Veronica Sawyer, drowning in your self-proclaimed teenage angst that miserably and unfortunately had a body count.

Your hands ran through your hair, making sure to fluff and frizz it up slightly, giving you that 90's feel. There's nothing a bit of hairspray can't fix...

A notification sounded from your computer and your gaze stayed momentarily on your reflection before you stepped back to check the device.

Ah. The Slaughterhouse Losers. Your favourite serial killers.

announcements

Angelic: @everyone Who's up for a costume contest later today? c:

goreboy: fuck yeah

who better than to Win if not The Devil Himself?

Angelic: Please. Like I'd let you.

goreboy: don't try and Strike Me Down angel

general

hitmeuppp: am i the only one who thinks angel wasnt capitalised for a reason

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NO ❌ I 🧍🏼‍♂️ ALSO ✌️ THINK 🧠 THAT ⭕

hitmeuppp: SEE

luca gets me

K9: A costume contest? Do we have any... rules?

Angelic: I don't think so! Feel free to dress up as whatever you'd like <3

goreboy: or

we could do Matching Costumes

adds to the fun, doncha Think?

Eviscerator1990: I Like This Suggestion.

Ai_Hua444: 😊

felicite: I've always wanted to do a couple's costume!

hitmeuppp: luca that's your cue

luca

LUCA???

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: SORRY IM BACK

was dming a certain someone

felicite: luca.

goreboy: alright Pack It Up lovebirds

anyway

votes are in, Angel

Angelic: Well, that settles it then, I suppose!

Matching costumes it is! Can't wait to see all of you cuties later 🤍

Your hands hover over your keyboard, however your hopes of sending a message are swiftly interrupted when yet another notification rings through your bedroom. It was from your phone, which was elbow-deep in clothing you had strewn around looking for a costume you could put together.

Last week, you and your friends has decided to go as characters from Heathers, specifically the main four of the show. Cute, you had thought at the time, but it wasn't so cute when you got a little too caught-up in your novel that by the time you realized it was Halloween, you had nothing to wear.

Thankfully, with a good wardrobe and god-level plot armor as a main character of a musical and a movie, you were able to throw something together in time.

With a bit of rummaging, you were able to find the source of all the ringing. Pulling out your phone and reading the onslaught of messages, your eyes widen and you rush to head out for the night.

The computer on your desk is left open and alone. You don't look back.

The evening air is cold and almost unforgiving, however when your friends are oh-so warm and huggy, it makes up for it.

There's a weird fondness between three Heathers and only one Veronica tonight, teetering the line between canon and costume, but you four love each other nonetheless. You remember it like it was yesterday, the day you watched the movie with them for the first time. If it hadn't become the group favourite then, it secured the title when you guys attended the live musical.

It's almost funny how your fiction mixed with your reality.

The scene is all-too similar from. You're all at a party, and your friends, whose kindess you will never deny, have gone their separate ways to find someone to flirt with.

Two guys have been talking your ear off for the past 30 minutes. You silently hope your lack of enthusiasm in your replies are enough to send them away, yet they manage to entertain each other even with your "yeahs" and "mhms".

"Sorry ladies. Mind if I take this one from ya?" A tall build looms behind you, the vocal fry in his tone familiar and uncanny all at once. This is the first time you've heard it beyond a screen. The hairs on the back of your neck stick up. Do you dare look back and stare into the abyss? His abyss?

The faux angel boys are no match for the devil of a man that towers over them. You watch them mutter some half-hearted excuse, eyes darting rapidly and refusing to meet his, as they scurry somewhere else. Like live prey hunted by their predator.

You turn around and there he is! Your very own Jason Dean, complete with his dyed red hair and black nail polish, crowned with the name of Ronin Beaufort.

You can hear your heartbeat in your head. How contradictive. You've always had the upper hand in your choices, but with the Devil's Butcher, who makes you read in between the lines for his true messages, you were always six steps behind.

The music drowns out your voice. You look kind of stupid, trying to start a conversation in a crowded area, and you don't fail to notice the smirk growing amidst Ronin's face. He lazily slings his arm over your shoulder and presses up his lips against your ear.

"You better speak up, darlin'. Can't hear ya confess with all this shazam." You instinctively tilt your head, baring your neck for him and his chuckle reverberates against your shoulder, making your cheeks flush red.

You turn to face him, cupping your hands around your mouth as he leans down to help you speak to him. You whisper back.

"Was it just me or did that feel like too much of a Veronica Sawyer moment?" There's an air of giggles between the two of you and there's the slightest hint of devilry reflected in you in Ronin's void black eyes.

There's an unspoken agreement between the two of you. You're not sure when your boyfriend managed to influence your thoughts, but there's something sinister and bloody blooming in the back of your minds, and you know he knows you so well.

"You still owe me. Remember that darlin'." He whispers, a breath against your lips, and you want to chase him. You can't. There's something you must do.

There's something you want to do.

It's a little too easy to convince the boys you were talking to earlier to follow you home. "Oh, he was boring. You guys are more fun to be around." you had said, fake smile strategically weaved across your face.

With every single step you took, two bags of meat behind you, a real, manic grin spread across the apples of your cheeks, reaching your eyes.

You lead them to an alleyway.

"I'm actually really into doing it... publicly." you start, twirling your hair between your fingers and looking up at the two.

You can feel a third pair of eyes burn into you. It's a struggle to hide how fucking amused you are by this sick joke of yours. You turn around, making sure no one can see the smile on your face.

This'll make a great story.

"On the count of three, got it?" You say, not for the boys before you, but for the goreboy you know is just right around the corner.

There's confusion in the air and their complaints muffle themselves in your ears as you count.

"One." The first angel boy steps closer towards you.

"Two." The second angel boy steps farther away from you.

A clang rattles through the junction. There's a loud scream, but it doesn't come from the dead body now on the ground.

"Three!" A different voice echoes. Mirthful. Sinful.

One of the guys is stuck there, frozen on the spot, eyes wide and heavy and oh, you're laughing, insane and batshit and nothing like Veronica. You giggle at the irony. Ronin does too. He's a much better fit for JD, but the joke stays.

The two of you stray from the plot of the movie when Ronin backs the guy into a corner. He gives you his crowbar.

You go for the eyes.

killer_shit

user: i think we won this one!!

[photo]

It's a picture of you and Ronin in your room. Both of you are drenched in blood, and Ronin's holding up an eyeball, but it's romantic nonetheless. Especially considering with how his lips, at the very least, are pressed against your cheek.

You close your computer, giving it its much needed rest.

"Wanna bite?" He smirks, showing off his sharp canines as he holds the eye between the two of you.

You almost consider it. Almost. Instead, you opt to reach for his face instead, pulling the skin at the base of his eyebags down.

"I'd prefer yours, darling." There's a small mocking smile on your face when you say it, before you let go and press a kiss onto his eyelid.

Ronin's cackle manages to fit between your lips when he kisses you.

You wouldn't have him any other way.

here you guys go! not the hanahaki fic i promised but uhhhhhhhh yeah so heh

[princessofghosts-posts]

Another day another occasion to talk about Nico's powers that got barely acknowledged in the books. Today we feature: the ability to transfer his memories through his darkness.

I know it was a plot device used to make Jason understand him better during their encounter with Cupid,and to make Bryce understand he messed with the wrong people,but that alone is a uniqueness to give to someone.

That some anime-shonen-type-of-power to have. The one you use to make them react to their life like they are in a fanfic and are watching/reading the original material. I don't think I ever saw something like that even in animes,or at least not in this way and not in the ones I watched. And I spent my childhood on those (still do).

And it's also pretty OP because the side effects on Bryce were brutals. He started to bleed because he couldn't handle Tartarus,and Nico had the strength to kill him off even in so much emotional distress. And both Reyna and Hedge felt sick to their stomach too,even tho Nico didn't want to involve them but it's a sign that it's an ability that can cover a bit of ground,and not only the person next to him. He did the same with Cupid and Jason watched (for real) Nico's whole life flashing in front of him in only a couple of seconds. That's sick.

And extremely impressive. Most of it was probably triggered by his anger and negatives emotions (read: do not engage with the son of Hades when he is angry) but it's still part of his power right? So he probably had this ability since the beginning (read: Rick added it only for necessity but for my sanity I'll ignore this) and it's just another one to add to his power list. He just is so versatile.

And if he tries to control it?? Instead of leashing out all of his memories/emotions,what if he can pilot them to make his enemy saw certain things to make them scered? Like with Bryce with Tartarus. But instead of them watching him in Tartarus,is just straight up Tartarus,as if they are there. And if he can exploit it,then maybe he can try to manipulate their own fears against them,making sure they go slowly insane and paranoid.

Mix this with his dream's manipulation ability and Nico can explode someone mind just because he want too. Decorate a bit with skeletons and ghosts popping out while they less they expect it and you got a masterpiece. There is so much potential here to use to terrifying someone that you can create literally everything.

[dailyadventureprompts]

DM Tip: Creating a Campaign Skeleton

Learning to be a better dungeonmaster was a protracted process. A younger me was often so stressed out by the desire to be a better artist that I'd have legitimately mauled a person if it would've revealed to me the wisdom I sought (with my hands or even an actual maul given the chance).

One of my biggest hurdles was the idea of a universal framework for d&d adventures, a guideline that would tell me if the things I was creating were on the right track. It was sorely needed, I loved the process of being creative but without an understanding of how my creative energy was best used I ended up sinking days, weeks, or even months worth of energy into projects that went nowhere. Worse yet, when I DID get a chance to put my ideas into practice at the table they'd frequently spiral out of control and crash, resulting in even more stress.

Over time I learned from these mistakes, I got better, and then I got good. I moved from conscious incompetence to competence, and I ended up having a run of absolutely stellar campaigns that were everything my younger self could have dreamed of: stable, enjoyable, meaningful, and most importantly an absolute delight to my players. Routinely I'd have people, including folks that'd only played with me a few times, mention that getting together to roll dice and listen to me babel on in silly voices was a highlight of their week.

It was as one of these campaigns began to wind down (three years! a satisfying conclusion on the horizon!) and I started looking for a followup scenario that I decided to study all my really successful campaigns and figure out what connected them. The end result was something I'd been looking for for nearly a decade, a reliable format that I could build campaigns around.

I want to preface this section with the understanding that while this information is laid out in a vaguely chronological fashion there's no guarantee that these ideas will occur to you in any particular order. Inspiration is a funny thing, and each idea flows into the others to make a cohesive whole. Due to foreshadowing and setup reasons you're also going to need a pretty solid idea about all of these when starting a campaign, though exact details will likely change/ can be vague up until the moment they're needed.

The Reason: Who are we and what are we doing?

Gives your players a solid background to build their characters around and give them a reason to travel together, rather than having to ad lib one on the spot. Likewise sets expectations of what the campaign is "about" that you can build on or subvert in time. The reason doesn't need to hold true for the entire game, just long enough to serve as a framing device. EG: The Witcher starts out as a "monster of the week" setup and then uses that framework to pivot into politics and prophecy once we've seen the premise play out.

The Pilot/Crashtest Adventure: What's first?

I’ve already written about these, but the general concept is to give your party a mostly contained first outing that doesn’t have any larger bearing on the plot so they can focus on learning how their characters play/building the party dynamic.  By the time the party's finished this first adventure they'll have already started putting down roots in the world: they'll have in jokes, npcs they've started to care about, an understanding of what's on the horizon, and an idea of where they want to go next.

The Central Gameplay Pillar: How does this all work?

It's important to have an idea what your campaign is going to be about in a mechanical sense in addition to its plot and themes. There is a difference between an adventure that has the party delve a dungeon, and a dungeoncrawling focused campaign. I like to lead with these outright during the campaign pitch so that players can know what they're getting into. Your playgroup will likely have strong opinions about what they like and dislike, even if they don't have the words to describe it, so you might need to explain the ideas for them.

The Hub: Where are we?

I think every good campaign has a hub, some kind of settlement that the party returns to between adventures to offload loot, pick up supplies, and sift through the latest gossip to look for the next questhook. Letting the party return to the same place lets them build up a relationship with it, clarifying the picture in their mind as new details are added and they grow more and more attached. It's possible to have multiple hubs over the course of a campaign, but I'd advise really only having one per arc to best concentrate your efforts. Fill up your hub with distractions and side adventures, shorter stories that the party can get tangled up in while the larger adventure slowly reveals itself. Returning to the same hub also means returning to a familiar and expanding cast of NPCs, which helps your party become more and more invested in the setting

The Main Event: What's going to happen?

Here we get to the meat of the issue, the big story you want to be telling using this campaign. To pull off the sick narrative kickflip you wish to perform, you're going to need to lay a lot of groundwork, seeding in details left and right as well as giving the party a chance to stumble across evidence of your schemes without ever realizing the whole thing. To do this, you're going to work in the building blocks of your big reveal/twist/pending disaster into the setting along with those side adventures from the hub. This will give your party an idea that something is going on, but with more pressing matters to take care of they're going to be distracted up until the moment you decide to pull the trigger.

The Setting: What's over there?

While things like genre and tone are definitely things you should have a handle on from the outset, I personally feel like the details of a setting are best constructed on an ad hoc basis, either in a direct response to something required by part of the narrative (be it side story or main event), or pencilled in at the margins as the party explores the world.. That said, creation of the hub and setting often go hand in hand because it's important to match the settlement to the environment and then shape the environment to the quests inside the settlement. As for what's beyond your hub, I happen to have just written something about building out settings.

Now, this next option is one that I recommend you start thinking about only once your campaign is fully underway, so it doesn't clog up your creative process by focusing on something that you might not even get to

The Change: What the fuck?

A little while after the main event has kicked off and your party is off on the quest that will turn them from mere adventurers into heroes, they start to hear rumours of strange happenings. It's certainly not related to the present scenario, it may even be an unexpected windfall, but it's not something they have time to look into. Time ticks on, the land is saved, and the party is able to enjoy their victory lap as well as some dearly needed time off. Before they can get comfortable however they're slammed by some strange occurrence that they could have never predicted that changes the state of the world. A neighbouring kingdom invades, an important ally is murdered and they're blamed for it, a dragon starts rampaging through the realm. Its important that this event is outside the party's skillset, not necessarily diametrically opposed, but counter to what they were planning

artsource

[shaunashipman]

yeah this whole ep left a bad taste in my mouth. they literally, in-universe, ret-conned belinda into revolving all around being a mother, shutting her in a room and having her say that living in stasis inside what looked like 5x5 room for eternity would be fine so long as her daughter was with her. living in an essentially padded cell for eternity would be fine, cause motherhood. did rtd forget belinda's whole first episode??

the fact that we got a doctor and companion lite episode in a season with only 8 episodes. belinda, as much as i love her, was completely underdeveloped. every episode was just "doctor you have to take me home" "ok we just need to stop here to fuel up the magic thingy" "guess we'll look around while we wait for the plot-device to load up". and then what little character she had was just erased so she could be Mother™

and the doctor. justice for ncuti, because what the fuck. 16 episodes. 2.5 specials. his entrance into the series overshadowed by david's return, now his exit overshadowed by billie. he didn't get any iconic doctor who villains. both his finales were were bogged down with the 27 million characters at UNIT, with whom who we only get superficial scenes that do nothing but take away precious time, because god forbid the UNIT not be involved when the doctor is on earth nowadays. did they not think ncuti's doctor could carry these finales without UNIT padding them out? cause let me tell you, he fucking could.

this isn't even getting into the utter wasting of the rani and omega. doctor who finales have generally always been a bunch of mumbo-jumbo that doesn't make sense, the doctor and the villain chewing the fuck out of the scenery, and then a deus ex machina to fix everything. exactly what i expect out of a doctor who finale

but this was just a waste of everthing. the rani had what? 2 scenes this episode? teleporting into UNIT and then summoning omega and dying. omega was a giant skeleton halfway thru the door that just ate the rani and then the doctor stopped him with magic gun? that whole portion of the ep took like 10 minutes altogether, maybe 15.

the rest of the episode was devoted to shoving the lead female firmly into the position of Mother™ out of nowhere, the doctor forcing a regeneration to get his daughter back only for her to no longer be his daughter, and somehow there was no mention of susan in this ep, despite her literally appearing last ep.

and now billie. is she actually the new doctor, or is this some more weird shit a la fourteen? she wasn't credited as the doctor, just "introducing". but if she's not the doctor, that actually makes it worse. rtd brought david back, upstaging ncuti's arrival as the doctor with some fuckery about familiar faces, and now he's using more fuckery to upstage ncuti's exit with another person from his most popular era.

so in conclusion, the show's brown companion got what little character she had erased in favour of making her a mother, and the first non-white doctor gets his entire tenure upstaged by the two white faves.

oh and the brown rani got EATEN while the white rani gets to live. yeah. okay

[lightwise]

Comparing Acolyte vs. Skeleton Crew - Intro/Themes/Links

Alright guys. Deep breath. Since about the middle of Skeleton Crew airing (SC here on out to save on typing), when it was clear it was going to cement itself as one of the best live action Star Wars made so far, I realized I wanted to pick at why SC was doing so well, and why Acolyte, which premiered just six months prior, failed so miserably.

It's still kind of shocking that one, while it had the largest budget and one of the largest viewing audiences of any Star Wars show so far, failed rather spectacularly in both quality and reception, and the other, with a more modest budget and unfortunately extremely low viewing numbers, managed to be one of the best and most universally praised (by those who did watch it) Star Wars shows ever made. 

I also never gave my thoughts around Acolyte in general, so this will be a mix of contrast/compare as well as me writing out my thoughts about each Acolyte episode in the process. You guys have heard me yap a bunch about SC already and you know how much I love it, so I won't be doing a play by play for it but will use it to highlight where Acolyte where wrong.

So first, let's look at what questions are both shows trying to answer, and how (what themes and devices) are they trying to use to answer them. (NOTE: The entirety of both shows will be spoiled in these posts. Obviously 😁. Do not read if you care about that.)

Both shows hinge on three things--the perspectives and viewpoints of children, the power struggle of light vs. dark, good vs. evil and their effects on the characters we meet, and assumptions about the Jedi Order.

Skeleton Crew is an adventure show about lost kids encountering pirates and trying to find their way home, and that is how it was marketed to us. While it is set during the Mandoverse, it remains separate from the main storyline/lore of that time period, does not feature or try to rely on any legacy characters, and stays focused on its mission. A group of kids get lost out in the galaxy, encounter both good and bad people along the way, and have to overcome obstacles and grow as a team in order to find their way home. It is a show for kids, about kids, and from the kids' perspectives. However, it ends up being much more than that. The show turns out to be a mystery, on multiple levels--not only do the kids need to get home, but their home supposedly doesn't exist, and is a source of legends and pirate lore. We have to find out what their planet is, as well as where it is, in order to fulfill the story. Along the way the kids meet a variety of characters who will either help or hinder them in their journey, especially Jod. The show has a minor mystery of figuring out exactly who Jod is, and what side of things he stands on, and his journey and relationship to the kids is a major plot driver.

We also have a huge Jedi influence in the show, even though none are truly present as characters due to the time period, and the show has a very specific and positive outlook on the Jedi, their role in the galaxy, and their reputation being one of heroic kindness and protection. That theme doesn't just exist in Wim's storybook but is threaded through their entire journey, Jod's choices and background as a character, and even the hopefulness around how the New Republic comes in and helps save the day at the end. Even when Jedi are not physically present, the concept of good people existing in even the darkest places of the galaxy and helping those around them is embedded in each episode.

Acolyte was marketed as a show that was supposed to be a dark mystery thriller (forgive me if I'm stretching the definition of that genre) about finding the identity of a Jedi killer and showing us the shadowy rise of the Sith pre-Prequels and post-Nihil. The overarching galactic themes of dark vs. light, the Jedi vs. a rising darkness, are what the trailers showed as the focus. It was supposed to be a bridge between The High Republic Era (THR) and the Prequels, and to fill in some gaps in lore and storyline. Like Skeleton Crew, it does not rely on any legacy characters (and the only returning character from other media is Vernestra), and while it had a wealth of THR world-building to pull from, it did not make much effort to explain that time period well given it was the first time we have seen it on screen. It needed to balance both broad and focused storylines if it was going to succeed, based on the marketing.

Similar to how Mando Season 3 teased a specific storyline only for it to be wrapped up within the first two episodes, Acolyte ended up answering the first question--who was going around killing Jedi, and some of their motivation, within the first two episodes. The mystery is solved by the reveal of twin girls being the main characters. The confusion of Mae and Osha's identities only lasts for an episode and a half, and both a reunion and Mae's thought process are laid out fairly quickly. This left us with conflicting motivations going forward--instead of the mystery and darkness we thought we were unraveling, the mystery now being presented was "what happened on Brendok, and why are these four Jedi supposedly at fault for something terrible?" And "who is Mae's master" and also "how (if at all) are these girls going to reconcile?" While these mysteries do somewhat tie into the other two main themes of the show--the appearance of Sith and the dark side growing stronger in the shadows, and a rather scathing critique around the Jedi religion as a whole (the role they were currently serving in the galaxy, how they became corrupted into the war of the Prequels, and eventually fell to Palpatine's schemes), it is not what a viewer might think they were getting into based on the trailers. All of these themes can kind of stand in a row next to each other, but they don't nest neatly into each other the way that Skeleton Crew's layers do (although I think they absolutely could have, if handled properly).

Now there's nothing inherently wrong about any of these premises in Acolyte, or exploring them. But to me, Acolyte kind of sidesteps and then falters on all of its up front purposes, whereas SC both delivers on its marketed purpose, adds in new ones once the show gets started, and consistently hits on and delivers on all of those themes every single episode, including wrapping them up in the finale (with just a few things that could have been tied off more thoroughly--like Tak Rennod's identity/fate, or delved into deeper, like the specifics around At Attin's history). In SC, every Chekhov's gun is fired. Every metaphor is carried through. Every prop or throwaway piece of dialogue comes back around. Every theme of the children getting home, figuring out what their planet really is, and where it is, finding out Jod's motivations, and finding good people who make the galaxy worth living in even in its scummiest regions, are all consistently handled throughout the show. It shows us both good and bad sides of the galaxy, shows how people have been impacted by their experiences, including the children, and brings them together to overcome every obstacle in the end.

The trailer for Acolyte (which is really tight and invokes a drama that I hoped the show would fulfill) laid out these lines: "In an age of light, darkness rises. This isn't about good or bad, it's about power and who is allowed to use it." Not only does the show itself end up being centered around a much smaller/more personal angle than the trailers showed, (Osha as a character and the existence of the twins and the mystery around Brendok is not mentioned at all), I would argue Acolyte never actually shows us what the “light” in this time period is supposed to be, or who the Jedi truly WERE and what they stood for as a whole, and therefore its foray into the darkness feels both forced and lackluster. But we will delve into that later.

Interestingly, as I started writing this I realized for every major positive I found in Acolyte, I often had a minor or major qualm that was the opposite side of the same coin. The good and bad are linked, just like Mae and Osha. That really might be what it comes down to with this show—it’s not that it doesn’t have great moments, ideas, and even execution.  It’s that the ratio of good to bad doesn't balance out, depending on the episode, and that’s enough to tank the entire effort. 

That being said, let's dig into it.

Here are the links to each episode breakdown:

Episodes 1&2

Episode 3

Episodes 4&5

Episodes 6

Episode 7

Episode 8 - coming soon

[the-sunniest-angels]

Hi hello so. I finished wings around April and it still has plagues my mind all the way till June. No joke it is a absolute masterpiece, I love recommending it to others!!! It's one of the only fanfics I've read that genuinely feels like it should have fanfics of the fanfics. ANYWAYS, I was wondering about any inspirations you had while writing it??? This has been a question I've been pondering for the last 2 months since finishing haha

Omg hi I'm honored you have a question for me, I love your blog. 10/10 you are talented at the Art of Tumblr™

I'm so glad you liked the fic so much!!! It is every writer's dream for their fic to be worthy of more fics hahaha

To be honest, a LOT of the motivation was bc I was going through a major religious allegory phase at the time of writing. Like, I think I wrote probably 3 different full-length original novels featuring angels, demons, and the like. I don't really know where it came from. I hadn't consumed any relevant media prior to entering The Angel Obsession Of 2024™ so I really don't know what the original motivation was or why the fixation hit so hard lmao. At the same time, I was SUPER obsessed with Icarus metaphors and the symbolic power of a character who is doomed to fall finding a way to fly instead. So anyway story inspiration for Wings came a lot easier when I was already so obsessed with so many of the motifs that we see in the story.

Also, Wings actually is the second draft. I wrote the first when I was like twelve, haha. I don't recommend reading the original version except for purposes of helping anyone feel better about their own writing. My middle school self had a great idea but god-awful execution. After that I stopped publishing fic updates for about seven years and then returned to fandom in college, where I am finally going back and finishing and revamping all the old stuff. What this all means is that some of the major elements of Wings were actually devised years ago--the treaty, the "make me a Guardian!" loophole, Luke being the prince, etc etc. All things I took from the original plot! So the skeleton of an outline was already there, and I just had to fill it in.

And from there it was, to be honest, a lot of daydreaming about how to create the absolute most dramatic situations (hence all the times it feels like a climax chapter even though it's actually not), to incorporate all my favorite literary devices (foils, dramatic irony, religious symbolism lmao... The list goes on, I'm sure), and then to put it together in such a way that plot is still comprehensible. I created my outline and started my brainstorming playlist. Decided on the tone I wanted to set (vaguely Hozier lol) and then started writing :)

I wouldn't say there was any particular piece of media that inspired Wings so much so as like a very intense obsession with the concept and several years of this story kind of existing in the back of my mind. I'm old enough now that I'm starting to finally have a more firm understanding of my writing style, and I've been in the fandom for long enough to feel like I really understand these characters now. It was a perfect storm of factors that came together to create a story I'm genuinely proud of :)

Again I'm really glad you liked it!! Sorry I don't have a more, like, tangible answer for you, but I hope this answers your question :)

P.S. since a lot of the inspiration comes from my process of outlining itself I thought it would be funny to include some of my favorite parts from my chapter-by-chapter outline. You'll notice I really make my outlines too detailed in a lot of ways, but in my defense: I'm a yapper. Enjoy.

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #8] Washi Tape

warnings: THE BIRDS!!!! the most important plot device of the story!!, mentions of jk’s former fwb (grimacing as i type)

soundtrack: are we having any fun yet? - larkins; beach side - kings of leon; toroka - christian kuria

wc: 8k

bd total wc: 540k (on-going)

minors dni | AO3 | series masterlist 

When Jeongguk wakes up in a dark room, he's confused. He never sleeps in pitch-black darkness. Even when his curtains are drawn, he usually has a lamp running throughout the night. It projects a galaxy onto his ceiling. Makes him feel like he's surrounded by stars.

Had no need for it last night, mind you.

After all, you were there. He was already surrounded by stars.

But now, he's not.

His eyes hazily focus on the pile of pillows next to his bed. He's kind of glum when he notices you're no longer buried within them. Pouts. Thinks you've done it again.

Thinks you've succumbed to your typical routines; done to him what was so unfairly done to you in the early hours of that very morning.

Would make sense, and yet he still feels a little vexed. Feels like it's a bit of a dick move on your part. Thinks that at the very least, you could have woken him to say goodbye.

He can't bring himself to be annoyed though. Is too concerned. Fears that the cold light of day will have left you embarrassed about your upset, and more than anything, he doesn't want you to lament the choices that led you to his place.

Doesn't wanna be another one of your bad decisions.

But then his bedroom door clicks open, and he closes his eyes, trying to pretend as if he'd never been mentally chewing you out for 'leaving'.

He's lethargic as he turns to hook a leg over his duvet, rolling onto his front. He's in shorts, the shirt he'd gone to bed in discarded during the night after he'd gotten a little too hot.

It's bunched up next to the towel that's crumpled by his head. He's not resting on it anymore, but it was always inevitable. He gets restless in his sleep.

Back broad, the ridge of his spine is on full display, muscles framing his skeleton like a work of art. He's got the kind of body the Greeks would have sculpted; Renaissance artists would have painted. Maybe one day you'll fill a canvas at the cafe with a study of his back.

He groans, an incoherent murmur sounding in his throat as he rubs his face into his mattress.

"Thought you'd left," he grumbles, voice slow and lethargic, eyes still closed. This is exactly why he sleeps with his curtains open. It makes it so much harder to stay in a state of slumber when he's being blinded by sunlight.

By the door, you're smiling. "Sorry. Didn't leave. Just went to get some water."

"Gimmie."

He pushes himself up, palms flat on the bed as he twists to face you.

Your hair is a little lopsided from where you've slept on it, but his is just the same. Even worse, maybe. In fact, he actually looks like he's just stuck a fork in an outlet with how unruly it is. His eyes are puffy, and he really doesn't want to keep them open, but he's trying to get a read on your mood.

He's pleasantly surprised to find you smiling, delicate as you tiptoe around his bed with two glasses of water. "Here."

Sitting up, duvet pooled around his waist, Jeongguk takes the glass from you with two hands and chugs on it as if he's spent his dreams in the Sahara without a flask. The way he glugs it down is actually concerning - and the fact he doesn't stop until he's practically poured all of it down his gullet? You're surprised he doesn't drown himself.

He finishes with a slight gasp, and when he opens his eyes again, they're not as puffy as they once were. "Cheers."

You've only taken a single sip. Too busy looking at him with sheer bewilderment.

"Thirsty?" You laugh.

"Nah," he grins. The lies he tells are so sweet when he's looking at you like that. Makes you want to believe them. "Not in the slightest. Sleep alright? What time is it?"

"Really well, actually," you nod, taking a sip on your water as you sit back down into your pile of pillows. You notice his lack of cushions, and toss one up to him. It lands in his lap with a soft thud. "And it's just gone eleven."

He grumbles, taking the pillow beneath his arms, on top of his lap. No matter how late he gets home from work, he hates sleeping in late. Feels like he wastes his days. So much life to live in such a short amount of time. Wants to make the most of it.

"Not fancy the gym today?" You ask as he rubs his eyes, trying to shake himself from his drowsy slump.

"Figured you didn't need it," he says with an indifferent shrug. His lip ring glistens in the small stream of light that creeps in through the gap in his curtains. You lean around to pull one of them open a little further. He winces. Whines. "Bright."

"I didn't need it?" you ask, a little confused by what he means, ignoring his discomfort from the light. It's not like his visits to the gym have anything to do with you.

"You're not hungover," he shrugs, letting his body relax back down onto his mattress, pillow now beneath his head. "You don't need to walk it off."

"But you work out without me," you remind him. "Still could have gone."

He snorts now, eyes closed, lips pouting as he purrs a jibe in your direction. "I always workout without you, because you don't actually work out-"

"Fuck off, yes I do."

"Don't," he grins, opening one of his eyes, just to ignore the outrage on your soft features. He's glad you're eating up his bait. He's trying to move the direction of the conversation. Doesn't want to have to explain that he actually stayed home from the gym so that you wouldn't have to wake alone again. Would rather his kindness go unnoticed. "It's fine, though. Had a late night last night. I can go this evening instead. No work."

"Sorry," you whisper as you throw him a smile, aware that you've disrupted his plans, but he just shakes his head.

"S'cool," he shrugs. It's no hardship. No skin off his back. "Honestly."

His toned muscles tweak in the morning light as he reaches for his shirt, and you find yourself looking away. It's not like there's any need for it - his body is probably the thing he's most confident of - but the fact he's trying to cover himself makes you think that maybe you're seeing something you're not supposed to.

There are a couple of tattoos he'd rather not explain, and a tiny white scar just below his ribs from a wheelie gone wrong during his childhood, but nothing too revealing.

Still, you're in his space, and that in itself feels incredibly personal. Not uncomfortable, just a little less casual now in the broad daylight that's pouring in through his windows than it had been in the dark of night.

"I should probably get out of your hair," you offer, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

Jeongguk disagrees. Thinks you're perfectly welcome. "No rush."

"It's fine," you smile, pulling your hair from the bun it's tied in and shaking it out. It smells like strawberries. Smells like Jeongguk. "I really appreciate you being around last night. The least I can do is not derail your entire Sunday."

He wants to say that taking an alternative route wouldn't be derailing, and that it really doesn't matter if he ends up at the same destination, but locomotive metaphors feel lame, and he also doesn't wanna have to explain that chess wasn't the only slightly nerdy pastime he'd indulged in a child.

So instead, he just says, "if you're sure?"

Your clothes hang over the back of his desk chair, just as slouchy and comfy as the shirt of his you're wearing, but somehow a little less appealing. He reaches over for them and tosses them your way, because he doesn't want it to look like he'd quite like you to stay.

Just feels bad that you'll be going back to your apartment, knowing it will smell like your ex. Knows that the reality you ran away from will be just the same as you left it. The bed will still be unmade, the clothes Seokjin had stripped you of will still be crumpled on your floor. Maybe the indent of his head will still be on your pillow, condom wrapper still by the foot of your bed. The sound of his laugh could be trapped beneath your duvet, the feel of his hands on your skin could be heavy in the stale air of your unventilated bedroom.

Should have opened a window before you left.

And Seokjin never should have left in the first place, but it is what it is.

"I'll let you get changed," Jeongguk says, drawing you from your senseless thoughts, eyes soft, not really waiting for a response before he heads for his door.

You say a small thank you, but it's muffled slightly by the way it catches in your throat. He doesn't acknowledge it, slipping out of his room without turning back.

He's conscious of the fact that you've been rolling dice and landing on chance cards for a little while, now. Your friendship had been chalked up to lucky encounters and serendipitous endeavours.

Last night was much more deliberate. Felt like you'd looked through the chance cards before picking one: Go to a square of your choice. Collect £200 if you pass go.

He doesn't have a full set of cards yet. Can't put down houses, nor hotels - but you landed on the waterworks last night, and he landed on the electricity company. You're level. Both winners; both losers.

Muffled chatter has you slightly on edge as you hear Jimin's sleepy voice spliced in conversation with Jeongguk's. Hadn't considered how strange it could look for you to be leaving Jeongguk's room, when all three of you know the last time you'd been in their apartment, it was Jimin's room that you'd tried (and failed) to sneak out of.

And while there's no need for you to sneak around now, you know it will look a little precarious if you slink out of Jeongguk's room with a look upon your face that will no doubt reek of guilt.

It's not because you've done anything wrong, but just because you understand the dynamics of friendship. If Jimin emerged from Danbi's room without warning, you'd be a little confused. Not upset, per se, but definitely awkward. It's easier for everyone if your current whereabouts are unknown.

You fold Jeongguk's shirt neatly and smooth his bed sheets, trying to make his room look a little bit more presentable.

As you're stacking the mountain of pillows towards the top of his double bed, you can hear Jimin query where the sofa cushions have gone. Jeonggul lies. Says he was building a fort for gaming. Promises he'll bring them back - but Jimin just says not to worry. He'll bring his pillows from his bedroom into the living room for the time being. Jeongguk can keep the fort up.

There's a smile on your lips. It's nice to hear them chatter; nice to hear Jimin in a normal setting outside of a club or a bedroom. Even nicer to hear that Jeongguk is just as tender with his housemate as he is with you. He's kind. You think it's your favourite thing about him.

Which is strange, because normally kindness makes you run for the hills - but as you cross your legs, sitting at the end of his bed, you realise there's no need. The reason you're not running is because Jeongguk isn't chasing you. He walks alongside you, like your shoelaces are tied together.

Maybe one day you'll trip, but for now, you have a good pace set.

When he returns to his room, he's holding a finger to his lips. Shush, Byeol. Keep quiet.

And yet he vaults a packet of crisps at your face without much thought. The thick plastic of the packet crinkles against you, and Jeongguk seems to be in a pleasant state of surprise as he witnesses the impact, brows raised, mouth circled like a polo.

You say a thousand words with just a single gasp.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispers with a hushed giggle, the door now shut, realising how much he underestimated his throw. His palms are raised like he's holding white flags until he reaches the bed. You go to kick him, but he catches your ankle just in time. "Hey, hey!" He's still whispering. "I said I'm sorry!"

His thumb strokes against the bone of your ankle as he apologises, and the sweetness of his smile is hard to resist. You yank your leg back from his grasp and narrow your eyes.

"Couldda blinded me."

"Don't be dramatic."

"Never tell a dramatic girl to stop being dramatic, Jeongguk. You don't know what you'll unleash."

He rolls his eyes and flops down onto his bed beside you. He's looking up at those damn birds again - so you do the same. His patchwork arm folds behind his head, ink-free arm resting over his stomach as he waits for you to shuffle into a comfortable position. There's only a little distance between the pair of you, but it's enough to reinforce that line you've drawn in the sand.

"Jimin's just put The Notebook on," he says without much animation, as if it were an inevitability he saw coming.

"So..."

"So, it means two things," he says with absolute certainty - because it was an inevitability. "Number one? He didn't get laid last night."

You laugh, not picturing Jimin as much of a romantic- especially when you know how he likes to fuck. Must have been why he offered you the chance to stay over. It could be that your least favourite part of a hook-up - the intimacy - is his favourite.

"And two?"

"Two is that we've got two hours until he leaves the living room."

"Shit."

Jeongguk turns his head to face you, seemingly affronted by your exclamation. "Ouch. Rude. My company isn't that bad."

You let your gaze drop to meet his, the side of your head now resting his duvet. You smile. "Yes, it is."

"Dickhead," he laughs, but doesn't let his gaze linger on yours for too long. Something so damn fascinating about those birds. "Nah, it's up to you. If you really have to get gone, I don't mind telling him you're here. I don't think he'll make it weird, or anything.

"I'd rather not," you admit. "Just means... explaining things, doesn't it? Don't really want a guy I hooked up with once knowing the ins and outs of my dating life."

He nods. Understands. Things are simple between the pair of you, but there are complexities when it comes to your mutual friends.

"Told him I'm not feeling great, so he's not gonna disturb me for a bit. I'll get Netflix up on my desktop or something, you can watch whatever you fancy. I've got some coursework to catch up on, so I'll be doing that."

You watch Jeongguk as he reaches over you with a muffled sigh. He's retrieving the iPad from his nightstand. He's never mentioned his studies before, but there's something incredibly confusing about the concept of him - bartending gym rat, heavily tattooed Jeongguk - doing homework.

But then you're feeling bad again, knowing surely you'll be a distraction to his day.

"Sure you don't wanna use your desktop for your coursework?"

"Nah, nah," he smiles and raises the tablet. "S'what I use in class. All my notes are on here."

It's the first you've discussed his studies. Didn't even realise he was still in school. Still so much to learn about one another. It's okay, though. You've all the time in the world.

"Watcha studying?"

He presses his lips together, not quite smiling. Finds it a little bit awkward talking about his endeavours, knowing that there is a weight that comes with a degree. Doesn't want to get one and then end up never using it in his life - kind of like you.

"Business and events. Study part-time. Had to work alongside it. In my final year."

"Oh wow," you say, genuinely surprised. You just never assumed he had any free time, because you only ever actually see him when he's busy. You've never seen him on a Tuesday and nor a Thursday, though, which is when he's in lectures. "That's impressive."

He rolls his dark eyes, but his smile is ever-present. He awkwardly sucks a little air between his teeth and knocks his head to the side. "It's not. Everyone has degrees these days."

You want to argue back, but then he's asking you about your degree, and how you ended up working in an art cafe. The answer is simple yet feels complex - a saturated job market is where you place your blame, but the internal feeling of inadequacy is why you actually think you never got one of the lucrative roles in your chosen industry. Just don't feel like you're good enough. It wasn't for a lack of trying.

He tells you it's impressive that you've got a degree, with a bit of a shit-eating smile, and it has you rolling your eyes, too. Makes you realise how dumb you sounded saying it to him.

"C'mon," he nods towards his desk. "Let's pick something to watch."

There's a casual nature to the way he lets you sit on his desk chair, chin resting upon your knees, as he leans over you; hand on the mouse, navigating through his desktop.

You ignore the fact he opens up chrome in incognito mode. He just hasn't deleted his history in, like, forever, and fears what could be on display. Knows that there's a high chance it could be something unsavoury. Could also still have a tab open with your name in the search bar.

He just got curious. That's all. No biggie.

His keyboard is one of the tippy-tappy kinds. Goes click-clack as he types. You don't know the name of the keyboard model, just know that you like stumbling across videos of them at two o'clock in the morning.

It sounds so comforting when Jeongguk enters the web address. His password, too, and then your name into a new user, because he doesn't trust you not to fuck with his Netflix landing page.

He restricts your access to 'kids only,' for no reason other than to have you whining in his direction. He refuses to change it back. Tells you to suck it. Keeps it up until you pinch some of his hair between your fingers and threaten to pull.

"Alright, alright!" he exclaims in a hushed whisper, still conscious of Jimin in the next room over. He clicks through the settings and restores your access - but also then picks the ugliest-looking character he can find for your display picture, too. "There. Happy?"

"The happiest."

And somehow, it doesn't feel like a lie.

See, when Jeongguk's focus is on you - his laugh in your ear, smile in your eye line - you forget the ache in your chest left by Jin.

He's a distraction, but not in the sense that Jimin was. Not how any of your hookups have been. He doesn't offer what they did - and he won't, which is likely why the distraction is so welcome by you.

He's sticking dry ramyeon in your cracks and sanding it down. It's not perfect, and it's not permanent - but it does alright for now.

You look over at him in the mirror by his window, intently observing him as he gets to grips with his notes. There's a swell in your chest. It's so nice to have a friend. To not have expectations. To have someone value having you around for no ulterior motive.

Jeongguk doesn't really think much of it. He likes having you around, too. Likes your company. Likes that he doesn't have to worry about you crushing on him, because Jimin's already taken your fancy. Likes the lack of pressure.

Doesn't like it so much when you start asking him about his origami birds again a little while later.

You've just finished an episode of some crime drama he doesn't recognise, but didn't choose to start the next one up. Instead, you waltz to the end of his bed and lie down to look at the folded figurines.

You get why Jeongguk seems to like doing it so much. There's a subdued serenity to their soft movements in the stream of air blowing from his aircon unit.

"How'd you make them?" You ask, eyes concentrating up at them. They're two-tone - white on top, black from beneath. All the same. Uniform. Identical.

He knows what you're asking about, so he doesn't look up from the notes he's making. "Easily."

"You're the worst," you say, and he can almost hear the fact you're smiling.

"Nah," he retracts his statement as he glances over towards you. "Really wanna know how?"

You turn your head to meet his gaze. He looks far more awake, now. "Obviously."

He shrugs. Has that shit-eating grin on his face again. "Folded some paper."

"I'm leaving," you say, and yet you don't move a muscle.

"Jimin's still in the living room," he reminds you.

And so you decide to play up to the narrative he's already decided for you and his housemate. "Maybe I'll just go to his room for round two."

"Told you it wouldn't just be a one-time thing."

"Literally fuck off," you laugh, knowing there's no way you'll ever win against Jeon Jeongguk.

"It's my bedroom, where exactly am I meant to fuck off to?"

"The floor."

And so he does. Takes his iPad, sticks his apple pen behind his ear and crosses his legs on the shagpile rug that's next to his bed. He's challenging you as he raises his brows.

You don't wanna bite the bait. "God, you're so ridiculous."

"You love it," he jokes, and then he realises that he might be flirting a little bit, so he tries to draw it back. Decides that maybe it would be good to tell you why he's got them up. You shared a lot last night. His turn, now.

"No, I... I dated a girl for a bit who would always fold things up into butterflies. Guess I wanted her to think we had a similar quirk, or something like that."

He's so sweet that it's devastating. Must have broken his fair share of hearts, you think.

"Did she fall for it?"

You know you would have.

"She never knew," he admits. A blush creeps across his cheeks and atop his nose. Pretty. "It was a bit of a weird situation."

"You? Weird? Gasp. Sounds unlikely."

"Shut up," he laughs, briefly meeting your gaze before looking down at his hands. "No, we were friends for the longest time. Still are, I guess. Same group of friends, at least. We were never official. Just a couple of friends who fucked about for a bit. Anyways, to cut a long story short, things didn't work out. So. She hasn't been here to see them."

"But you're still friends?"

Depends on how you define friends, he thinks. There was never any big fight. The last time he saw her - a night out to celebrate another friend's birthday - they'd spent the entire night goofing around together.

It's funny, really, how Jeongguk thinks you're the epitome of stars, but he's never had more in his eyes than when he looked at her. You've never seen him like that. The only time you see stars in his eyes is when you catch your own reflection.

You think it would be nice, though. Think he'd look sweet all loved up, boyish and bashful in the presence of someone whose beauty encapsulates everyone around them. To see him in love would almost feel like experiencing it yourself.

"Kinda," he shrugs. "Don't see her much. She's got a boyfriend up in Seoul. Spends most of her time there."

The melody of his voice is melancholic. He doesn't sound regretful. Maybe a little resentful. Sad, more than anything. It's a shame.

"You really liked her?"

Jeongguk decides he's said enough. He puts on his best smile and shakes his head. Plays it off like it's no big deal. Pretends as if he didn't make a single-at-thirty marriage pact with her. Acts like he doesn't wish things had worked out differently; like he doesn't kind of hope he'll still be single at thirty, just in case she is, too.

"Why are we even talking about this? Really doesn't matter," he says, voice a little harsher than he intends. You feel guilty for pushing the subject. Glad to know him a little better, mind you. "I think I get it, though. Your whole... never staying thing."

He's the first person to say that to you. Everyone else has made you feel a little weird for it; as if your one-night-stands are somehow even sleazier because of it.

Your voice is quiet as you look at your hands. "You do?"

"Kind of," he shrugs. "I always stay - but only cause I only tend to fuck girls I actually like. I just... since her I haven't really let it get that far. Scared of staying and then the girl leaving, like she did, I guess. You 'n' me? We're two sides of the same coin. Doesn't really matter, though does it?"

Jeongguk surprises you. You'd have never thought him to be as much of a defeatist as he appears to be, now.

"No," you acknowledge as he comes back to sit on his bed. He lays down, head by your ankles, feet by your head. The birds above him are none the wiser of their impact on him. "It's just, I came to you crying over my ex last night, so it'll be nice to have a heads up if you're gonna come crying to me."

There's humour in your voice, and he appreciates it. Likes that he can be serious with you, but that you try and lighten the mood for him. He doesn't like talking about things like this. Always gets a heaviness in his chest. Only ever had a panic attack once, but he remembers how it started. Remembers it feeling a lot like this.

"She's not an ex. We never dated, so. Won't be crying. Don't worry."

You both know that titles count for nothing. Both know he cried plenty.

"Ouch," you grimace, to which he just smiles, now. No point in letting himself dwell upon it all.

"It is what it is."

"Bit more than that," you counter, because apparently you don't know when to shut up. It's not that you want him to have to rehash his bad memories. You just think they're eating him up. Think it will do him good to exhale.

He hums in confusion, the noise light and airy. Almost like he's chirping. Maybe he's secretly one of his little paper birds in disguise.

"Well, if it was enough to put you off dating for good," you rationalise. You know why he's downplaying it, but he'll do himself no favours by living in denial. "It shouldn't be dismissed as nothing."

"Not for good," he objects, and taps your head with his foot. You bat him away, but there's a weightlessness to the way you both start laughing. "Just for now."

"How long has it been?"

"Does it matter?"

"No."

He kind of hates how many questions you ask. Kind of likes it, too. Likes that you don't know the Jeongguk that came before her. Likes that you never had to see him when he was struggling with it.

The only person that had ever seen it was Jimin. So good at putting on a brave face, the rest of their friends barely knew. Even she didn't realise how badly she hurt him. It's why she still tries to be his friend.

Makes sense. They were best friends. Always said things would never change. In her eyes, they haven't.

"Just over a year," he finally sighs. "Confessed last spring. Was also subsequently rejected, but not till the summer."

You chirp in confusion now. Think about how long it must have fucked with him, never knowing where he stood. You feel awful for him.

"Well, she said she wasn't sure what she wanted. Anyways, ended up not being me. And so now, I never let myself get that deep into things. Don't wanna repeat history. Make the same bad decisions. Y'know?"

It's the SparkNotes version.

He won't bore you with the way he accidentally said he loved her after one too many shots, and how she'd told him that he didn't mean - only for him to fuck her that evening like he really did. Won't tell you how she asked him about it in the morning, and when Jeongguk nervously asked, 'well, do you want me to be in love with you?' she'd said, 'no. I think that would ruin things.'

And so he'd just laughed, and told her good. Said he'd never be in love with someone as ugly as her with a smile on his face reserved for only the most beautiful of people.

He won't tell you how she began to playfight with him, and how he ended up fucking her again. Fucking her like he meant it. Fucking her like she put the stars in the sky and stole the wind from his sails just to turn the tides. Fucking her like he never had done before. Fucking her like she wasn't just a friend, and he wasn't just a little horny.

The difference was, sober now, she felt it. Felt his intent. Knew that his slip-up had been the product of a fall.

He was confused, but so was she. He hadn't meant to fall - but she hadn't meant to trip him. No one was to blame.

And so he just blames himself. Shies away from love, 'cause he thinks that maybe he isn't right for it. If even the person who knew him better than he knew himself couldn't bring herself to love him, then what hope did he have?

"God, what's wrong with us?" He laughs, still tapping the side of your head with his foot. It's annoying, but you let him.

"Fear of intimacy and fear of rejection," you muse. "Make quite the pair."

He smiles in such a way that it doesn't feel like a smile, but he hopes that the hormones will play tricks on him. Make him at least think he's happy. "Anyways, I keep the birds up as a reminder, I guess."

"Of?"

He just shrugs. "Gotta set people free."

It's a nice idea. One you think you'd quite like to indulge in, too.

"You got any more paper?"

"Fuckin' loads. Accidentally ordered, like, a thousand sheets."

Your voice is delicate as you say, "show me how to make them?"

There's hesitancy from Jeongguk. Not sure he wants to share such a personal part of himself.

But then he thinks maybe it would be nice. Thinks that just because he wants to be alone romantically, doesn't mean he has to be lonely.

He tells you where the paper is - the top drawer beneath his desk - and begins to instruct you. They're simple enough. Only a few steps. He's made so many that he relies mostly on muscle memory.

Your first attempts are terrible. He questions whether or not you really work at an art cafe, because he can't comprehend that you're so bloody awful at crafting. You tell him that painting is an entirely different discipline, and he tells you that you're making excuses.

Eventually, though, you get the hang of it. Can make them without getting paper cuts. Almost. He still laughs every time you wince and mutter 'shit' beneath your breath.

You're about ten birds deep into your new flock when you walk to his desk to retrieve a pen. Jeongguk raises a brow, catching the biro effortlessly as you toss it towards him.

"Can't just set people free," you say, an idea brewing in your head. "Gotta set your fears free, too. It's the only way you'll get over them."

"Okay," he bites. "So?"

"So: go on," you nod towards the sheet of paper in his hand. "One of the things you're scared of. Rejection right? What are scared to do because of that?"

It's a big question. He's not even entirely sure he knows the answer.

And so he deflects. "What are you scared of?"

You take a moment to think, uncapping a pen with your teeth and scrawling down an answer on the sheet of paper. When you're done, pen cap still between your teeth, you turn the page to show him your answer: Staying the night after a hook up.

"I don't do it," you say candidly, as if it's news to either of you. "What don't you do?"

He takes a moment now. Really considers how his complexes conflict with his life. Some are easier to confront than others, though, so he scribbles one down and holds it up: following girls back on instagram.

A smile tugs at your lips. "Sorry?"

"Well, what if they strike up a conversation in my DMs?" He says as if it's a totally rational and reasonable response.

"You followed me, though?"

"It's different. I was just trying to get you your phone back - and not being funny, Byeol, you'd just fucked Jimin? Didn't really think you'd be trying it on with me?"

You snicker a little. It's kind of nice how he sees you as this strange entity all because you got a little frisky with Jimin. Writes you off. Doesn't consider you a 'girl' anymore, apparently.

But all you can do is laugh and say, "yeah, fair enough. Suppose that's true. Alright, now you're done, fold it up."

You both do it in unison, the folds coming easily now that he's shown you the ropes. He's almost a little bit impressed that you finish just a second or so after him. Isn't actually impressed 'cause it's the simplest origami known to man, but it's sweet how pleased you seem to be with yourself. Cute.

"And set it free," you finish, tossing it down into the pile of birds gathering by the foot of his bed.

"And set it free," he nods with a grin, twiddling his lip ring with his tongue as his gaze lands on yours; his bird landing in the pile.

Such a simple act, and yet it is freeing.

"Again?" he asks, to which you repeat his word back to him.

"Again."

The pair of you sit in comfortable silence, scrawling out your fears onto the papers. You choose to write all of your fears out first, and then fold them up. Jeongguk writes a fear, folds, and then repeats it. Different methods, same end goals.

He runs out of fears before you do, but it's okay. Not like it's a competition. He thinks it's interesting. Wonders what you're hiding up there behind your starry eyes.

"What now?" he asks as you toss your final bird into the pile.

Your purse your lips together, contemplating the next step. There's only one that really makes sense.

"You got any string?"

And of course, he does. Not only did he order far too many sheets of paper, but also far too much string. He gets it from the drawer beneath his desk, and a couple of rolls of tape. It's washi, dark grey, and he worries that it's been sitting for so long that it could have lost its tackiness.

You don't seem phased though as you stand on his bed and struggle to reach the ceiling. It's all very endearing. He comes to stand behind you, and doesn't really think much of it as he reaches for your hips and pulls you off of his bed. At least, he doesn't think anything of it until you shriek a little in surprise - and then he's covering your mouth with one of his hands, the other still on your hip.

"Shush, shush, shush," he coos with a small laugh as you swot him away. "You stick the string to the birds. I'll put them up."

Routines come as bread and butter to the pair of you. It's so casual how you work together, like the tides and the moon, it just... works. It doesn't take long once you fall into a pattern - string, stick, pass, stick - and soon enough, his bed has a canopy of so many birds that it's almost hysterical.

"Got a whole flock now," you smile as you both come to lay back down, heads by each other's ankles. Opposites. In tandem. Yin and Yang.

It's kind of a mess, but in such a way that it feels entirely right. There are a few incredibly lopsided birdies, all thanks to you, but Jeongguk finds a certain charm to them. Likes how you somehow managed to make perfect birds and also ones that belonged in the bin - and how it was those slightly wonky ones that you seem to like the most.

It's as you're praising how pretty the birds look that the washi tapes loosens on one of them, falling onto your tummy.

Jeongguk groans. "Told you the tape wasn't strong enough."

You scrunch your nose. He's right, but you don't want to acknowledge it. Don't like 'told you so' moments - so instead, you pretend as if it was meant to be.

"Must be that you're ready to set that fear free."

"Hmm?"

"Well, it definitely isn't one of mine," you grin, holding the bird up to look at it. The folds are sharp and pointed. Pristine, almost. It's too well-made to be one of yours, so you pass it over to him. "What does it say?"

"None of your business," he declares, holding it tight to his chest.

But he's curious too, and just laughs when he opens it. Holds it open. Gives you a peak.

Following girls back on Instagram.

"You've already seen it," he says, explaining why he doesn't mind you looking at it.

"And I still don't understand why you think it's such a huge thing," you tell him softly - not because you want to invalidate his fears, but because you want to understand them.

"A lot of girls find me through the club's Instagram," he admits, sensing that your confusion would only be remedied with honesty. "Feels a bit sleazy to follow them back when they were probably drunk."

"It's an insta follow back, Gguk. You're hardly making a move," you say. "It really doesn't have to be a big deal. If they're already following you, then you're the one rejecting them."

"But what i-"

"But nothing. Gimmie your phone," you say - and you're surprised when he does. No hesitation. Makes you think that maybe just he needs a push. Wants this.

He's pleased when he notices a slight sparkle to your chipped nail varnish. It's midnight blue, and you bought it because it reminds you of a twilight sky, but it just confirms that you're made of stardust to Jeongguk. The shine prevails even when you're without your trusty glitter.

You pull up Instagram and head to his notifications. He's got a solid bounty of new followers - 68 since he last checked.

"Okay, what about her?" You pause your scroll on a brunette - slim build, hair cropped to just above her shoulders. She's wearing a little glitter too, from the looks of things. Jeongguk wonders if that's why she stood out for you. Wonders if maybe you saw a little bit of yourself in her.

"Yeah, she's pretty," he admits, but glances over to you to check he isn't speaking in a way that makes him seem like a dick. He doesn't want you to think he'd objectifying anyone. "I'm not so sur-"

He doesn't have a chance. You've already pressed on the little blue follow button.

"See! Not so hard."

Jeongguk disagrees.

There's a feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if the girl shows up at the bar and tries to strike up a conversation? Then what? The first step is all very well and good, but you seem to have forgotten that his life goes on after the press of a follow button.

But then the moment passes, and he realises that the world is still turning just as it always has been. Nothing has changed. Maybe it is okay.

And so he takes a little bit of a lead.

"Who next?" he asks, trusting your decisions.

"Her?" your thumb points towards another brunette. She's gorgeous. Face straight out of a magazine, body off a catwalk. How on earth he wouldn't have noticed her at the club is beyond you. She's not the kind you'd forget easily.

"I remember her," he says, confirming your suspicions. He does notice girls, and he does pay an interest in them. You think it's sad that he's stopping himself from pursuing any of them.

His voice is flat as his lips sneer a little, though. Had noticed her for all the wrong reasons.

"She was a grade-A wanker to Yeonjun," he explains. "Literally was last night. He messed up her order, and instead of just asking for a redo like a normal human being, she pretended to knock it over. Got vodka lemonade all over the counter, which is like, not an issue, but when it's peak time and you do it just to be a dick? Yeah. I served her for the rest of the night so he wouldn't have to deal with her. She follows me?"

You nod, a little embarrassed that you suggested her. It almost feels like you're the one being scolded. Kind of like seeing him like this, though. He looks good a little heated. It's so different to how mild-mannered he typically is.

"Force her to unfollow me."

The look on his face as you glance over at him is hard to read. He faces you, eyes focused on yours. They dip quickly to where your mouth rests ajar in surprise, then back up. "What?"

"Nothing," you laugh. "Just... I dunno. Strong morals."

"That a bad thing?"

"Not in the slightest," you say, voice soft, smile faint but sincere.

He goes to speak, but stops himself. Changes the topic. "Who next?"

And so you scroll, because you don't want to dwell. You make your way through a few of his followers, almost like you're playing an insta-tinder-hybrid.

"Oh, what the fuck," you snort as you reach a profile towards the bottom of the list.

"Hmm?" He asks as he looks at the profile you tap through to.

Ciara, her profile reads, and the instant you see her tight curls that delicately frame her face, dyed a caramel blonde to contrast her dark eyes, you recognise her. Like most of the girls in his notifications, she has the kind of beauty to leave an impression.

Unlike the last girl you'd done a deep dive on, she actually is a sweetheart, you think.

From what you remember, at least.

"Ciara," you hum, scrolling through her feed. It's dappled with pictures of friends, books in coffee shops and adventures from her time in Korea. She's Irish - not that her profile really gives it away - and you can almost remember the way her accent tastes. "It's definitely the club where she first saw you."

"She did?" He asks, not really sure how you know this with such certainty.

"Uh-huh. I met her a few weeks ago."

Jeongguk doesn't interrupt. He senses more coming.

And then you shrug.

"Hooked up with her, actually."

"Oh," he says with a little surprise. Doesn't sound negative, but it doesn't sound entirely positive, either. You glance over to find him looking at you, and question his surprise. "I just didn't know. That's all."

And then you laugh. "Why do men always seem to think women's lives revolve around the male species?"

"I don't," he quickly protests, not wanting you to think ill of him.

Though he's pretty set on his sexuality, he's also no stranger to a little experimentation. Wouldn't judge anyone for their sexual endeavours, nor who they choose to engage in said endeavours with. Consenting adults are consenting adults.

"Literally just didn't know," he adds on. "It's no different to you being surprised when you found out I was studying for my degree."

You narrow your eyes but it's all in jest. You accept his response. Have had far worse in the past.

"Do you mind me asking?" He continues, getting a read on your expression before he clarifies. Doesn't wanna overstep the mark, but also isn't asking you anything he wouldn't be comfortable with you asking him back. "How you, like, identify?"

It's delicate, how he phrases it. Tender. Airy. Makes you feel quite safe, actually. His voice is so calm and neutral, that he may as well be asking what you'd like for dinner.

You simply shrug, shoulders lifting and then pressing back down into his duvet. It's something you've given a lot of thought, but always find hard to draw conclusions on. "Always just used to say bi."

"Used to say?"

"Had a boyfriend for a year, so people never cared to ask," you purse your lips, reminded of your least favourite aspect of dating Seokjin: erasure. Not just of your sexuality, but of your identity outside of the relationship. You were 'Jin's girlfriend' to so many people. You hated it. Wanted to be a person in your own right. "Maybe it was self-inflicted, but people seemed to forget I had a life before him. Maybe I did, too. When you lose your sense of self, it's hard to define it, yanno?"

Jeongguk nods. He doesn't entirely understand, but tries. Recognises it was difficult for you. Feels bad. "Sorry."

"Not your fault, is it? Anyway, it's okay. I'm trying to rediscover myself, almost? Trying not to tie myself to anything too definitively. Scared I'll get it wrong."

"You're allowed to not know," he says. His brows crease above the bridge of his nose like they always do whenever he's speaking with a little passion. "And you're also allowed to know and not want to define it. Fuck what anyone else thinks."

"Either way," you deflect, not wanting to dwell. "Would be weird if you started chirpsing a girl I've been with."

"Agreed," he laughed. "Would make a double date with Jimin interesting."

"Jesus, give up the Jimin agenda," you smile. "It's not gonna happen again."

"Sureeee. Okay, next girl," he says - but is interrupted by a second origami bird falling.

It's on the outskirts of the flock - the one impacted the most by the breeze of the aircon - and Jeongguk can tell immediately who made it.

"Oh this is definitely one of yours," he laughs, holding it up to study it. "How is the wing so bloody wonky?"

"He's poorly," you pout. "Like Jacquimo from Thumbelina."

Jeongguk doesn't even pretend to know what you're referencing, so you just tell him you'll show him later. It's one of your favourite films. He says he'll watch it if you win a game of chess against him. You've no idea how to play. Tell him your agent will be in touch to schedule a tournament. He says he'll be waiting.

And then he's thinking. Voicing his thoughts. "We faced one of my fears-"

"And no one died."

"Exactly, no one died," he smiles. "So let's face one of yours."

"Wait-" you say quickly, going to grab the bird from his grasp, but he holds it above his head. You panic. "Look, Gguk, I didn't plan on you ever seeing any of mine."

"So?"

"So... " you cringe. "Fear of intimacy."

"Sooo?"

"So... intimacy??"

"I'm lost?"

God, he couldn't be more of a boy if he tried. You half think that sometimes he plays dumb just to get you squirming. If he does, it works.

"Some of them aren't exactly PG," you say, your face scrunching even further up, as if you're preparing for a shot. Alcohol or medicinal. Doesn't matter which. Both would be less painful than this.

The way Jeongguk laughs has you covering his mouth. It's a role reversal, with you reminding him Jimin is just next door.

"Sorry, sorry," he says as he recovers his breath. His teeth are on show, nose blushed, skin dewy. He's so pretty like this, you think. Handsome when he's happy. "I just - how bad can it be?"

The look on his face as he opens it says it all.

Yep.

You groan.

"Jesus Christ, Byeol."

Pretty fucking bad.

AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT

[sanctus-ingenium]

I'd looove to hear a little about your worldbuilding process if you don't mind sharing. How do you go about it? I know you have shared in a few posts already but just wanna know moree. Also where did it all begin? What inspired you? (eating it all uppp!!!)

hi!! I know I wrote a big long thing like last year or the year before about the process to making a setting but I cannot be arsed to find it rn so here's some disconnected thoughts

Overall I don't really make Headworlds or Worldbuilding Projects the way a lot of people do (which is why u keep hearing me say 'setting' over and over) because mainly what I make are stories in the order of characters -> plot -> world. those three things have to serve one another in that order of importance, so the world itself bends to serve the narrative. for example, ultimately idgaf where the holy beasts' skeletons come from, that is not important because the beasts are basically just a big plot device to serve the story. i can make some post-hoc justifications for their existence (and i did) but at the end of the day it will not and does not matter how they work or where they come from. the world is full of mysteries that will never be solved because the characters are not in a position to solve them. aside from a single border conflict, the world outside the mezian empire is nebulous and unimportant.

I don't enjoy working in a world -> narrative order because what I want to produce isn't just a series of info posts or artpieces about a setting, but a closed and self-contained story which is the justification for the entire world's existence. Headworlds that are all world and no character don't interest me.

So basically in the process of worldbuilding, I have to serve the story. A while back I made a post about continental history around Inver, all these wars and occupations and schisms and so on. All of those exist solely to provide a particular political climate, justification for Aquitan's theocratic structure, and the spread of the southern church north into Inver. I already had the idea of this church, that it would be integral to the country as a main political faction, so now I have to figure out how it got there and the political ramifications of that. It's all worldbuilding for sure, but it's a support structure underneath the story about how that church eventually changes world history, because i wanted to write a story about a church lol.

I guess if I wanted to explain The Process for a world -> characters setting i'd just be giving you How To Write A Story 101 lol. But basically: I think of a concept which interests me (big mechs yay). Then I think of a conflict that might arise (where does the fuel come from? who controls that supply? what might that do to the concentration of power in this area?). Then I put a character in what I consider to be the most interesting position to observe the effects of this conflict (a knight, an enginesmith, an exile), and honestly the main plot generally writes itself after that. I extrapolate the hook from that.

In terms of characters, I try to avoid calling them 'ocs' because in my mind 'oc' tends to be a very static stand-alone thing. Like I couldn't make a useful ref sheet of my characters because they are all changed by the story. I couldn't say 'he has a carefree personality' because in a few chapters no he fucking won't. in the same way i struggle a LOT to talk about my Siren setting which as close to a specbio 'headworld' as i'm ever gonna get, because I am worldbuilding in vastly different time periods at once in a world which is always changing, i can't make a post about for example a map of Siren because that's just a map from one era, I'd need to make a dozen maps to show how things change, how time affects it all, etc.

Because nothing is ever static and everything is in flux, pretty much the only way I can handle a setting like this is, again, just to focus on a few small stories centered around a cast of characters separated by time (i have... 4 distinct stories in Siren. maybe more). this is actually a frustrating barrier to me sharing any information at all about this place lol i'm the struggler

Where did it all begin? When I was 11 I used to write stories in my copybooks in class. There has never been a time where I was not making stories and where my stories were not the only important thing at all to me, superseding literally everything else. I learned how to draw digitally in 2011 because I wanted to draw my characters.

What inspires me? Everything lol. I actually don't have time to Consume Media much, I struggle watching movies or tv and I mostly hate video games because I would much rather be productive and sitting and watching a screen feels like a waste of my time. but I like reading books because I can take them with me on my phone. I get ideas from all sources but mostly non-media sources, like obviously mythology but also my history with the church and my scientific education. Usually nonfictional sources interest me the most (i was going to write a whole story that was a post-apocalyptic plague plot based on canine transmissible venereal cancer haha and even to this day that's where "the Immortal Hound" title comes from, little easter egg in inver)

[recklesslycaffeinated]

As someone who is also writing fanfics, I wanted to ask, how do you lay out your plot-? I love your writing, the emotions are so strong and so realistic, but even more so, I love your plot. You have great foreshadowing and even better plot twists. Plus, when you change the POV for chapters, it truly feels like a whole different person, which can be hard (for me) when writing. Do you have any tactics you use/would be willing to share?

Oof, good but complicated question. Particularly hard to answer when you believe plotting is your weak point! Maybe that's why I put a lot of effort into it. Okay, here we go... and spoilers for Skeleton Crew.

Most important rule - you can’t foreshadow if you don’t know where you’re going. And you can tell if a writer abandons their original idea, because the end doesn’t feel natural or satisfying.

There are so many ways to plot, but I use the 16 point plot plan. It covers all the key beats, so I can’t ever get really lost. Even when my characters do their own bloody thing without permission (Alastor, Sans, I’m looking at you two), I’m not losing any of the structure or foreshadowing work I’ve done.

https://writershq.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/magical-16-point-plot-planner.pdf

When foreshadowing a twist, the biggest fear I have is ‘this is too obvious, everyone’s going to know’. But from experience, few do. I thought for sure everyone would realize Tido was the mole when I laid out the early hints. But I only really remember maybe two or three comments, guessing it might be her.

There’s a belief twists are supposed to be completely out of the blue. Nah. You need to lay the groundwork. “And then the meteor hit” is not a twist if it comes out of nowhere. No one wants a deus ex meteor strike. The twist needs to be a logical extension of the story, not a random plot device.

Knowing who knows what, and what they choose to reveal, is a good way to foreshadow. The way a character speaks can hint at a twist. It can be subtle and written off - a character reminiscing about a dead man in the present tense can be written off as an expression of grief. Twist! He’s alive! It’s an oldie but a goodie.

When I’m writing something with a lot of characters, I keep a little list about who knows what and at what point in the story. It’s useful to keep your facts in order. I wrote a draft of a sci-fi novel (over 100k) before realising that one character couldn’t possibly know what they know and it messed the whole thing up.

*Pained author sounds and redrafting.*

Thematic foreshadowing! Tricky, but worth it, and also requires you to understand your story before putting it on paper. Or the internet. Another classic example - Romeo and Juliet isn’t shy in hitting you over the head with its themes of fate, destiny and tragedy. If it wasn’t clear from the opening lines, the constant messaging of being unable to escape your fate foreshadows where we’re ending up.

In Skeleton Crew, I wanted to explore the idea of picking a side and fighting for what you believe in. The nurse, bless her naïve socks, starts the novel hoped that though her actions are criminal, she was not herself a criminal. That the world is basically good, and she was just fixing a wrong. She starts the novel with a tranq gun and ends it with a shotgun.

Ending with the nurse shooting someone with a shotgun was one of the first things I realised when planning. Everything was leading to that pivot in her character. Because I knew that, I could shape everything around it. By the end, she’s accepted there’s something wrong with the world, and she has to stand up for what’s important to her. Not as a nurse, but as a soulmate and a fighter.

Anyway, forgive the rambly thoughts. If you want further reading, or just better advice from someone smarter than I am, I’d recommend https://jerichowriters.com/what-is-foreshadowing-in-literature/

[utdrmv-confession-box]

Transcript: You can be as annoyed as you want with people saying “Sans is overrated” and presumably doing nothing about it (which is weird to assume in my opinion. Even if they aren’t doing anything, it’s an anonymous confession blog, you don’t know anything), but the fact of the matter is that he IS overrated. Sure, AUs where he isn’t the main character of everything absolutely do exist, but the Sans centric AUs GREATLY outweigh the AUs centered around anyone else, and AUs of other characters can be pretty damn hard to find when the Undertale and AU tags are filled to the brim with skeletons. Even when an AU ISN’T sans centric, people find a way to focus exclusively on him, to the point where you have to be reminded that there’s other characters in the AU (COUGH COUGH OTHERTALE).

As for Core!Frisk, yes, they’re popular and for a good reason. However they’re usually only used as some plot device for a different Sans to redeem themselves (or to edge-ily reject redemption). Seriously, looking up Core Frisk right now, here on tumblr dot com, there’s only one drawing of them in the top 5 results that don’t include a sans one way or another. You have to scroll a WHILE to see Core by themselves or with a non-skeleton character.

Sans is not a bad character. Overrated =/= bad, and you are not a bad person/artist/writer for liking Sans or making more works about him. But to say he isn’t overrated like he isn’t constantly absolutely everywhere is, quite frankly, a little fucking delusional. At this point he’s more omnipresent than Core. Someone wishing to see characters other than Sans in the UTMV is not the hate speech some of you are acting like it is.